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Friday, February 6th, 2004
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He's a past master of deflection, of putting on an act and playing a part, and so when Spencer asked him how he'd lost his virginity at one of their regular semi-drunken 'the mission's over and we're not dead' bashes, he didn't miss a beat.
"As soon as possible," he smirks, barely registering the groans or Backup's slightly disapproving but mostly glazed glare before changing the subject with his normal deftness.
The truth is considerably less interesting and a damned sight more sordid, although hardly unique. He was fifteen, she was sixteen and already earning herself a reputation for being the 'class bike'. They did it standing up behind the bus shelter one Saturday night. She tasted of the cheap cider that he'd bought at the corner shop from the bored shop assistant despite being obviously underage, and her hair smelled like cigarette smoke. He came, she didn't but said nothing about that as she pulled her skirt back down again when he'd finished.
They'd both lit up and she'd still said nothing, swigging more of the cider he'd bought her as she leaned against him with bored expression. It outshone the shop assistant's for world-weary apathy.
He'd known the meaning of those words even then, both book smart and street smart. Enough of the latter to know he had to mask the former. He'd not been that smart though. He'd been in such a rush that he hadn't used thought to use a condom and had woken up in the middle of the night in a cold sweat, his skin still smelling of her and imagining fatherhood.
The next time he'd made sure he came prepared, in more than one sense of the word. They'd done it a few times, and her expression had grown more remote on each occasion.
The last time he'd seen her she'd been standing at a bus stop, her hands weighed down with shopping bags and her belly weighed down with someone else's child. Her third or fourth, he hadn't remembered which. Hadn't cared enough to ask anyone and, anyway, he'd been sailing past her in his nice car, on his way to try and persuade his Dad, once again, to move out of that shithole.
She was nothing special. There were a hundred girls just like her on that estate.
The second time he'd lost his virginity had also been up against a wall. Not a bus shelter this time - a bomb shelter. Some similar shithole with rubbish blown into corners by an unforgiving wind but this time it was in a different tongue rather than The Sun. There had been no cider and so instead Carl had tasted of blood and desperation. His skin had been slick with sweat as Sam's fingers slid across it under his dirty sweater. No light but plenty of heat as they strove together, bodies hard and fingers harder, trying to keep the noise down because even over the sound of gunfire and distant mortars there was a risk of being overheard.
Carl's hair had smelled of smoke too. Sometimes he swears he can smell it still.
Of the two, Carl's the one he remembers with a pang of regret.
Muse: Sam Curtis
Fandom: CI5: The New Professionals
Word Count: 533
( Author's Notes )
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Thursday, November 15th, 2001
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Chris has gone back to his flat, to pack and do all sorts of other last minute things before we fly out tomorrow. Since I have another physio appointment this afternoon, my last before our vacation, I've already packed with my normal efficiency, and that only leaves me to do what I've done far too much of over the past few weeks.
Think.
And what triggered this bout of reflection? I was about to pack this thing.
Yes, I'm off to a tropical paradise with a man I love more than anything, and I was about to pack my Psion.
That isn't to say that I haven't taken it on holiday before, because I have. Held in here are lots of handy little items like an address book and telephone numbers, stuff like that. Useful for post cards if nothing else. Not that I ever send any. I can even, theoretically, pick up my e-mail on the move although I haven't tried that yet. Too busy usually.
But this time that wasn't why I packed it. Oh no. The reason I put it into my case was because I'm now lost without it, without somewhere to record the ins and outs of my life.
It's not a comfortable thought.
My mind goes back to the very first entry I put in here, about why I thought keeping a diary was a really stupid idea. The cockiness of that amazes me now. I was so sure that Chris would always be there for me and that I would always be there for him that I forgot the cardinal rule. Never mind 'Never get emotionally involved' the first rule should be 'Sooner or later something will fuck it up'.
And fuck it up it did.
I'm not laying blame here. Looking back at the entries in this thing, I can see that we've both been at fault at one time or another, or rather miscommunication has ruled. First Chris shutting me out, taking me for granted and me overreacting followed by me shutting him out. I breezily wrote in here that no matter what we'd be able to talk to each other and yet I wonder now if we'd ever been really honest with each other at that point. I don't think we had.
I don't mean that we'd lied to each other, and our friendship was strong, strong enough to move past all of that with only minimal regret. No, I mean that even then there were things that we hadn't told each other, things that we'd kept in the dark, had hidden because we were afraid or ashamed. Past experiences with men, how we felt about each other, that type of thing.
I wrote in here about how I could tell Chris anything but even then I knew that I lied. I couldn't tell him the most important thing of all - that I loved him. In fact, at first I couldn't even write that in here either.
That changed, of course. First I wrote it, then I said it and you know what? That was the wrong way round.
Maybe I'm older and wiser now and can accept the inevitable. No matter how much I love him there are always going to be things that I'm not going to tell Chris just as there are always going to be things that he is never going to tell me. He's not going to tell me how it felt to have Teresa die in his arms, or about the dark days afterwards. He'll stick to the facts if we ever discuss it, and I understand that. At some point you have to let the wounds scab over or they never heal and, contrary to what the psychiatric profession may expound, there are times when the need to talk about things passes and you just have to get on with your life.
By the same token there are things that we have to talk about, like we had to talk about Berlin. If not, then they fester - and the wound never heals cleanly, if at all. And that's when the miscommunications start. What's not said is sometimes as important as what is.
