Loyalty & Betrayal

Author's Note: This is from the perspective of Drew Davenport, one of the original characters from an earlier fic, "Bulletproof Armour". For this site I'm loading up only the chapters with sex in them. If you want to discover the full plot behind how Drew came to be in the hospital / late to the pary, the full story can be found in the usual places I post, including fanfiction.net. Happy reading!



***



“I was just guessing

At numbers and figures

Pulling the puzzles apart.

Questions of science, science and progress,

Do not speak as loud as my heart…



Nobody said it was easy,

No-one ever said it would be this hard.

Oh, take me back to the start.”



Coldplay, “The Scientist” (album = “A Rush of Blood to the Head”).





Another day, another wasted set of hours spent flat on my back staring at the wall.



Well, okay. It’s not like I don’t have books, my IPod, which I’m listening to now, a stack of movies and the portable DVD player from mine and Mike’s flat. Pissed off as I was when Jonathan House greeted me this morning with “Doing a little self-indulgent wall-gazing?”, he had a point. Almost makes me wish I hadn’t replied: “No, I’m working on a little fantasy I have going involving you, me, Daniel Craig, and a vat of ice-cream”.



I’m lying about the fantasy, but having the doc around does at least make being stuck in hospital a more aesthetically pleasing experience. Who doesn’t love a pair of blue eyes staring at them? Even if I do occasionally feel like an insect on a slide. More entertaining, too. It’s rare I meet anyone else with such a natural gift for sarcasm. Perceptive bastard, too. After I had that black night, two days ago, he took one look at me and doubled the pain medication, thank you, God. (I’m trying not to think about what I must have looked like, but I’ve seen a few corpses in my life, and I’m guessing there was a certain resemblance.)



But let’s face it, I can stare at the wall, stare at books, talk to Mike, talk to the doc, whatever, it doesn’t change the fact that I’m in limbo right now and I want out, but I’m stuck here until my arm and shoulderblade finish knitting back together. I don’t want to be an invalid. I don’t want sympathy, or sick leave, or flowers. I just want to get back to work and back to Mike.



Wish Tanya would come and visit, though. Maybe pregnancy isn’t agreeing with her? Who knows. I’m still trying to get my head around the idea of Tanya pregnant. I mean, intellectually I’ve always known she was female, and it’s not like I’ve ever confused her with a man, she’s just always been Tanya, one of a kind. I try to grasp the concept of a baby Tanya, and decide that’s enough mental exertion for one day.



Assuming I still have a job. The most I can get out of anyone is that I’m officially on sick leave, which does at least have the advantage that they can’t easily fire me. Whether I will go back to my old job, whether I even still have a job… who knows? And I can’t find out until I can get back out there and start getting people to talk to me.



There are not words for the extent to which I hate the fact that I can’t move right now. My entire life, I hated to be held still in one place…



… and I go back into another memory. I’m not tripping so much any more; maybe I’m getting used to the meds, maybe whatever they had to give me to get me through the operations is out of my system, who knows? More control, now, but I still find myself going back into the past, over and over again, looking for… something. I don’t know what. The answer to why I ended up here, maybe.



***



It’s four months ago, and I’m running fast through London’s streets. I know this area nearly as well as any cabbie; it’s home turf for all four of us. Jack and I lived here a while back, Tanya settled here when she got her job as a self-defence instructor, I found SiSi a flat near here when she moved.



Just as well. I’m already late for Mike’s publisher’s summer ball, and if I don’t get there soon… well, I will get there soon. I can run really fast, which is a useful talent in my line of work. I’m drawing some attention, but Londoners are used to people doing weird things, and a thin man with a backpack running through the streets doesn’t rate much above the odd stare. (Let me rephrase that. A thin, white, man running through the streets with a backpack doesn’t rate that much above the odd stare.)



I flow fast through the city, heart beating, lungs taking in air efficiently, moving in time with its rhythm. My eyes automatically scan for obstacles; a pedestrian crossing here, a woman on a bike there, and my legs move me out of the way without needing to pause for thought. My ears listen for sounds – cars, people, bikes – and I’m already calculating how many steps to take, exactly how far to jump, so that I don’t waste a second, not a bit of energy, and I’m getting closer to the hotel; there are more people around in this area, and I slip in between them. Half of them don’t even notice I’m there, which is exactly as it should be.



