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Grant showers in under four minutes. Thirty seconds has him drying himself off and stepping into a pair of gray boxer shorts, pulling on a black t-shirt. It's one of the few remaining shirts he has that isn't marred by bullet holes or dried blood. After halting Centipede, they've been on fluff missions, and the most recent blood stain he’d received was from the stubborn engineer who couldn't follow orders and had to be dragged back to safety. If Grant had been shot by one of the Canadian terrorists they had been sent to deal with, he would never forgive himself.
His jeans are still on the floor of the hotel room, and he pads out of the bathroom.
In the five minutes it's taken Grant to shower, May has dressed herself – black dress shirt, black bikini briefs – and has stepped out on the balcony.
Grant steps through the room and grabs his jeans. He sits at the foot of the bed, so he has May to his left, the door to his right, his back to neither. He's leaning forward when he sees May at a different angle, and realizes why she's out on the balcony.
She's smoking.
Grant can't help the laugh.
May turns around, an eyebrow raised.
"Never thought you one for cliches," he tells her.
She flicks the end of the black cigarette, light gray ashes falling onto the railing.
Grant pulls on his jeans, and steps out onto the cold concrete of the balcony. The breeze is cool against the remaining water droplets on the back of his neck. He fights not to shiver.
"It's a small indulgence," she replies.
The box of cigarettes is halfway between them. It's black, and taller and wider than most cigarettes packages. "Djarum Black," he reads.
"They're not available in the States."
Extensive knowledge of cigarettes has never been necessary for any of his undercover roles, but he makes a note to research these later. For now, he enjoys the small victory – indulgence is just another word for weakness. May is guarded, and this disclosure is the first of its kind that she's made.
"Your medical records say that you've never smoked."
Grant shakes his head. He wonders if this is an idle conversation, or May's attempt to get even. Christian took up smoking one summer. When their mother found the cigarette stubs, Christian had accused Grant. Grant insisted his innocence. The small retaliative burn on the inside of his left arm is listed in his medical record. "My body is a temple," he tells May, dryly, not willing to indulge her either way.
She snorts.
He quirks a smile in reply.
She takes another drag, lets it out long and slow. "You ever curious?"
"A mission will call for it, I know." There's a list of all the things specialists should be prepared for, and smoking is one of the tamest. He's already encountered items farther down on the list.
Conceding the shift of power is one of them, but Grant's not comfortable with how easily she's made this about his vulnerabilities.
May observes him. "But you haven't sought out to prepare yourself for it already," she says. "Which you have with quite a few of the other requirements."
"You seem to be an expert on my file," Grant tells her. "Should I be flattered?"
She rolls her eyes. "I know everyone's file." After a beat. “Though I wouldn’t need to be an expert on it to know that you’re an overachiever.”
Level one overshare to bring her on board. It’s worked before. Although anything involving his family feels significantly higher than level one. But what’s between them has nothing to do with feelings, and everything to do with strategy. Grant looks out towards the skyline, keeping his voice light as he says, “My older brother used to smoke.”
May makes a quiet noise – just an acknowledgement that she heard him, nothing more, nothing less. Another drag in, another billow of smoke out. She switches her cigarette to her other hand, and angles herself towards Grant. "Come here," she says.
Grant raises an eyebrow at her, but steps forward.
She looks up at him. "Open your mouth."
He huffs a laugh at that. “Has anyone ever told you how assertive you are?”
"I'm not going to make you do anything you don't want to."
The reassurance masks a challenge, and Grant tenses. He turns in closer, and tilts his head down.
May nods. "Pull the smoke into your mouth, but you don’t want to inhale," she tells him. She takes a drag.
Grant leans in, opens his mouth.
For all her hard edges, her lips are soft. It still surprises him. He watches her eyes slide close before he closes his own. Her lips are soft as they slide along his own, and her hand is wrapped gently around his bicep, her thumb curled carefully under his scar. He forces himself not to flinch. His heart races when he realizes she’s never so much as brushed the skin there. The kiss lasts a few scarce seconds, and it's more intimate than any of the touches they've shared during their three nights together.
May exhales, and Grant breathes it in.
The smoke that fills his mouth is warm but cools quickly. Sharp acrid notes contrast with a taste that's almost sweet. For a moment, the smoke swirls around his mouth. It tingles.
Grant pulls away and exhales most of the smoke; enough lingers that his next inhale sends him into a coughing fit. He's no stranger to smoke inhalation, and he's not entirely sure if this is any improvement. He tries to keep the coughing small, unnoticeable, but each cough makes the scratch in the back of his throat worse. "Thank you," he finally manages to get out. "That was very, uh, sweet. I think."
"You always cough on your first smoke," she tells him. "Better to do it before you need to do it for a mission." Underneath that, he hears It's tactical, not personal.
Grant narrows his eyes. This is about strategy. He bitterly swallows the defeat with the rest of the smoke. There's still a way for him to end up on top, and he smiles down at her. "What about the second?" he asks, voice going low, hand dropping down to hers. His fingers graze hers as he plucks the black cigarette from her. It settles uncomfortably between two knuckles. He dips his head down, tilting his mouth towards hers.
She easily takes the cigarette back. She takes a drag, and blows out the smoke to her left, away from Grant. "We set up parameters," she tells him.
Never on the Bus. No one can know. No bruises, no marks.
And now, no encores.
She snubs out the stub.
"I'll show myself out," he tells her, eyes tracking every movement. He knows she won't ask him to stay, and she knows a part of him still wants her to. She turns to gaze at him. After a long moment, he looks away from her. The worn carpet of the room feels soft after the concrete. He grabs his socks and his shoes from by the door, and retreats to his own room.