We have to talk about Newcastle - or rather he has to know. Or it will fester too and God knows I'm tired of that. We've come so far over the past few weeks, overcome so much and yet my courage falters at the last hurdle.
It's a galling thing to have to admit - a lack of courage being the reason for me not being able to tell my lover what he needs to know. Only this time it's not fear of his reaction - or not entirely. There's still that lingering fear that he'll judge me for it, find me lacking in some way as I've found myself lacking too frequently recently and I can't seem to shake that entirely, no matter what my good intentions are. Most of that 'fear', however, is because I'm not sure that I can face recalling it all again without breaking down again. I don't want to recall it again because at the moment remembering it is reliving it. I need time, and distance, between myself and the events in that warehouse before I'll be able to deal with it on a more rational basis. I dealt with Berlin, didn't I? Eventually. And eventually I'll learn to deal with this too.
Before it festers.
But in the meantime, I need to tell Chris somehow. If nothing else, it means that someone else understands what I've been through, knows the details and I'm hoping that that will stop me from feeling so alone. I want that someone to be him. I feel like I'm shutting him out and it's not a comfortable feeling because I don't want to shut him out. I want him to know and yet I don't have the courage to actually say the words.
That's kind of a reflection of the way things were at the start of our relationship. I wanted to tell him about the way I felt about him, and didn't dare.
And vice versa, I suppose.
So what do I do now? Let it fester inside me until it can't fester anymore? Until the words spill out over my lips on some hot beach in what should be paradise, tarnishing that gleam, polluting that pristine sea?
Part of me can't bear that, thinks that I should talk to him, tell him before we get there. Get it over with. I've never been one for putting off the inevitable, mainly because if nothing else life has taught me that the inevitable always rolls around when you don't want it too. Make it sooner because later is always a mistake. And in our job there may not be a later anyway.
However, it comes down to courage again.
I suppose that I shouldn't be too hard on myself. In a way this journal has been a lifesaver. It's let me record my thoughts when there was no one else to listen, or when I couldn't confide in Chris, couldn't trust him with that, or maybe it was myself I didn't trust. Helped me sort things out when everything seemed so confused. Rant and rave and rail at the unfairness of life without having to take that anger out on those around me. Some of the time.
But in a way, at some point it stopped being a tool and became somewhere to hide. A way to record all those things I was too afraid to tell anyone else until I became trapped in this spiral of recording things in here and only in here. A refuge became a prison.
And that has to stop.
I've started to talk to Chris, and the last few entries in here have, I think, reflected that. It's charted our relationship, the good and the bad. The hope at the beginning, and the despair in the middle.
And now we've come full circle again. Back to hope, and this time I intend to hold on to that hope. Not let it go, not let it tarnish.
Not let anything else get in the way.
That doesn't mean that I have a false and rosy view of the future. We'll have bad times, I know that too. Relationships are never perfect and no matter how much we love each other, and we do, there will be patches where indifference or taking things for granted will make things seem bleak. But I do think that in spite of that we'll get through them.
We've got through this, didn't we? Or the worst of it anyway. And, please God, the future, though it will have its challenges, won't have anything else like these past few weeks in store.
We deserve a break.
Rambling again. Maybe that's another thing for this device to answer for. However, as random streams of consciousness go at least this one appears to have a vague point.
My reliance on my journal instead of going out and dealing with my problems.
That's too harsh. Because when it comes down to it this journal has helped me deal with things, deal with issues and fears that I haven't been able to deal with otherwise. Has given me a refuge when I desperately needed one.
But the truth of the matter is I don't need one anymore. It's become a habit, and one I need to break. I've moved down the road a little - I hesitate to use the term 'moved on' because I think that's some way off yet. But I'm healing. And, just like I'm withdrawing from the meds I need to withdraw from this too. Get on with my life.
Does this mean that I'll never record an entry in here again? I doubt it will be that extreme. There are still things to say, probably about Chris and I. I may still need to rant at the unfairness of life occasionally, but I'm hoping that's after a case, and not related to my own life if that makes sense. But maybe it'll just become one of those things I do occasionally rather than every day or several times a day.
So I'm going to leave it behind, take each day over the next two weeks as it comes, go with the flow as Chris would say. Make memories not entries.
But before I shove this in a drawer for the next few weeks there's something else I need to do with it.
Give it to Chris to read.
It sounds easier than it is, but I've thought this through and it makes sense. I need to tell him but I can't get the words out. I managed to get them out in this though, given enough time. And there are other things he needs to know too, things not related to the Newcastle case. Things that I've written in here, things about the way events have happened in my life, the way I've felt and feel about him.
No more hiding.
It won't be easy handing it to him. I don't know if it will be easy for him to read. There's bad as well as good in here, and some of that bad revolves around him. Some of the entries don't show him in a particularly good light, especially when I've been down, unhappy, feared losing him. But I don't think that I can just hide that from him either, or that I should. It doesn't always show me in a favourable light either, but when it comes down to it we've been partners, friends longer than we've been lovers and he's already seen the bad with the good. He's seen me afraid. He's seen me angry. He's seen me at my coldest, most inhuman, as I was after Carl's death when the only thing that stopped me from becoming a cold-hearted murderer like Kensal and his lot was Chris' own humanity holding me back.