The hotel lies dead ahead, but there’s no way I can go in dressed like this, and there’s not so much privacy around here, too many cars, too many people…



Far too many people. Fuck, did every company in London decide to throw a party tonight? The streets are thick with braying idiots in tuxedos and overly thin women in silk dresses. I take one look at the mob ahead of me and realise I stand no chance of getting through that lot.



However, this is not a problem for me. For most people it would be, but most people move only in two dimensions. Start thinking in three, and a whole new world opens up. Take that alley, over there, with that convenient fire escape running all the way up to the top of the building. I mentally map out the streets from here to the hotel, and if I’m right, all I need to do is go up and across and I’ll be there. Providing I can get back down again, but that’s a problem to solve at a later time.



I slip into the alley, unnoticed by anyone around me, then secure the backpack tightly, and start climbing.



I love this. Tanya and I used to do this all the time, when we were younger. These days they call it free running. We just used to call it “looking for trouble”, and in truth that was a more accurate way of phrasing it, since real free runners don’t generally break into empty houses, crash parties via the window, or find themselves scrapping with the door staff when said gatecrashing doesn’t go according to plan.



I mean, it’s not that we wanted to cause trouble. It’s just that we liked to see interesting things, and sometimes other people did unreasonable things to try to stop us, like putting locked doors and bouncers in front of them. I never did see a locked door without wanting to find out what was behind it.



Up, up and over. I make it all the way up to the roof, scramble across the gutter, and there, three buildings in front of me, is the hotel’s roof. I give it a quick once-over to see if there are any of the staff up there (hotel roofs are popular places for staff, especially the illegals, to hang out and snatch a quick smoke or a nap), but I don’t see anyone. Luckily for me, all the buildings around here have flat roofs, and it’s pretty simple to get from one side to another. I do a quick scout around, and spot a convenient back alley near the hotel’s kitchens, which will do just fine for getting changed in. I wonder if Jack remember to put a water bottle in this bag? It’s a hot night and I’m sweating like you wouldn’t believe, which will not endear me to Mike.



Actually, what will not endear me to Mike is that – shit! – I’m nearly an hour late. I resist the urge to think bad things about SiSi, although she really could have picked a better night to get smashed. I hope she’s alright… and suddenly I have a slight twinge, a thought at the back of my head trying to get out. I shove it back in there. Haven’t got time right now to think about anything else, and I prepare to descend. The only fire escape begins three floors below me – too far to jump in one go without risking breaking a leg – but fortunately there’s a window with a small ledge about six feet down.



I’m going to have to hang over the edge, then feel around with my feet for the window ledge beneath, and hope really hard that it isn’t greasy or slippery, otherwise they will be finding my broken body next to the bins tomorrow morning, which is not the way I would choose to go. I could try looking for another way down, but the roof is gigantic, and there are so many cooling fans and chimneys up here it would take ages to pick my way round in search of another way down…



That would be the safe thing to do.



Fuck that.



As I turn to grip the gutter, ready to lower myself down, I catch a faint glimpse of London’s streets stretching away in front of me, and I can’t help grinning. Partly it’s adrenaline, partly it’s just that I love this city. I was not born here, but I often think that I should have been.



I remember the story of a First World War poet I studied at school, of how he was once visiting a friend back home in England when he was asked what he was fighting for. He bent down, picked up a handful of soil, and replied “This”. I know exactly where he was coming from. Despite the oath I swore when I joined Five, I really don’t care that much about protecting the welfare of an elderly half-German pensioner and her bigoted husband, and frankly I doubt Queen Liz spends much time wondering if I’m all right.



Politicians I don’t give a fuck for, and as for England… Well, I was born here, but had I been born in France no doubt I’d be defending the safety of the French state, and feeling about the same level of affection for it; how can you feel anything for an abstract noun? But London is my home. I would willingly die to defend it, and on several occasions I nearly have. If my work for Five has made it even a marginally better or safer place, well, I count that an achievement.



I shouldn’t really, but I take just a second to stare out at my home, knowing that under the walls of the buildings I’m seeing and in the streets around them are hundreds, thousands of people. All those different lives; families, lovers, people getting ready to go out, people staying in with a bottle of wine and a movie, all the little ordinary lives… and also, as I know only too well, terrorists, criminals and murderers. Organised crime and the wrecked lives of the people it touches. Somewhere out there tonight, someone in London will be attacked, someone will be raped, and someone will be selling drugs or another person’s body.



