La Petite Fleur

Ouverture

The next day, Steve sat up on the sofa and stretched. The sizzles and pops of bacon as well as the accompanying enticing aroma wafted into the living room from the kitchen and encouraged him off the soft cushions. He hadn't slept well, having stayed awake most of the night to prevent another nightmare.

Yawning, he shuffled to the kitchen and was greeted with a mug of steaming coffee and plate of bacon and crepes. "Oh wow," he said. "Thank you." Antoinette smiled and joined him at the table with a pot of blueberry reduction of some sort. They ate with the usual small chatter and shared the task of dish washing.

After breakfast, he took what would have been a quick shower if he had remembered how to use the knobs and plugs correctly. Eventually, he finished and changed before heading back to the living room.

When they sat in the living room, Steve wondered why something hadn't occurred to him earlier. "The other day, at the café, when the man grabbed you, why didn't you try to fight back?"

"I wasn't taught to," she answered easily.

"But I thought you were an agent?"

"I am- or I was," she said, turning to face him.

"But then-" he started before she interrupted him.

"I wasn't ever taught because Directeur Fury wanted me as a solo undercover agent. As little suspicion as possible. I was never supposed to be found out and even if I was found out, the danger wasn't that real of a threat. My enemies weren't exactly hands-on forces," she explained.

"He never taught you just in case?"

She shook her head, curling a lock of blonde hair around her finger.

"Well, now the danger is real. You need to know how to protect yourself." He stood in front of where she sat on the couch and watched her expression change ever so slightly as she thought.

"D'accord. And you are willing to teach me?" she asked, standing and taking a step toward him.

"Of course," he replied.

"One condition." She held up a finger with a smirk. "If I let you teach me, then you will learn to speak French."

He blinked in surprise. That was probably the last thing he had expected her to say. "Oh, um, sure," he agreed.

"If you intend to stay in our country, you must be able to speak some of our language. Do you know anything in French already?" she continued.

"Um, merci, bonjour, maintenant, soleil, français." His knowledge was extremely limited in this area but he was glad he at least knew something.

"Is that all you know?" she asked.

He nodded. He grew up in old-time Brooklyn where the best educations were gained in alleys. They didn't teach French in fist-fights. And his schooling had focused on other topics.

"Oh. It is something at least." She sat on the edge of the couch cushion and laced her fingers together, stretching each one in a sort of absent minded way.

"I'll start simple," he told her. "Stand up." She stood and he motioned for her to stand in front of him, gently turning her shoulders so her back was to him. "Just try to get away, alright?" He held his finger to her forehead in place of a gun and wrapped an arm around both of hers to hold her the way the assassins had two days previously.

She was still for a moment before going entirely limp and slipping right to the floor, rolling away. She popped up with a grin. " 'ow was that?"

"Good. Someone who is trying to hurt you would hold you tighter, so that trick might not always work," he explained, grabbing her again the same way. "Try again."