He's seen all of that, and he's still here. He's seen all of that and he's still fallen in love with me as I've fallen in love with him.
He knows I love him and I'm hoping that he'll realise that those entries in here that aren't comfortable reading relate to my fear of losing him, which was born both out of my love for him and the hell I was going through. I'm trusting him to see that.
I'm trusting him with everything. With more than my heart, because, clich?d though it may sound, I've poured my soul into here over the last ten or eleven weeks or so.
I'm trusting him with that and I know I can trust him.
No more hiding. When he comes back I'm going to hand this to him and give him the password. Tell him that there's good and bad in here and leave it up to him how much he wants to read. He can read all of it - I think he's entitled to that - but if he only wants to read the entry I made on the 5th of November then that's okay too.
His decision. I trust him to make the right one.
I know I can.
I love him, and let's face it, while I haven't always had good taste in men, or women, I know that this time I have made the right decision. To be totally pragmatic about it - when it comes down to it, I'd better have.
It's kind of a lifetime deal after all.
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Wednesday, November 14th, 2001
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Interesting lunch. Actually, that's putting it mildly. But even 'very interesting lunch' doesn't cover it.
We met Backup and Spencer in some pub not that far from Ops. Just far enough so that it wasn't full of CI5 agents wanting a quick bite to eat in between saving the world. A fact I was quite thankful for given the way that thing shaped up.
I'm not quite as paranoid as I feared after all. Just not sure whether that's a good thing or not.
Chris was excited. Hell, I can't blame him. I'm excited too. But Chris' excitement led to him telling Backup and Spencer about his plans for the next couple of weeks.
Correction. Chris told them about Malone giving him leave, to suitable expressions of jealousy from our colleagues. Backup went as far as to moan, mock-seriously, that she was at a loss as to what to do to get a holiday and wondering how Chris had managed it.
"Easy," I said. "Fall through a glass coffee table." Chris elbowed me playfully while Backup curled her lip up and said, rather superciliously, that she wasn't quite [ Error: Irreparable invalid markup ('<b.that</b>') in entry. Owner must fix manually. Raw contents below.] Interesting lunch. Actually, that's putting it mildly. But even 'very interesting lunch' doesn't cover it.
We met Backup and Spencer in some pub not that far from Ops. Just far enough so that it wasn't full of CI5 agents wanting a quick bite to eat in between saving the world. A fact I was quite thankful for given the way that thing shaped up.
I'm not quite as paranoid as I feared after all. Just not sure whether that's a good thing or not.
Chris was excited. Hell, I can't blame him. <b>I'm</b> excited too. But Chris' excitement led to him telling Backup and Spencer about his plans for the next couple of weeks.
Correction. Chris told them about Malone giving him leave, to suitable expressions of jealousy from our colleagues. Backup went as far as to moan, mock-seriously, that she was at a loss as to what to do to get a holiday and wondering how Chris had managed it.
"Easy," I said. "Fall through a glass coffee table." Chris elbowed me playfully while Backup curled her lip up and said, rather superciliously, that she wasn't quite <b.that</b> desperate for a break.
And then she started asking Chris about his vacation plans, reasonably enough. And Chris was enthusing about pristine sandy white beaches and warm sea and hot sun when she suddenly turned to me and smiled, saying to Chris, "And what's Sam going to do while you're living it up in paradise, Chris?"
I don't think she meant it nastily, implying that he was abandoning me - hell, I'm sure she didn't. And I'm pretty sure that it hadn't occurred to her that I was going with him. No, actually I'm not sure of that at all. All I know is that I froze, my mind going blank.
I think Chris was in a similar situation because he went suspiciously silent too. I watched as she glanced between us, and the light slowly dawned. Her eyes widened and her mouth formed a quiet 'oh'. And I could feel my face start to burn.
Back to being a twelve year old obviously, blushing in public like that. Chris gave me hell for it afterwards. He thought it was hilarious, seeing his cool, reserved partner going beetroot in the middle of a pub.
Backup didn't say anything, not then. Just went very quiet as the conversation moved on to other things. She kept glancing at us, though, her expression thoughtful.
It made me feel distinctly uncomfortable.
Spencer didn't seem to notice however, just got up to get another round of drinks in while Backup continued to watch the pair of us and I shuffled in my seat nervously. And then, when he came back, he continued to ply Chris with more questions about his holiday plans, and no amount of wriggling from Chris seemed to put him off. Eventually, Chris clammed up and Spencer, still on good form, turned to me with a smile and asked what my plans were, adding that he'd be more than happy to go out for a drink while Chris was away and while things were quiet in Ops if I'd like.
I spotted Backup watching me again, and this time she was smiling at our obvious discomfort, her expression saying clearly, 'Go on. Get out of this one then.'
Fuck it, I thought. "I won't be here either, Spencer."
"Oh," he asked, still innocent. "Where are you off to then? Anywhere as exciting as Chris?"
Throwing caution to the wind, I reached over to take hold of Chris' hand. "I'm going <b>with</b> Chris," I said.
You could have heard a pin drop as Spencer stared at us open-mouthed, and I don't think that Chris was any better, not after I'd just outed us like that, and then the silence was broken by a triumphant whoop from Backup.
"I <b>knew</b> it!" she squealed.
"Knew what?" asked Spencer, completely bemused, obviously wondering both what Backup was on and why I was sitting opposite him, holding my partner's hand.