It happens, and you can’t let it get to you. Got to hold it in balance. On the one hand, the law-abiding majority, on the other, the criminal scum. In the middle, me, doing my best to ensure that ne’er the twain shall meet whilst trying to stay alive.



Enough with the fucking philosophy; I’m late for Mike.



I climb halfway over the roof, take a deep breath, then let myself hang out into space. One advantage of being thin; I can support my own weight for some time, although I really, really hope I can find this window ledge soon…



I feel around with my feet frantically, getting nowhere and trying desperately not to let my heart race or my hands start sweating. Finally I take another deep breath and let go with one hand. This lengthens my reach a bit more, and I feel the blissful solidity of the ledge beneath my feet. Panic averted. I wedge the tips of the fingers on my free hand into a gap in the wall, plant my foot firmly on the ledge, then let go of the gutter and let my weight drop onto the ledge.



Suddenly, I find myself staring a naked man in the eye.



The window must belong to one of the hotel rooms, and it’s occupied. By two people, I presume, based on the… condition he’s in. Either that or hotel TV porn has a lot to answer for, though I’m guessing he was coming over to draw the curtains. I’m not sure whom my sudden appearance is a bigger shock for, although for one of us it nearly has fatal consequences. Fortunately, I manage to grab the edge of the window in time to stop myself falling off into space. I recover, wave cheerfully, and quickly make the jump to the fire escape and out of his evening.



From there it’s a simple matter of climbing down the escape and into the alley, which is conveniently deserted. I take a quick look around, then strip briefly, give myself a quick rub-over with the towel (Jack didn’t remember any water; honestly, you can’t get the help these days) and climb back into the tuxedo. I catch sight of myself in a window and grin, then grin more widely. I’m as high as a fucking kite on adrenaline and London, which feels great, but it’s no use right now.



Think, Drew. Think business consultant. Important, vaguely apologetic that a call from an overseas associate… no, scratch that, not sympathetic enough… a call from an elderly, frail parent delayed his arrival, and of course the taxi couldn’t get anywhere near the front of the building, so I’ve had to walk, hence the fact I’m sweaty and out of breath. I take a deep breath and let that personality settle over me. Slow down. Walk respectably, like the only journey you make is between the office, home, and the airport, like you never sometimes have to run for your life down dark alleys. Like you don’t have a uncomfortable light feeling under your arm where your gun should be. Respectable, Drew. Respectable.



I feel around for the invite, and experience the sinking feeling of the sudden realisation that Mike has both of them.



Oh well, just have to persuade the staff to go and look for him. I take another look at myself – not perfect, but it will do – and start to run out of the alley, then catch myself, and force myself to stride self-importantly.



I’m nearly at the hotel entrance, and I’m already composing my speech to the door staff, when an angry voice interrupts me: “Where the fuck have you been?”



I whip round and Mike is there.



He looks… stunning is the only word I can think of. Mike in a tux. Wow. I’m lost for words.



He isn’t. “Where the fuck have you been? Do you know how many times I’ve tried to ring you? I was beginning to think you’d got lost, I was coming to look for you.” As if to prove his point, my mobile gives its missed call beep from the inside pocket of my suit jacket.



“I tried to ring you earlier but you weren’t answering…” I begin, then stop. Mike looks so pissed off, and worse, so disappointed, that I start to feel as though my heart is about to drop out of my ribcage and go bouncing around on the floor.



If in doubt, seize the initiative. I take Mike by the shoulders, which are rock-solid with tension, not a good sign, look him as deep in the eye as I can manage, and give it my best shot: “Is there any chance at all that I could say right now that’s a really good explanation for me being late and that I’m incredibly sorry and that we could go in there right now and have a good evening and afterwards I’ll make it up to you in whatever way you choose?” I’m nearly stammering by the end.



Fuck it, why does Mike have this effect on me? (Would I want it any other way?)



Mike looks at me with that same mixture of anger and disappointment for a good few minutes longer, and part of me cannot help but notice how exceptionally gorgeous he looks angry, but most of me is starting to feel like I’ve completely screwed up, and, worse, I can think of no way in which I can make it better, other than hoping Mike is a nicer human being than me. I look at Mike looking at me like that, and I have that same feeling I had four months ago when I got that phone call from Jamaica, that utter panic that suddenly he might not be there, fuck it, no, I’d do anything, don’t go, please…



And at the back of my head, there’s that little twinge again, and a little voice muttering: You did that to her.



