Author Comment - I had to justify why a seasoned warrior would turn to the Thieves' Guild long after Level 50... There are vague references to Companions final questlines and Thieves Guild plot points. You've been warned.

"It's the last place in the world I want to send you right now, lass."

Vígdís wiped the stupid dreamy goopy look off her face just before Brynjolf glanced up from his papers. It wouldn't do to look like a lovestruck moron rather than the stoic Nord that had applied to be a thief only a few days ago.

"It's dangerous, but you've proved yourself thus far." Brynjolf looked back down almost apologetically at the maps before him and continued to outline his plans.

Had it only been days? Most Thieves' Guild initiations took much longer according to all the layabouts clogging up the Cistern. About half of them were particularly bitter, as if Vígdís had pissed them all off by being competent in the face of their own sour luck.

"You'll have to look out for Frey's watchdog."

She knew she didn't look the part of a wannabe thief. She was way too tall and built like a brick shithouse, not lithe and wiry or sneaky at all. For Talos' sake, her standard uniform was homemade dragonscale armor still steaming from the dragon she'd killed singlehandedly in order to rip off its skin. She had put on her cute Thieves Guild getup for a whole minute before switching back to her preferred armor.

"He's a man named Vald."

She was too much of a damn Nord, so why was she applying to an organization aimed at undermining the security of the ordinary peoples of Skyrim? Nords were rabid nationalists and Talos-worshippers; thieves revered no one and nothing except money, which was another thing she had bucketloads of. She made a killing as a smith, selling enchanted weapons and armor in addition to the piles of loot taken from her enemies. Hell, she probably could have refilled the Thieves' Guild's coffers by emptying her pockets.

"Frey is holding something over his head to ensure his service."

But they wouldn't take charity. She had to jump through all their little hoops t-to avoid—

It was then that Brynjolf had looked up, apparently noticing her lack of input.

To avoid…

Those gray-green eyes were so striking.

…offending them…

Something made the corner of his mouth tilt up, and she licked her lips.

By the Nine, he has dimples! And he's worried about sending me off by myself to raid Frey's house. How charming! She could feel her face pulling into a swoony grin all over again.

"Is something funny, lass?" His half-smile melted away into an expression of confusion, and his dimples disappeared.

Vígdís couldn't help it. She unslung the daedric warhammer she called the Bloodrocutor and let the head crunch into the ground with a highly girlish giggle. The very flagstones shattered beneath the ebony that pulsed with enchanted magics. "Yes, dear boy, there is."

"'Boy'?" She could hear some of the other thieves snickering behind her.

Brynjolf pushed away from the table, all defensive now that she had impugned his manhood in front of his inferiors by calling him a child when he was clearly older than her. He was again the frosty stranger who'd taken offense when she called the Ratway a dump, a cesspit, a bloody eyesore when she had first arrived.

"Was there something you wanted to say to me?"

Oh, he's even sexier when he's pissed off.

"Brynjolf, may I be frank?" She casually popped the hammer back up so that it thumped onto her pauldron, all without any visible effort. She needed to make a point. "I've been killing dragons by myself for months. I have taken on vampire nests and dungeons full of druagr alone and lived to tell about it. One thief isn't a threat at all to a warrior like me, but your concern is touching."

Maybe her face was a little more messed up for all the battles, but scars were damn sexy on Nords, just like dirt. At least, that's what Farkas had assured her the last time they'd gone dragon-slaying on a date, both then and… afterwards.

"While I'm at it…" She settled back on one heel and planted a hand on one out-thrust hip, tracking the path of Brynjolf's gaze with a fierce grin. "You can see I'm not cut out for this thieving business. I never even wanted to be one. A few days ago I couldn't pickpocket a corpse, I sneaked like a rampaging bull, and if I wanted to break in through a window, I had to strip to fit."

Cue the fantastically lewd catcalls that erupted from the gathered thieves behind her.

"Then why are you wasting our time?" Brynjolf asked, struggling between righteous indignation and perhaps a hint of mirth. As if to hide his discomfiture, he braced both hands on the desk and leaned forward, all masculine aggression again.

Ah hell, she couldn't take it anymore. She reached up one-handed, tore off her priceless helm, and let it drop to the floor.

"Because of you, you stupid, blind idiot!"

Then she grabbed a fistful of red hair, tilted forward and let her formidable weight in armor crush them into a bruising kiss.

It wasn't elegant at all. She smashed right into his nose, he grunted in real pain, and the hammer damn near slipped off her shoulder and took out one of his eyes when she banged into the desk between them. She tossed the weapon behind her, ignoring the shrieks of dismay in favor of catching hold of his face with both hands so he couldn't escape.

After all, Nords were warriors. They fought for every minute of their lives and didn't dither about going after what they wanted. If Brynjolf was too daft to see why the long-prophesied Dragonborn weaponmaster, Harbinger of the Companions, and thane of every hold in Skyrim would want to learn to tiptoe through houses and lift pocket change off unsuspecting fools… Well then, he was a fool.

But he was still cute.

"Brynjolf," she said, rolling the name around in her mouth while the taste of its owner lingered. "Just call me 'lass' a few times and show me your dimples, and I'll become the best thief you ever saw."

He chuckled self-consciously, his head ducking a little within the confines of her hands. He was turning as red as his hair, almost as red as the blood one of them had left on his lips.

Then he rested one gauntleted hand atop hers, the scarred brown leather contrasting with the dull gleam of dragonhide.

"You don't mess around, do you…," he paused, and she shivered. "Lass?"