Backup ignored him and started to ply us with questions. How long had it been going on? Why hadn't we mentioned anything earlier? I felt like responding with one of my own. When did we appoint her keeper of our love lives?
I finally shut her up by telling her that Chris and I had been dating for less time than she and Spencer and reminding her that that was just before I was snatched. I've noticed that a reminder of that little period of time shuts most people up.
Spencer was doing his goldfish impression again, and then he asked, "So... you and Chris are a... couple?"
Quick off the mark, isn't he? I had to field that question too, because by that time Chris was quietly laughing himself to death next to me, drawing more than one curious look from the patrons of the bar we were in as tears of mirth streamed down his face.
It wasn't <b>that</b> funny. And it could have been a lot worse. Backup and Spencer could have reacted badly to our little revelation. Backup, however, seemed to be satisfied that we'd vindicated her suspicions and Spencer... If I didn't know better, Spencer seemed to be a bit more relieved than anything else, although I think bemusement also featured quite heavily. Don't know why he'd be relieved, unless he thought that one of us was planning on nicking his girlfriend.
Fat chance. I know what I've got. I've got what I want - Chris.
After we'd finally extracted ourselves from Backup and Spencer, Chris insisted that we follow that little scene with a visit to the supermarket for 'essentials' - sun cream, toiletries, insect repellent, new swimming costumes, that kind of thing. Strangely enough, he was quite insistent that I needed a new swimming costume and the one he thought I <b>really</b> needed was rather skimpy.
I went for my usual short like ones, much to his disappointment. At least to his disappointment until I pointed out I'd only be wearing them when other people were around. And then I made his day by sending him to the pharmacy aisle and telling him to stock up on the <b>other</b> essentials. And then glancing into his basket and telling him calmly that I didn't think a packet of twelve condoms was going to do.
We were going for fourteen days after all.
I think, however, that three packets might have been overly optimistic. Just a bit.
He was in his element, throwing chocolate and popcorn into the basket too, although I tried to draw the line at the DVD player.
"It's cheap," he said.
"Then it will be crap," I said.
"Then I'll get a more expensive one," he said.
"What do you want it for?" I finally asked. "I thought you had one?"
He pointed out that this was for me, or rather my place, so we could watch the DVDs he'd bought me.
"I can play them on the laptop," I protested. He shut me up by pointing out that he wanted to watch them tonight, curled up on the couch together, and that the only thing he wanted in my lap was <b>him</b>.
I am now the owner of a new DVD player. You know, he just doesn't play fair.
He's in the kitchen at the moment, making popcorn before we start watching the Terminator. Thank God I have a microwave already, that's all I can say. Or I'd probably have a new one of those too. |
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| Time: | 11:42 am. |
| Mood: | ecstatic. |
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YES!
I can go on holiday!
I talked to the doctor. No problem with continuing to reduce my meds as long as I'm 'sensible'. In fact, he thinks that the idea of a holiday is a good one, give me a break, and since it's been almost a week already since I started to cut down with no side effects ("There were no side effects, right, Mr Curtis?" "Oh no, doctor. None at all.") then it shouldn't post any problem at all.
Sun, sea, sand and sex, here I come!
And Chris is now gesturing frantically towards the door, not wanting us to be late to meet with Backup and Spence. That makes a change - him hurrying me somewhere.
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Chris is still trying to tie up some loose ends, and I'm killing time waiting for him to do it. Apparently Backup called last this morning to see how we both were while I was in the shower. I don't know how she knew that Chris was going to be here, but it was both of us she was after. Chris answered the phone and said that she suggested that if we weren't doing anything that we all meet up for lunch - all being Chris and me and Backup and Spencer.
It sounded a hell of a lot like a double date to me. I don't know what Chris thought about it but he didn't comment, just told me what she'd said about Ops, how apparently it's quietened down now that the Gentern case is out of the way and there's air of slightly self-satisfied triumph hanging over it.
I knew exactly what she meant - I've seen it before. Whenever a case goes really well it sort of puts a bounce in everyone's step, everyone shares in the glory, which I suppose is only fair because it is a team effort. And in this case it is a good result for CI5. Not only did we recover the stolen items and bring the culprits to book, but we also did it right under the noses of both MI6 and the police. Chris isn't the only one who finds them difficult to deal with - he's just more upfront about it. There's very little that's friendly about our rivalry.
Anyway, we're going out to lunch. To be honest, I was selfish enough to want Chris to myself for a bit longer and felt a little ashamed at that feeling. After all, in two days time I'm going to get him to myself for two weeks, even if that's nothing that Backup needs to know.
Unless she already knows? It's possible, I suppose. Chris and I are supposed to leave contact numbers when we go away, in case we need to be called back urgently, and maybe she's curious about why he's going to the Caribbean. If he's already registered where he's going? I haven't yet. Have to call the doctor - I called this morning, hoping to catch him before surgery started and was told to call back around 11.30 when surgery is due to finish.
Nah, I'm getting paranoid again.
I had to tell Chris about withdrawing from my meds last night, which almost led to another argument. He, of course, wanted to know why I hadn't told him. I tried to explain that I hadn't kept it from him deliberately but at first I don't think he bought my 'sorry, I forgot' explanation.