And then Mike grins, and kisses me lightly, and grabs my hand to pull me forward, and all I can feel is utter relief. Thank fuck. Thank fuck Mike is so understanding, because I really don’t know what I’m doing.



I would happily keep the kiss going longer – in fact I would happily skip the whole evening and go straight to the making-up sex - but Mike is already tugging me towards the hotel.



“It had better be a good explanation, and you had better be very, very apologetic,” he murmurs, as we step through into the building. Still holding hands; why the fuck not?



“It will be,” I reply, mentally crossing my fingers. Mike and I don’t have secrets, and he’s always tried to get on with Tanya, Jack and SiSi, but… well, they’re my friends, not his, and he and SiSi have never been too comfortable round each other. Here’s hoping the night goes well enough that he’ll accept “SiSi got drunk and I had to take her home” as an apology.



“Good. Now remember…” He wags a finger at me playfully.



“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” I mutter. “I’ve got to be respectable all night: no starting any fights, no mentioning the war, no arguing with Salman Rushdie, no shagging in the toilets…”



Mike grins evilly in a way that has an unfortunate effect on my attempts to look respectable. “Oh, I don’t know about that last one.”



I fight the urge to kiss him and then drag him off somewhere quiet and private, and settle instead for murmuring, “I have been a terrible influence on you, haven’t I?”



”Corrupted me completely.” Mike grins, and again I feel that thought at the back of my head, struggling to get out, but I push it back down, knowing that soon, I’ll have to listen to that little voice, but not right now. Now, it’s Mike’s time.



***



Back in the present, I force myself to continue to remember the rest of that night. Not easy, but there was one part of it I’ve relived very often. I grin as the memory comes to me…



***



Much later that night, so much later it’s morning, Mike and I stagger into our flat. It’s already starting to turn light, far off in the distance, and both of us are feeling that weird feeling where you’re simultaneously utterly knackered and ready to drop, and far too high to even think of resting.



“What a night!” Mike’s eyes are bright. He’s practically glowing with happiness, and I am thrilled that tonight went well and that I didn’t manage to fuck it up completely. (Also that he accepted my explanation for being late with a smile, although that may have been because I waited until we were both on our fifth drink of the evening and decidedly merry.)



He was amazing. Life and soul of the party, and for once I just sat back and watched as everyone else circled round him, fascinated. Mike is the middle child in his family, and despite some of the media attention round his last book, still not used to having people hanging on his every word.



Not surprising that they do, though. Young, good-looking, witty, articulate, compassionate, who wouldn’t be fascinated by that? (Why the hell he is with me is one of life’s little mysteries.) The whole “black and gay” thing doesn’t hurt either, given how right-on the literary crowd in London likes to consider itself to be.



I smirk a little as I wonder how many of them actually think about what that entails. It’s a sad truth that many people in modern society can accept the fact of men being gay, so long as we hide the fact we actually have sex with each other.



Just as well they didn’t see what happened about halfway through the evening…



… “We shouldn’t be doing this,” Mike murmurs, as I pull him along the corridor and away from the rest of the party. It’s halfway through the evening. The food has been eaten, the wine has been drunk, the music is playing, and it’s so noisy and so busy that no-one will notice us sneaking off for a few minutes.



I pause, and murmur into his ear: “Yeah, that’s half the fun.”



“Drew…”



“What?” I smile as seductively as I can manage, and love the way his pupils practically dilate at the sight. I glance along the corridor, and can see and hear no-one. We’re safe. “It’s not my fault you’re looking so fucking hot that if we don’t do this now, I’m likely to take you right there and then against the wall, right in front of…”



My words are cut off by Mike gripping my shoulders, and pushing me up against the wall, his powerful rugby-player’s build easily pinning me, our bodies pressed together. I moan softly in pleasure as his mouth pushes against my ear and he murmurs: “Oh, all my fault, is it? Looked in a mirror lately? You think you’re the only one trying to restrain himself here?”



I can’t resist smirking, “Well, to judge by what I’ve got pressing against my thigh, I’d say not.”



