Fourteen men looked her over as she left; she should've worn chameleon skin instead of red glitter. Even outside there was surveillance everywhere, eyes tracking her stride across the frosted lawn. But she could do this, even with all the agents watching.

He was waiting for her, tugging at his silly, charming white tie. Penguin suit. She gulped a nervous laugh like champagne. "What's your code name?"

He touched his forehead, making her watch his hands. "Vulture."

She hid her shivering with an exaggerated shudder. "I thought mine was bad. That's terrible."

"Eagle was taken." He shrugged. "You needed me?"

She needed to tell him. Without whining: everyone from Ann Stark to Ainsley Hayes smirked at her. Her credibility got screwed, and she worked too damn hard to take it. Someone coughed. Her skin prickled as an agent passed in the shadows. She lifted her chin. "We need a break."

"A break?" His tone was half sarcastic, half sincere. To make her talk. Let him make it worse, then; she was iron.

The party was peaking. Half of Congress was there, lobbyists, staffers, lawyers, and one President dancing uncomfortably with his wife. Another thing to handle without handling, spin without touching, another reason to do this. She squared her shoulders. "I don't want to go to bed with you all the time." A flat lie. She amended, "I don't have the energy."

He didn't bother to stifle his laughter. It made her blush, made her furious. "Shut up. I mean, we just have work and sex and work, and I need." She couldn't say she caught herself staring at him, she was tired of him, *sick* of him and still she wanted more. Love wracked her nerves and her stomach and her sleep, wore her out. "Time. And space. For other things."

Other people; naturally it sounded that way, even if she didn't mean that. He nodded. "You're right."

She exhaled. Let him make it worse, then. "You said yourself once, this"--us--"shouldn't be something that made life harder. It doesn't mean--"

"You're right." He looked slapped, yet relieved: the gloves were off. They were quiet. Finally, he added, "Well. Auld lang syne."

She matched his tone. "Fuck you."

"Hey." He pointed his chin past her, past black human shapes to the glowing windows. She held her breath and heard cheers, then music, swelling.

"It's a stupid song."

He reached out, slid his hand into her hair, his tongue into her mouth. Even in this horribly public place, she kissed back, melting like metal, soldering herself to him. She wanted more, but she wrenched herself away.

"See you in the morning," he said.

She couldn't tell if he smiled at her, if he saw her shiver. She dabbed her mouth with two fingertips, licked her lips fast, turned away. Her shoes were wet. She tiptoed, but she kept her head high. The agent at the door murmured into his sleeve. She passed without blinking. She could do this.