That's the point where we got perilously close to arguing. We've argued on and off over the course of our partnership but since we've become lovers it's taken on a new dimension, making it more difficult to move past, the harsh words hitting their target more accurately. Because we care more now, I would guess. Because we've shown each other facets and vulnerabilities that we've kept hidden up until now. This time, however, it wasn't quite as... traumatic as it has been in the past. I think we both stopped short of going that additional step, of lashing out at each other.
In my case I think it's because I feel more secure about the whole relationship, not as fearful, and because I don't have the fear driving me onwards I can take a step back. As for Chris, I don't know what he thinks about it. I don't know whether he had that same fear I did, of losing me as I feared losing him, but I do know that over the past few weeks, months even, he's had to learn to control his temper perhaps slightly better than he has in the past, both in dealing with Daniels and in dealing with me. Maybe it's a long-term development.
He held his temper last night, thankfully, because had he lost his I doubt that I could have held on to mine. I felt, for a brief time, that I was on the ropes again and I don't like feeling trapped like that. I had to try and explain to him that it wasn't that I was deliberately keeping him in the dark, deciding what facts to trickle out to him and what to hold close to my chest. It's simply, I explained, that my life has been so shitty at the moment how am I supposed to differentiate between every single little shitty thing that goes wrong and remember to tell him about them.
No sooner did I find out about having to wean myself off these tablets than the whole business about Berlin hit. No to mention having to deal with all the other crap. So, it wasn't even that I didn't want to worry him when he was that far away - it was just I was struggling with so many other things that I didn't think to, strange as that sounds.
He frowned as I tried to explain, and I still don't know whether I got through to him, but the reminder of how far away he was, possibly coupled with that being the reason why he hadn't told me about Daniels, although I didn't remind him about that, seemed to do the trick.
We stopped arguing anyway, and instead of having another go at me he ran his fingers tiredly through his hair and apologised, once again, for not being there when I needed him.
That irritated me slightly, and that irritation made my voice a little sharper than it would have been otherwise as I reminded him that I'd coped and that he'd had a job to do. It was on the tip of my tongue to also remind him that I don't need wrapping in cotton wool.
I didn't need to. He sighed again and admitted that I was right. Damn straight I was. But then he went for the jugular, in the manner of speaking. He straightened up and looked me straight in the eye and said, "Well, I'm here now and I'm not going anywhere. So, where do you want to start?"
"Start?" I asked, having a horrible suspicion that I knew what he was talking about.
"Telling me about the recent shittyness of your life."
I still tried stalling. "Chris," I said, "you can't think I mean you? You know that you're the best thing to happen to me in a long time -"
"Sam," he said firmly, "I know that. And you're changing the subject. Just tell me, buddy."
So I did, eventually. Told him about what happened in Berlin three years ago, about Gilbert, about Wendy and Ian, all of it. He didn't say anything as the words came stumbling out, just watched me with warm and sympathetic eyes and, when it got particularly hard, reached out and took hold of my hand, much like he did that first time after Gilbert came blasting back into my life.
In spite of the courage that simple touch gave me I couldn't, however, bring myself to tell him of the events of six weeks ago. Not yet. And I think he understood that. It will come, we both know it.
In time. And time is something that at long last we do have.
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Tuesday, November 13th, 2001
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Shit. Just when I thought that Chris couldn't surprise me anymore.
First class tickets to a tropical paradise.
Jesus.
I didn't know what to say. I still don't. My first reaction was utter disbelief as a huge surge of warmth flooded me.
Chris had done this. For me. Wanted to take me somewhere so utterly perfect and dreamily romantic.
My second reaction was considerably more anal. Like, 'How am I going to pay for this?' Followed closely by, 'But if he pays for it, doesn't that make me a kept man?' And, 'Don't want to set a precedent.'
Arsehole. Me, not him.
It was the most perfect present anyone has ever given me. And all I could do was accept it as graciously as possible and hope that my first reaction was so overwhelmingly positive that he missed the second and took my stammering of 'but you shouldn't have... I mean...' as simply me being overwhelmed rather than being anal again.
We fly out on Friday, apparently. More jetlag for Chris but he says he doesn't care since his body clock is fucked anyway and he intends to spend most of the fortnight in bed anyway.
Or asleep naked on the beach. No risk of tan lines, he said innocently while all I could think was golden skin on white sand.
Cold shower time again.
Secluded villas, it says. Private beaches. Luxurious.
What did I do to deserve him? To deserve this?
He told me not to worry about the money, and seeing the look of sheer happiness on his face at the thought that he'd made me happy, or had a chance of making me happy meant that I couldn't push it, even if I worry about the money privately.
But man, we're talking once in a lifetime here.
Shit. That means I need to talk to the doc. Make sure that there are no problems with my meds if... when we go.
The Caribbean. Two weeks in paradise, with Chris.
He's still bouncing about it. Think I'll go and join him.
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It's strange, isn't it, how simply talking can be more exhausting than any amount of physical exercise? Strange how draining it can be.
That's the way I feel - drained. More accurate than exhausted, I think. Just... empty. Tired, yes, but mostly like I've been wrung out and hung up to dry, just for a change. I'm hoping that this is the end of it, the lowest point before I bounce back. That there are no more nasty little revelations lurking around the next corner.
I'm tired of nasty little revelations too.
I had no idea of what to say to Sarah when we met, no idea of how to broach the subject. But Sarah, being Sarah, didn't beat around the bush. When she turned up in the park, moving over to where I was standing, staring at the ducks on the lake and trying not to think about anything too hard, she was already in 'impatient' mode, the tentative rapport we'd finally created between us last time evaporating like so much sea mist.
