This story copyright © 2004 Mia McCroskey
Characters from The Avengers and other sources are the property of their respective owners.
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Steed plays voyeur
Emma learns new tricks
Chapter 4
Steed was livid.
He had trailed Emma and Prendergast through the streets right up to the Allied checkpoint. And then to his utter dismay he had watched Emma cross into the Soviet sector without so much as a backward glance at the free world. Prendergast had gone first and slipped something to the guard, who had barely glanced at Emma's passport as he stamped it with two different stamps, one taken from an inner pocket, and waved her through. Steed had been left in the West, too well known to the Soviets to cross the border without drawing attention to himself. When Emma and Prendergast were out of view beyond the checkpoint Steed had returned to the hotel to oversee the placement of surveillance equipment in Prendergast and Emma's rooms. Knowing he could monitor both places eased his mind about the perilous position he had put her in, at least a little bit.
He paced the floor in his room, too tense to linger in the hotel lobby. She had gone voluntarily, he was certain of it. Which meant that she would most likely come back. But they couldn't trust Prendergast. He could have suspected her all along and somehow determined that she was there to trap him. Who knew what inducement he'd used to lure her over the wall? Steed fully expected to receive a ransom note at any moment. That would be preferable to the other possible course of events: no contact at all. He refused to accept responsibility for Emma disappearing in Soviet Berlin. She had gone of her own volition. Surely she could have thought of some less drastic way to distract Prendergast.
At half past nine his room phone rang twice and stopped. Sucking in a deep breath he went to his door and stared out through the security peephole. His relief was palpable, but he was still livid with her. A few minutes passed and the lift at the end of the hall arrived. She stepped out and walked down the hall to her room.
Steed left his room and followed her, reaching her door just in time to stop her from shutting it. She turned, startled, as he pressed on in, and he grabbed her roughly by the shoulders.
"What do you think you're doing!" he hissed, struggling not to shout. For a moment her eyes were wide with fear, then they narrowed and her face flushed as she grew nearly as angry as he was. She raised both arms between his and swung her forearms outward effectively breaking his grip on her shoulders. Then she spun around and paced away from him, not running, but establishing some distance. He dropped his hands to his sides, his forearms aching from her efficient maneuver.
"Keeping him out of the hotel," she replied, all icy calm.
"By going over the wall with him?"
"We did not go 'over the wall.'" She reached into her bag and withdrew her passport, holding it open to display the stamps that recorded her visit to the Russian sector. "We went through the checkpoint."
Steed stepped over to her and snatched the passport, holding it up to her startled face.
"You did not have a legal visa. This is a forgery!"
"I know. He arranged it. Now you can arrest him on that charge." And we can go home.
"And I would have to arrest you for using it -- or hadn't you thought of that?" he growled, opening his mouth to say more and stopping when he noticed her frightened expression.
"No. I hadn't," she whispered. He tossed the passport on the bed and glared at her. He wanted to put his arms around her and comfort her, and turn her over his knee and spank her for being so damned willful. As he considered which action to take he realized that both were equally appealing on far too many levels. Her wide-eyed stare drew him in, silently asking his forgiveness for her recklessness. He must, or else undercut her self-confidence when she needed it most. He forced himself to move away from her by walking to the dresser to study himself in the mirror.
"Well it wouldn't do," he said, adjusting his tie. "It's not a serious enough crime, and it would fall into Immigrations' territory, so we'd lose control of him. That would not be acceptable."
He watched her reflection behind him. She retrieved her passport from the bed and put it back in her bag, then she came over to stand beside him, her composure recovered, her expression open and interested. They studied one another in the mirror and Steed had to smile. He knew without any further discussion that she had learned a valuable lesson, filed it away, and was ready to move on. He smiled, and she smiled back -- a crooked, contrite expression that made him want to kiss her.
"You had dinner?" he asked.
"Yes. On the other side. It was awful."
"Did he order for you there, too?"
"Yes."
He had to laugh at her look of utter disgust, and she laughed too, turning toward him, one hand on his bicep, the other over her mouth. He faced her, reveling in the way her eyes sparkled when she laughed.
"I promise to take you to dinner wherever you want, and you may order for me," he said, forcing his hand back to his side when it started to rise to stroke her cheek.
"It's a deal, although you are hardly risking much -- I know your preferences," she chuckled, still watching him, reaching out to stroke his face. "It was sad over there," she said. He struggled to maintain his genial expression. East Berlin, and his experiences there, was not a topic he wished to discuss with Emma Peel. Ever.
"Life is hard for those in the Soviet sector," he said neutrally. Her eyes narrowed ever so slightly and he recognized a flicker of something -- disappointment? Disbelief? And then it was gone, concealed behind her own carefully constructed faŤade. She dropped her hands to her sides and turned her head to look across her shoulder into the mirror. He turned his head too, trying to recapture her eye and the intimacy of a moment before. But she avoided the connection.
"Did you make a plan with him for tomorrow?"
"I told him I had an appointment in the morning."
"Mrs. --."
"He's not going to leave before he sees me again, Steed."
"You're sure?"
"Certain. We're meeting again for lunch and I implied that I have the afternoon for him."
Steed nodded. "Get some sleep Mrs. Peel."
And she was right. Prendergast was exactly where he'd said he'd be a little after noon the following day. Rather than let him order for her yet again, Emma took his hand and playfully guided him to a small café facing the park near the hotel where they'd met. Before he could speak for her she ordered wurst and sauerkraut and a glass of lager. He did not react to her preemptive strike, but placed his own order and then turned his thin-lipped smile on her. They enjoyed their meal and then strolled around the park talking about the previous afternoon's adventure in the east. Eventually he'd guided her off through the city streets to show her more sights.
