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Five Times the LITs Were Completely Oblivious (and That Time Jenkins Wasn't)

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"I win!" Eve crowed.

"I agree on so many levels," Flynn conceded, "but I'm not sure what in particular . . ."

She gestured after the retreating, and in most cases confused, robed figures. "Evil cult?"

"Ah. Right." He rubbed his chin, smiling shyly. "Well. In that case I do owe you, and it's not really a date unless we have dinner anyway . . ."

Fortuitously, the building Eve had been viciously slammed against an hour earlier was actually a little restaurant with an impressively well curated wine list. They were rushed to the best table in the place, a little corner number near the cozy fireplace. When Eve excused herself to the ladies' room, Flynn found out why. The owner visited their table with a complimentary bottle of red, and bent over to whisper, "Did I see her outside earlier punching a -"


"Then it is real?"

Flynn grinned. "Not anymore."

The guy took a deep breath and said, "I'm gonna bring you the special. On the house."

Feeling himself blushing like a twelve-year-old, Flynn reached over the table along the wall for Eve's hand, and turned even redder when she actually gave it to him. When the food arrived, she leaned over conspiratorially and said, "Change seats with me."

Of all the things he expected a woman to whisper to him over a cafe table while they were holding hands, that - was not it. "Huh?"

Surprisingly, she blushed, too. "I'm left-handed," she said softly, "and you're not."

That didn't - oh.

They switched seats, and he reached back across the table - with his left hand - for her right, and their fingers tangled like teenagers' while they ate.

When they tumbled back through the back door, they almost landed on top of Ezekiel. "Where have you two been?" he asked in a slow drawl without lifting his eyes from the book he was examining.

"Fargo. There was a -" Flynn coughed, decided to cut to the chase. "Eve punched a wendigo."

That was worth Ezekiel's attention. "Awesome!"

Eve raised her hand for display - somehow, with all the hand-holding, Flynn had failed to notice her cracked knuckles - and Ezekiel gently fist-bumped her. "What about you?" she asked.

"Do not go to Peru," Ezekiel cautioned. "Not for at least - three months."

"Ooooookay . . . "

Flynn interrupted because he was beginning to feel he couldn't wait another moment. "Look, Jones, I'm going to just walk . . . Colonel Baird out to her car . . ."

The thief barely waved as he went back to his book.

Flynn stopped awkwardly next to Eve's car, tugging on the hem of his jacket. It's not the first time, he pep-talked himself. For that matter, it was her the first time. "Hey, so . . ."

"It was nice," Eve said. "The evil cult and everything. Working with you."

"Yeah. Yeah, sure, it was -"

"Dinner was nice, too."

In the end, she kissed him (again), and he appreciated that she didn't have to telegraph the move by reaching up. This kiss went on far longer than any of their earlier ones, and he appreciated that, too. His hand even managed to slip under the hem of her sweater and make sure her back wasn't too badly bruised.

Meanwhile in the Annex, Ezekiel shook his head. Old people. Woman can punch a wendigo but she can't be trusted to get herself to her car.