"Well?" she said, impatiently. "What do you want, Curtis?"
I suggested we go and find some quiet restaurant to talk in, mainly because it was bloody freezing and I had no desire to end up doing a brass monkey impression. She didn't like that idea very much but I persisted, coming perilously close to simply walking away from there and leaving the whole sorry mess behind me. God knows why I didn't.
Maybe because I need a sense of 'closure' as much as she obviously does. And, since it's unlikely that Gilbert will ever face charges about what he did in Berlin, telling Sarah, sharing that with Sarah is about the closest I think I'm going to get.
In the end, I did what I did on the phone - told her bluntly that I wasn't after anything but had some information that she might want and, to be perfectly honest, by now it was a matter of supreme indifference to me whether she got it or not. Not strictly true, although by that time I was so fed up with her attempt to headfuck with me that it was close enough.
I would have walked away without a second glance. More aggro is not something I need at the moment.
It worked, of course. If there's one thing that people who thrive within MI6 hate it's being considered trivial in the overall scheme of things. And running a close second to that is not knowing a secret that someone else does. I don't know which of those factors weighed more heavily, but Sarah finally gave in with a distinct lack of grace and rather sullenly followed me to the nearest bistro.
And I, rather pettily, chose somewhere downmarket. Not a dive, and the food was appetising enough I suppose, but let's just say that it wasn't as posh as she, and I to a certain extent, are no doubt used to.
Although I'd rather lost my appetite at that point. At least the coffee was drinkable.
As soon as we were ushered to our table and the waiter bustled over I ordered a whiskey. Sarah pursed her lips disapprovingly and I pointed out that it wasn't for me. It was for her.
"You'll need it," I informed her.
And then I told her.
She sat there for a moment, staring into space, and when the whiskey arrived and I pushed it into her hand she didn't object. Her fingers tightened around it but she just sat there, frozen.
I think I understand how she felt.
Finally she looked at me and her eyes were old. "When did you find out?" she asked quietly.
"Thursday," I told her, and she mulled over that for a while. I don't know what she expected, whether she thought I should have run straight to her and told her, but, hell, until recently we hadn't spoken for three years.
Finally I decided that there were some other facts that needed laying on the table too. Out in the open as it were.
"You do understand," I said carefully, staring down into my own glass of water, "that Gilbert isn't going to pay for this. At least not officially."
She's a realist, and had probably already figured that much out herself but I think hearing it spoken out loud must have hit her hard. She didn't say anything for a while and we sat there in an awkward silence until they came to take the order for the food. She hadn't wanted any, but I pointed out to her gently that it probably wasn't a good idea to drink on an empty stomach.
She glanced down at her nearly empty glass, her face still expressionless, but didn't comment further and didn't protest when they placed the food down in front of her. I'd gone for simple. I didn't think that I could face anything more exotic, not when I knew that every mouthful was going to choke me anyway. I kind of figured that she'd feel the same way.
"Does it make it better?" she asked suddenly. "Knowing the reason now?"
She finally looked up from her contemplation of her whiskey glass and her eyes bored into me.
"No," I said. "It doesn't make any fucking difference whatsoever, because it wasn't a reason. In fact..."
I trailed off, finally thinking about the topic I'd avoided for the past few days. No, it didn't make it better, but did it make it worse? I had a reason now, but that reason involved betrayal and treachery and a callousness that even now my mind shies away from.
"No," I said. "It makes it worse."
She dropped her gaze then, as though she'd seen something in my face that made her deeply uncomfortable. Maybe it had finally hit home to her just what it was like. When I'd told her she'd been more concerned with the details, the minutiae if you like, although my mind balks at using that word for any of what I, what we went through. She was considerably less concerned about the... emotional impact I suppose. Why I'd lived when they hadn't, not how I felt watching my friends murdered in front of me, how I'd coped with the survivor guilt, with the fallout from my own torture.
Maybe that's because you can't grasp that concept unless you've lived through it, or maybe she just felt on safer ground asking about the facts rather than the more nebulous stuff around it. Or maybe, at the end of the day, she's focused on the same thing I have the last few days to get through it.
The thought of revenge, for somewhere to lay the blame.
I suppose at least I know where to place that now. We both do. In the past I think she's laid the blame on me, maybe because I lived and they didn't. I think that to a certain extent I have too. There were certainly others within MI6 who found that easier to do too, rather than think about it in any great depth. A knee-jerk reaction to find a scapegoat.
Does the fact that this time they've caught the lion instead of the goat make any difference?
To anyone but Sarah and I, probably not. They'll shrug their shoulders and say it was a long time ago. Ian and Wendy are long dead; Gilbert and I are no longer in MI6's employ. Big deal, right?
The trouble with bitterness is that it's so bloody hard to let go of. And if you can't let go of it then the only person it hurts is you. Or the people around you, the ones you care about, the ones you love but can't help but hurt when you're trapped in your bitterness and pain.
Like me hurting Chris.
So, the answer is no, it honestly doesn't make it better knowing all the facts now. Wendy and Ian are dead because of Gilbert's paranoia, and yet, strangely enough, I'm still alive because the selfsame paranoia. They kept one person alive to find out whom else we'd told. Because we were the Three Musketeers, right? One for all and all that crap. So what one of us knew, all of us knew.