The afternoon transitioned into evening and Max, looking quite pleased with himself, produced a pair of theatre tickets. Emma thought him inconsiderate for not making the invitation earlier, for just assuming that she did not have plans. But she concealed her reaction with overt excitement. She enjoyed the play, which was experimental and minimalist -- German to the core. But she could tell that Max did not. His tastes were much closer to Steed's than hers: he preferred romantic art and melodic music. He fidgeted and even groaned quietly once or twice as the performers spat guttural lines of German at one another. She felt like it was a betrayal when, as they strolled back to the hotel, she criticized the play.
"The dialogue was so angry. But perhaps it was just the language: German is such a brutal language," she said.
"It was the plot, my dear -- or the lack of one," he countered. "Who could enjoy such a disjointed story?"
I could, she sighed to herself.
Emma sank down into the small bathtub full of warm water and closed her eyes to block out the sight of the ugly hotel wallpaper. She was worn out after walking all afternoon and enduring the play with Prendergast, and much as she liked visiting new places, she was weary of Berlin. She regretted that her experiences here with Max would probably color her feelings about this city forever.
During the previous afternoon in the Russian sector she had realized that his controlling behavior concealed a need for affirmation, so she'd started giving it to him. Flattery, it seemed, would get her everything with Max Prendergast. And she was confident after this afternoon and evening that he would not leave Berlin without seeing her again. She was wondering if he would ask her to come with him when he did go.
She knew he was an evil man. His deeds during the war were reprehensible. And she found him physically unattractive with his short, thick fingers and the moles on his face that she was sure he thought made him distinctive. But were his moral code more aligned with hers, were he not a mass murderer, she would be tempted to cultivate his friendship. He was intelligent and witty in an obvious sort of a way. Of course, she would still have to do something the way he treated women.
She was glad that she had only seen Steed at distance today. She had appreciated that he was there watching over her, but that did not supplant her disappointment with him. Last night she had opened up the possibility for him to share something of his past with her, and he had shut her out. Even without knowing anything about them, she was certain that his experiences during the war and after it had shaped him, and she wondered how. What changes did dealing with the soviets for a decade or more enact on a man like Steed -- a man of high morals and intelligence, dedicated to his country but also possessed of tremendous self-preservation skills. From the look on his face when she mentioned it she knew that he had been to the Soviet sector, probably frequently and for long periods of time. But that look had been quickly replaced by his damnable enigmatic mask. How could she truly know him without some understanding of how he had survived those years? She wanted to love him -- it would be so easy to -- but she could not allow it without something from him in return. So long as he continued to hide behind his emotional barriers she was resolved to maintain hers.
She raised one arm and scrubbed it gently with the thin hotel washcloth. But even as she reaffirmed her resolve a small part of her knew that it was already too late. She had fallen for him a month ago when he'd asked her to be his partner.
What was he doing right now? Was he taking a bath too, crammed into his room's too-small tub? The warm, scratchy washcloth reminded her of his face at the end the day -- on those evenings when he did not have an opportunity to shave before seeing her. Smiling to herself at her fantasy, she drew the washcloth across her throat as if it were his cheek, imagining his delicate kisses. He was such a good kisser. Allowing her imagination to take over, she moved the washcloth down her chest. She drew in a sharp breath as the terrycloth scraped over her nipple. Arousal became easier and easier when she thought about him touching her, imagined the feel of his powerful thighs and his hard stomach -- all the parts of his body that she had never seen and only touched casually, through his clothes. And as she thought about the way he kissed and imagined how his mouth might feel on her body fire coursed through her loins. Without thinking she slipped her other hand beneath the water to relieve the building tension.
Steed lay on his bed, one hand on his stomach, the other arm across his eyes to shield them from the glaring overhead light fixture. He would get up and turn it off in a moment.
He was worn out from following Emma and Prendergast all over Berlin, but he'd been unwilling to trust anyone else with the task. She was too inexperienced, he'd convinced himself, to be left out alone in the cold. But he could not have supported that argument based on his observations today. From a distance he had watched Prendergast's face when she was not looking. Through his powerful binoculars he had seen what Prendergast hid from Emma -- he was in her thrall. This did not surprise Steed, he knew the feeling well, but it surprised him that she had accomplished it so easily. Did she do this to all men? Had he been to self-involved to notice the rest of them trailing after her like so many hungry puppies?
He snorted at himself in disgust and sat up on the bed. You set her on him, you told her you were confident in her, and she's lived up to your expectations. It's business and that's how she's treating it. Annoyed with himself, he got up and switched off the light, then switched on the bedside lamp and picked up the book waiting for him on the table. It was a mystery -- distracting and light, exactly what he needed.
He chuckled as he opened it, remembering what the technician had said when they were planting the bugs in her room yesterday. He had picked up a physics text that was on Emma's night table and said with a laugh: "light reading?" Steed had not had the heart to say yes, physics certainly is Emma's idea of entertainment. And yet, despite her fierce intellectualism, she never belittles me for reading this trash, he thought fondly. If only she could accept me completely, not question my past like she did yesterday. Misplaced inquisitiveness was her only flaw, he decided as he turned to a dog-eared page. And even as he focused on the words there he knew that the same thing that had happened last night would happen tonight: he'd drift off thinking of her before reading a single word.