Almost before I know it, Mike’s lips are fastened on mine, his arms round my back, my arms going round him, feeling the muscles in his back bunch as he grips me tightly. I return the kiss with interest, and our tongues duel briefly before I remember that this is Mike’s night, and open my mouth wider to let him in. Our bodies press tightly together, rubbing hard, nothing respectable about this kiss, and I feel behind me for the storeroom door.



By nature I tend to be something of an opportunist, and my radar for “convenient places for a quick shag” is pretty good by now. I scoped out the storeroom a while back, when the night was yet young. Fucking in toilets is all very well, but they’re not what you would call private, and I’m old enough now that the chance of getting arrested for indecency no longer adds to the thrill.



In any case, I need to start making up to Mike for letting him down earlier tonight. I open the door one-handed, and the two of us don’t so much step in as fall through in, crashing against the wall, since neither of us can manage to break away from the other.



Fuck, but Mike feels good. So warm, so alive, so strong, so male. So very, very good. For a brief few seconds, I gain enough possession over myself to pull away long enough to bolt the door from the inside, then Mike pulls me back against him, and I writhe shamelessly in his arms. I can feel him getting harder and harder as our hips rub against each other, and I can feel myself getting harder too, especially as he thrusts his hands down between us, starting to undo my belt, pausing to reach down and rub hard through the cloth of my trousers, so hard I have to suppress a whimper.



“Jesus God, Mike…” I breathe into his ear, then catch my breath as he undoes my zip and reaches in, and I thrust hard against his hand. His breathing is coming fast now, little delicious pants against my neck. I break out of our embrace and lean back against the wall, putting enough space between us that I can slip his jacket off, unfasten his bow tie and start undoing all the buttons on his shirt.



“What…” he begins, then stops and groans softly as I lean back into him again, this time taking the lead myself as I nip softly at his ear and let one hand slide up his belly, up golden skin and taut, flat muscle until I reach a tiny brown nipple, already hardened into a taut bead of warm, sensitive flesh. I play with it mercilessly as I murmur in his ear: “I need to apologise to you…”



I pull back and look him in the eyes, loving the wild, hungry look in them. “Consider this my apology.”



I start kissing my way down his chest, stopping to take each nipple between my lips and suck hard enough to draw another groan for each one, and I could take a whole day just to do this alone, because Mike’s chest is incredible to look at, but at the back of my head is the knowledge that if we’re gone for too long, we’ll be missed. I don’t care if everyone gossips about us, but he probably will. He’s not ashamed about being out, or gay, but I know he hates to have people define him by it. One of many things I love about him, I think as I reach the patch of dark hair just about his belt.



“Drew…” There is no sound on God’s earth better than my name in Mike’s mouth when we do this, I think, as I unfasten his belt and undo his fly, and take him in my mouth, feeling an electric thrill go through him as the sound of my name turns into a gasp, then a series of rhythmic moans, in time with each lick of my tongue, each suck, each little stroke of my fingers against his soft skin. “Drew, oh God, oh fuck…”



I pause and look up, grinning wickedly, and mutter around him: “Too much? You want me to stop? Because I can stop, Mike, if you want…” and I lift my mouth away from him, ignoring the desperate thrust of his hips back towards me.



“Fucking tease,” he groans, and glares down at me, and ooh, I’m going to pay for that sometime, but not tonight, I think smugly, as I take him back in my mouth, licking harder, faster, because it’s time this moved on. If only because I am so ready for it myself I feel like I’m about to burst out of these fucking trousers. I feel Mike’s hands on my shoulders, and know instinctively that he wants more, he’s ready too, and stand up, only to have him pull me hard against me, so hard he nearly knocks the breath out of me, but his eagerness feels incredible and I yield willingly to his kiss, his hands roaming over me, stripping me of my jacket, tie and shirt.



I shiver a little as the air hits my skin, then shiver even more as Mike’s eyes roam over me. I’m not in bad shape; nature intended me to be thin and wiry, and a combination of an active job and regular training sessions at Tanya’s dojo keeps me that way. Mike’s gaze is possessive, his eyes saying only too clearly, you’re mine, and I am, just as he is mine, that muscled body all mine, as I return his gaze, devouring him with my eyes. Then it’s my turn to be gasping with pleasure as he undoes my belt and fly, lifting me out, his strong hands finding all the right places to stroke, to caress and rub and fondle, until I find myself breathing “Stop… Mike, stop, that’s too good… fuck it, I want to last longer, ah, God… ”



“What do you want, Drew?” Mike’s eyes are intense, green and gold, staring into mine.