His arrogance, certainty that he could cover his own back and hold up any rescue attempt is the reason that they had the opportunity to ask me those questions, or rather attempt to beat the answers out of me. If Carl hadn't looked, ignored Gilbert's halfhearted attempts to claim he had the situation under control, then I'd be dead like them too.
And the irony of the fact that I had no fucking idea what they were talking about at the time, that we weren't a threat at all then but that now it's brought Gilbert down would be killing me if the memories already weren't.
I tried to explain that to Sarah. I think this time she may have grasped it. Maybe I'm being overly optimistic. Maybe I've just stopped caring what she thinks.
She went back to work in a more subdued mood, after drinking a couple more whiskeys and sticking me with the bill. I've stuck to coffee. I don't know what the owner thinks, as I sit here and write in this. I could go home, but Chris is there, working, and I have no desire to disturb him. The quicker he gets it over with, the quicker he can get to play, right?
And the quicker I get to curl up with him on the couch and let the feel of him holding me fill all of those empty places inside.
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Just noticed the date. Should I be glad it's not Friday?
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Chris asked me this morning, while he eyed the folders he'd abandoned on my coffee table yesterday on his return from Ops with an ill disguised lack of enthusiasm, what my plans were for today.
I told him I had nothing on except for meeting Sarah for lunch.
"Sarah?" he asked. "Should I be worried?"
I don't know whether he was joking or not so I threw a cushion at his head and jogged his memory while he ducked, laughing.
"Sarah," I said. "My ex-colleague from MI6, the one I got all that useful information from about Psad and Gilbert that had Malone hauling your scrawny backside back from the States to look at."
He gave me a mock offended look at that, pointing out that I hadn't said anything about his ass being scrawny last night, and then, with a cheeky grin, asking me again if there was anything he should be worried about.
"Hmph," I said. "If your recall of last night's events is so perfect you'll remember that it wasn't *Sarah's* name I was screaming."
That got him laughing even harder. "You were screaming?" he asked innocently when he'd got himself under control again. "It was kinda hard to tell, Sammy, what with your legs being wrapped around my ears and all."
I told him he was an arsehole, grinning widely myself, and that set him off again with some comments about my 'ass' that I'm colouring about now just thinking about.
The boy has a dirty mouth, there's no doubt about that. And a talented one.
I think I really was screaming at one point.
I've missed this - and I'm not talking about the sex, although as far as that goes, what was it Chris said? 'Whoa, momma'? That kind of sums it up. No, I've missed fooling around with him, even if that fooling around doesn't end up with us getting sweaty and naked. Just throwing mock insults at one another, engaging in that semi-macho horseplay that has Backup rolling her eyes genteelly whenever she catches us at it.
I've missed that a lot.
I'm glad we've got it back.
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Monday, November 12th, 2001
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Chris phoned. Everything, he said, was 'fine'. I was right, apparently. He didn't say any more than that, and I could hear the bustle of Ops in the background so I didn't push.
I didn't actually need to know more than that anyway. The rest can wait until he gets home.
Home.
I like the sound of that - Chris coming home to me.
He sounded bouncy. Very bouncy. Like he's in a really, really good mood and wants to celebrate.
I'm getting turned on already just thinking about it.
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After a great deal of thinking about it, in between watching Chris sleep and trying not to relive events of the past, I've come to the conclusion that I'm not the only one who needs closure, who needs answers. Actually, there are probably a lot of people who need closure - Wendy and Ian's families, who, I believe, were told they died in a car crash for one.
Is there any point in raking up that past? Probably not. What good would it do?
But I can think of one person who only knows part of the story and who deserves to know more.
I called Sarah.
I asked her to meet me tomorrow, that I had something to tell her that I wanted to discuss face to face and not over the phone. She hummed and ha-ed and in the end I found myself losing some patience with her, with the games that MI6 have driven her to play.
The games that she seems unable to leave behind.
I told her that it was up to her whether she wanted to see me or not, that I, frankly, couldn't care one way or the other. Just that I'd come into some information that I thought she ought to know.
There was a slight hesitation, and then she agreed to meet me at 'the same place we talked last time'. No names, no directions.
Don't you just love MI6 bred paranoia?
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When I'd finished with Karen - and I'm actually finished with Karen permanently now - and left the hospital grounds, I switched my new mobile phone back on to discover that Chris had left a message. It's kind of hard to judge someone's mood when all they do is leave a small, cryptic message on your voicemail - it's too crackly to pick up on any nuances. I couldn't tell whether he was phoning because it was good news or bad news.
So I phoned him back and got his voicemail. Talk about frustration.
I'm trying to convince myself that what I told Chris this morning is what's going to happen. That logic will hold sway and that Malone doesn't have any nasty little homophobic tripwires hidden in his psyche. That if Daniels has spilled his guts then Malone decides that CI5 is better served by having us in it rather than thrown out on our ears. Trouble is that after all of these recent revelations optimism is kind of hard to hold onto.
And I'm beginning to think that holding onto Chris isn't fair - to either of us.
No, I need to be clearer than that. I'm beginning to think that relying... no, not that either. Relying on Chris isn't the problem - when he can rely on me too. Forcing Chris to be the strong one, the reliable one isn't fair. Forcing him to be optimistic when I'm not, cool when I can't and it's not his nature either - that isn't fair.
