Back to Blighty

“Lara, what do you say about heading back to Britain!?”

“Sounds like a great idea!”

“And switching to using the radio, instead of shouting!?”

“Sounds even better!” Lara replied, and quickly located the old-timey leather flying helmet with earphones that had been stored in the cockpit footwell.

“Lara,” As they cleared the small island, Sterling picked up the conversation again, “May I treat you to dinner tonight?”

“That'd be lovely, Sterling.”

“Is it alright if we dine at my place?”

“Definitely,” Lara only need to spend a brief moment contemplating what dinner at Sterling's might evolve into for her pussy to start juicing. Apart from the effect that he had on her, there was also the fact that, though she wasn't keen on admitting it, Lara had a tendency to become... frisky in the wake of dangerous situations.

“And I hope I'm not being presumptuous, but I suppose you don't have place to stay? Or much in the way of spare kit?”

“You're not, and no I haven't.”

“We'll have to rectify that,” Sterling said, and Lara could soon hear a crackle in her earphones that went on for several seconds before fading.

“You rang, sir?” It took about a minute before an unfamiliar voice could be heard over the radio.

“Wilkinson,” Sterling replied, “I'm on my way home, and I'm bringing a guest.”

“Dinner for two, sir?” Lara easily recognized Wilkinson's voice as the immaculately calm and controlled one of a top-notch valet.

“Yes, and have one of the guest bedrooms prepared.”

“Of course, sir.”

“And send a car up to London to pick up a dress,” Looking back at him, Lara had Sterling's gaze meet hers.

“Any preferences in terms of style and measurements, sir?” Of course, Wilkinson appeared completely unfazed by the master of the house bringing a female in dire need of something to wear.

“Lara...” Switching off his earphones, Sterling nodded for Lara to take over. Which she did, finally giving Sterling a thumbs-up once she was done giving Wilkinson instructions, along with her measurements.

The rest of the flight was uneventful, with Lara and Sterling chitchatting and generally enjoying each other's company. Much of their talk consisted of comparing professional experiences, although Sterling did fill her in on the political state of affairs in the world. She would occasionally stop him and ask for clarifications whenever it seemed like things had diverged from history as she knew it: things like Austria being a democracy after the Social Democrats won the brief civil war there in 1934, or that Sterling's plane was a second, updated version of the de Havilland DH.88 Comet, but with much more powerful Roll-Royce Merlin engines and more advanced propellers.

Another recurring element of their conversation was her flirtatious remarks, to which he would unfailingly respond by being slightly flustered, yet egging her on to continue with them.
As afternoon was turning into evening, and after a journey down across southern Scotland and much of England, Sterling started bringing the plane down as if preparing for a landing.

“Is that it?” Lara asked as they swept past a relatively modest but very nice-looking country manor.

“Yes,” Sterling replied as he lowered the plane whilst sweeping across the grounds of the manor and dipping down on the other side of a small wood to slowly descend onto the grass airfield located there, “I hope you'll like it.”

“I'm sure I will,” Lara smiled, just before the wheels touched down and the plane bumped gently along the airfield, after which it taxed towards a cluster of barns, one substantially larger than the other.

“Ah, Wilkinson,” Climbing out of the plane and offering Lara a hand that she accepted not because she needed his help getting out, Sterling nodded in recognition towards the discreetly well-dressed man standing in front of the larger building holding a silver drinks tray.

“Welcome home, sir,” Wilkinson – who had the sort of appearance where he could be anywhere between forty and seventy years of age – didn't so much as raise an eyebrow at the scantily clad Lara, “I'll have Parker park the plane, Sir.”

“Very good, Wilkinson.”

“Would you and your guest care for some refreshments, sir?” Wilkinson raised the tray just a fraction of an inch, “I took the liberty of preparing a Martini for the lady.”

“Lara,” Sterling smiled at her.

“Thanks,” Why wouldn't there be a valet waiting with a Martini after she'd fought her way out of a tomb, watched a Zeppelin start a slow-motion and crossed the North Atlantic?

“And a whisky for me, I see.”

“Of course, sir. The Glenlivet, neat.”

“Marvellous.”

“May I take you and your friend's submachine guns, sir?” As it was now empty, Wilkinson had the tray lodged between his arm and his side.

“Damn good of you, Wilkinson,” Sterling handed his valet the weapon.

“Thanks,” And Lara did the same.

“Shall I put them with the others, sir?” And of course Wilkinson slung both of them over his shoulder as if him doing so was the most natural thing in the world.

“Please do, Wilkinson,” Sterling too acted as if what to do with a pair of commandeered automatic weapons was a perfectly normal topic of conversation between employer and valet, “I'll take Miss Croft up to the house.”

“Very well, sir. Dinner is at half past seven.”

“Excellent, Wilkinson,” Offering her his arm, Sterling turned his attention to Lara, “Shall we?”

“Lead the way,” Smiling, Lara raised her glass at him. It was a very good Martini.