I meet my gaze with my own hunger, and breathe, “Whatever you want. Right now, whatever you want.”



He hesitates, and I know by sheer instinct what he wants, and love him for being strong enough even now to wonder if he should ask for it. Mike knows my past, and being with him, letting him heal me, has done more for me that any number of counselling or psychotherapy sessions ever could.



I take the choice out of his hands as I slither round in his embrace, turning my back to him, pausing only long enough to mutter: “Durex and lube in the left hand pocket of my trousers…”



Mike chuckles softly. “Always prepared.” I feel his hand slip into my pocket, pausing wickedly to give me a hard stroke through the lining, so that my back arches and I have to restrain myself from crying out. I feel him pull back a little, hear rustling, and force myself not to turn round, because the suspense makes it even better. I feel him pull my trousers down, the cool slick of lube against my skin, then Mike’s hand reaches round to slide a condom onto me and fuck, the suspense is killing me, but in a good way. Then I feel his hands grip my hips, the tip of his erection against me, and I hiss softly in ecstasy as he presses gently inside me.



For the longest time I wouldn’t do this with anyone, but Mike is not my uncle, and the exquisite care he takes not to hurt me could never trigger any flashbacks. Too careful, I think in ecstatic frustration, and brace myself against the wall and thrust my hips back against his, so that all of him is inside me, and his first thrust feels so good I nearly come on the strength of that feeling alone, but force myself not to, to hold on to that little bit of control…



Then I feel the sudden shock of his hand gripping me, my erection gripped firmly in that powerful hand, and nearly scream in pleasure, the combination of strong hand and powerful thrusts just in the right place almost too good, too good for me to last long, and I can feel Mike nearly there, feel his final rhythm building, and it’s finally too good, too much for my nerves to bear, too good to resist any longer, and I come so hard I feel like I’ll never stop, the only thing I’m capable of registering other than the sheer ecstasy of coming against Mike’s hand is his ecstatic groans as I feel him come deep in me, gripping me so hard with his other hand I know I’ll have bruises there tomorrow, and I don’t care.



Mike collapses against my back, and our hearts hammer in unison, breathing together in deep, ragged gasps, as he lets go of me and slides his hand up my belly to caress my chest. His hand reaches all the way up, and I dip my head to take each of his fingers in my mouth, kissing each lightly, letting my tongue play lazily over them, tasting my own sweat on his skin. I press back against him, loving the feel of his warm chest and belly against my back. I think distantly that it’s just as well I’m not wearing my shirt, because I’m covered in sweat, both his and mine, and no matter how hard I try to wipe it off before we go back out there, I’m going to scent of him, of us, for the rest of the night. The thought causes my lips to curve up in pleasure, and Mike murmurs softly in my ear: “Happy?”



“Ummph.” I grunt in pleasured agreement. “Yes. Very.” He nuzzles my neck, wrapping his arms tight round me, and I learn back, closing my eyes, loving the feeling of him holding me. Why it took me so long to discover this sort of pleasure I have no idea, but sure as hell I intend to make up for it now.



“We should go,” he murmurs without much enthusiasm.



“I thought I was never going to stop then,” I reply, and smile as his grip tightens in affection, and he murmurs, “God, me neither. Fuck, but you’re so good.”



“Only ever as good as who I’m with,” I reply, and let my fingers caress the silver ring on his left hand, as the two of us reluctantly pull apart and start cleaning up, hunting for shirts and ties and doing our best to tidy each other up, since this storeroom doesn’t run to having a mirror. I check the corridor outside for noises, and we slip out unnoticed, still holding hands.



***



And back at our flat, in the early hours of the morning, Mike looks straight into my eyes, and smiles wryly as he says: “You need to go sit on the roof”.



“I’m sorry?”



He continues to hold my gaze, and, as often before with him, I get the feeling that Mike can see right into me and see everything that I am, and love me anyway. I am naked before him, and I don’t care.



“Something’s been on your mind all night.”



“Maybe it was you,” I parry.



Mike makes a show of looking at his watch. “Nah. It’s been five hours since we last did it, which gives you plenty of time to recharge, yet you haven’t pinned me against the wall.” He grins mischievously, and usually the conversation would stop there, but he’s right. I don’t feel in the mood for it, and I know that whatever that thought is at the back of my head, it needs to come out soon, and it won’t be pleasant when it does.



Ah, who the fuck am I kidding? I know what it is. I just don’t want to face it, but I have to.



Mike kisses me gently, then grasps my forearms lovingly. “Drew, go sit on the roof and figure things out. I’ll be here when you get back.”



You’ll be asleep when I get back, I think fondly. I’ve seen Mike like this before, and I know from past experience that he’ll be unconscious about three seconds after he sits down on the bed to start taking his shoes off. I return his smile, then turn away.



I climb up onto the roof and settle myself there. This is one of my favourite places to think. From here, I can see out into the city, but there are no clear lines of sight for anyone with a gun and a grudge against me. In fourteen years of working for MI5, I’ve accumulated a few of those.



They say that falling in love – if indeed that’s what this thing between Mike and I is, but what other phrase fits? – is a gentle, pleasant process, and maybe for some people it is. For me, it was more like being broadsided by a truck.



My whole life has changed. I never saw this coming, but I wouldn’t change it.



So much I never understood.



Sitting there, I flashed back to another conversation on a roof. Tanya and I, this time, on the roof of the dojo we’d both trained at when we lived in London, before she left to join the Army. This was nine years ago, when she was still in the Army and I’d been working for Five for just over a year.



I’d finally got round to taking my black belt examination, and passed first time. We’d managed to time it for when Tanya was on leave so that she could be there. The plan was to meet up with some of the other students for drinks later that evening, but first, we wanted to celebrate together, just the two of us.



Funny how tastes stay with you. I must have drunk beer any number of times since, but I still remember the taste of that one like it was yesterday, and no beer ever since has tasted the same. Then again, I’d spent an entire day being tested, or more accurately pummelled, to within an inch of my life, and the bruises were already promising to be pretty spectacular in the morning, so by God, did I need that beer.



Tanya grinned at me, and I grinned back. “Well done, Drew. Always figured you’d do it.”



I grinned back cockily and slurped the rest of the beer. “Shit yeah.” I grin more broadly. “Dead simple.”



Suddenly, without her expression even changing, Tanya slid behind me, throwing an arm over my chest and hooking my legs out from under me. I glared up at her from my new position on the floor. “Hey!”



She planted a boot on my chest, pinning me, looked down at me, and smiled a little, a smile which I now realise must have been the forerunner of the nasty smile seen by any number of hapless Army cadets who had made the serious mistake of assuming that, because their sergeant was a woman, they were in for a nice soft ride.



“Life lesson for you, Drew.” She looked down at me sternly, and in that moment I realised that the wild kid I’d run around London with when we were both younger had vanished under an Army uniform and Army discipline. The woman talking to me now was a seasoned soldier and, I suddenly realised, someone I respected an enormous amount. I held up a hand in the traditional martial arts gesture of asking to be pulled to your feet, and Tanya removed her boot and pulled me up with a smile, then wagged a finger. “Don’t ever buy your own act.”



“I’m sorry?”



“Piece of advice someone once gave to me.” She stared off into the distance thoughtfully, then turned back to stare intently at me. “You can be anyone. Be the master of the dojo no-one can beat. Be the army sergeant everyone fears.” She grinned at me and raised an eyebrow. “Be the guy who has all the answers, and the crazy-shit ideas no-one else would ever think to try.”



I grinned back. Even then, I was already getting a bit of a reputation.



“But don’t ever start buying that act yourself, Drew. ‘Cause you start buying it yourself, you’ll start forgetting you can make mistakes, and then someone, somewhere, will spot that, and you’ll go down.” She paused, and then added: “You can bullshit everyone else, Drew, but don’t ever bullshit yourself. You remember that.”



I reached across and squeezed her shoulder, and she answered by dropping her hand over mine with a smile. “I will,” I replied, then couldn’t resist adding: “When the hell did you get so fucking smart?”



She grinend, a wild kamikaze grin I’ve seen any number of times before, still the same unstoppable Tanya I know and love. “I was always this fucking smart, Drew, you just didn’t used to be that good at spotting it. Now come on. Last one to the pub gets the first round in!”



***



Nearly ten years later, back on the roof, I remember Tanya’s advice, and grin ruefully.



Funny how, the older you get, the longer it takes you to admit you can be wrong. I should watch that, I guess, since it looks like I will be getting older. I honestly never thought I would make it this far, figured I’d die on active service with Five. But somehow I survived, and now here I am, sitting on a roof and realising that…



I sigh, and force myself to have the thought that’s been eating at the back of my head since I saw Sienna in the bar, over twelve hours ago.



...realising that what I feel for Mike, Sienna felt for Bobby Goren.



And I took that from her.



I stare up into the orange glow of London’s night. Part of me mutters rebelliously, It’s not all my fault. Which it isn’t. You can parcel the fault up neatly, three pieces. One part Goren’s for letting her go (because she has said any number of times that the worst part was that he just accepted it, didn‘t fight, didn‘t plead…), one part Sienna’s, for trusting my judgement, not hers… and one part mine.



Shit. I rake my fingers through my hair. Should have told her at Glastonbury, the little voice adds. Yeah, I should, but it’s a bit late to be thinking that now.



If I’d said something… when? After she got shot? At Glastonbury? How about even earlier, when she gave me and Jack and Tanya that brave smile and said she was moving on, that it was early days but that she thought maybe with John… Yes, that would have been a good moment to come clean about the fact that I intended all along that she would come here so that I could use her as bait.



But I didn’t, because I wanted John Durham to go down, and I needed her to be in tight with him so that I could get proof and put him away, and I didn’t realise at the time what I was condemning her to, but that’s no excuse. Bottom line, I screwed her over.



Something tells me that Sienna is not going to buy the “It was only partly my fault” line of reasoning, and, let’s face it, in her position, I wouldn’t.



Admittedly, I wouldn’t have made the mistake of trusting an agent of the security services of a foreign state, no matter how nice and friendly he seemed to be, but Sienna is not me, and two years ago she was a very different person. Specifically, a more trusting person, and that change is another thing I have to hold up my hand to being responsible for.



I’ve done worse. At the last count, I’m directly responsible for the deaths of three people (all justifiable, honest), indirectly responsible for fuck knows how many more, and I’ve broken up at least two marriages (on the rocks already… honest).



But I never looked any of those people in the eyes on a weekly basis afterwards. Never ate lunch with them, never laughed at stupid jokes with them, never… befriended them.



And then I make the decision. Out of respect for that friendship, I will tell Sienna. Tell her that I knew Durham was corrupt from the start. I’ll wait til the right time, maybe take her out somewhere, then tell her the complete truth.



Perhaps I’d feel better about that decision if I didn’t think that maybe, just maybe, I’m only doing it because if I don’t, our friendship, our little gang of four, ends anyway. Sienna can’t carry on drinking like that, and if she’s drinking because she’s depressed, and she’s depressed because she doesn’t have Goren… I can’t fix that for her, but maybe I can persuade her to try again. Persuasion is what I do, after all.



I go downstairs and sprawl onto the bed, next to Mike, who is asleep, worn out. At least I’ve got him… but will I, once he finds out? Ah shit. Enough angst for one day, already, and I will myself to sleep.



***



Back in the present, in my boring little hospital bed, I close my eyes wearily.



Had I but known, I think miserably. Had I known that I was about to miss my last chance to tell her the truth…



If only… Stupid fucking words. You can’t ever change the past, and now it feels like my future is well and truly fucked. I don’t know if I have a job, I don’t know if my arm will heal well enough for me to do it even if I do, and none of my friends want to see me.



I still have Mike, I remind myself. Yeah, but am I still the person he wants? He didn’t sign up to nurse a cripple, which for all I know is what I’m going to be.



I’ll never see SiSi again, I realise. She’s going back to New York. I’ve already told Mike to tell her I don’t want to see her until I’m well, and that’s not going to be until long after she’s gone.



Maybe I should change that, but why? She must be furious with me, but I know SiSi, and I know that if she sees me whilst I’m still recovering and screams at me, calls me every name under the sun, then she’ll feel horrible about it afterwards, and she’s already spent enough time feeling horrible because of me.



The IPod continues playing, uncaringly.



“Tell me you love me, come back and haunt me, oh, and I rush to the start.

Running in circles, coming up tails, coming back as we are.

Nobody said it was easy, oh, it's such a shame for us to part…”



Shut up, Chris Martin. You’re not helping any.



I click it off, and turn my head to face the wall.



I’m going to miss her so much.