Great. I start off wondering what the fallout will be if Daniels spills and end up angsting about whether I'm good enough for Chris. Bloody typical.
I'm just going to have to wait until he returns my call. But first I have another call to make.
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Physio was... ugh. As per usual. Actually, that's not strictly true. It wasn't quite as bad as usual. Not pleasant - it's never pleasant - but I can move and it's discomfort rather than outright pain.
Some good news though. She's reducing the frequency of my appointments. Now I only get tortured twice a week. Yay! Thing's are looking up.
Karen's next. May the good times roll.
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I was half expecting Chris to wake me up in the early hours of this morning, wanting a repetition of yesterday's love making. Half anticipating, half hoping I'd get some sleep. Wasn't sure whether to be disappointed he didn't or thankful that I finally got some rest.
He woke up, I know that much. Don't know what time it was but it was dark and I couldn't hear much traffic outside so it must have been early. Jetlag's a bitch. All I remember was rolling over as he got up, obviously startled into at least temporary consciousness by him moving, and his soothing voice telling me that everything was all right, he just couldn't sleep. I don't remember exactly what he said but it doesn't matter. The words weren't important. The tone was; soft and low and loving.
I rolled back over and went straight back to sleep.
It was still early when I woke up again, sometime after six I think, and Chris was still up, looking tired and drawn but immeasurably better than when I picked him up from the airport yesterday. He gave me a wide grin when I finally made my way into the kitchen, yawning heavily and rubbing my eyes, making a crack about Sleeping Beauty.
I snorted and eyed the large cup of coffee he was clutching enviously, making piteous little sighing sounds until he finally got the hint and got up to make me one too.
We sat there in companionable silence for a while, both of us topping up our caffeine quotient while his knee pressed against mine and I just felt happier than I have for a while. When the coffee went some way towards waking me up, we started talking, about nothing in particular - the way the raid went, how physio was going, his jetlag. His body clock, he admitted with a grimace, is completely screwed up. Even though by that time it was the early hours in the US he couldn't sleep. Wanted to, couldn't. Although, he added with another grin, he wouldn't at all protest to not sleeping if he was woken up for sex like we'd had yesterday.
I just snorted, refusing to give him the satisfaction of rising to the bait even though the reminder had got my heart beating a little faster and my boxers fitting a little more snugly. He knew exactly what effect it had on me, of course, and judging by the way he shifted uncomfortably in his seat I wasn't the only one sporting a hard-on.
Finally, to change the subject to something less physically affecting I asked him what time he was due to see Malone, not wanting him to be late.
He grimaced again and told me, his voice sounding more subdued. Thankfully I picked up on it immediately and for once I wasn't about to let it slide. Maybe I was still subconsciously worrying about the fallout from his hitting Daniels.
"Problem?" I asked casually.
He denied that there was, just saying that no one in their right mind would look forward to a meeting with our boss. Something, however, still triggered those alarm bells. I may have misread the situation between us over the past few weeks, but in a professional capacity I can still read him.
He was worried about something, and the fact that he wouldn't share it with me irritated me.
"Uh huh," I said evenly. "Everything's just fine, right?"
Although I thought that I'd managed to keep my voice calm and pleasant there must have been something that tipped him off that everything wasn't as it seemed because he gave me this little sideways, nervous look.
"Right," he said, less than convincingly.
I stared down into my coffee and took a deep breath, trying to make sure that my next words were framed as non-confrontationally as possible. I was irritated but the surest way to annoy Chris was to go in, guns blazing. At the very least it would give him an excuse for not telling me what was bothering him.
"Chris," I began slowly, "do you remember how you keep asking me how if I'm okay?"
He was trapped and he knew it, knew what was coming next and couldn't avoid it. I looked up and saw that realisation dawn in his eyes even as he answered me warily.
"Uh huh."
"And I keep telling you I'm fine?"
"Uh huh."
"And you don't believe me and keep pushing?"
This time he didn't say 'uh huh', just kept silent and watched me, trying to figure out a way to wriggle out of this gracefully.
He ran out of time as I went in for the kill.
"So tell me why the hell I should tell you anything when this 'sharing' is obviously a one way street?"
He shifted uncomfortably on his seat and this time it was nothing to do with me turning him on.
"That's different."
"Why?" I asked mercilessly.
He sighed and avoided my eyes. "Listen, Sam, you've got a lot on your plate and I don't want to worry you - "
I cut him off there. "So basically you're telling me that I'm too weak or too pathetic for you to share your problems with?"
I don't know whether it was my cool tone or the words themselves that grabbed his attention but all of a sudden he wasn't avoiding my eyes anymore. He was staring at me, wide-eyed and open-mouthed.
"Right?" I asked, pushing on doggedly.
He started to protest, insisting that that wasn't it, of course he didn't think that, how could I think he thought that while I sat back and waited for it to sink in.
It finally did, his words trailing off as he stared at me miserably.
"So," I said eventually, "are you in any trouble for hitting Daniels?"
He finally caved, as I knew he would once I'd hammered a few facts into his thick head. Admitted that what he'd told me at the airport was true - Malone wasn't bothered about him hitting Daniels under the circumstances, pretty much considering it justified. There was more, though, I could tell from the way he hesitated and gave me another unhappy look.
"But?" I prompted, more gently this time. I'd already won and I knew it, and so did he. There was no point in rubbing it in, not that I would want to make it any more difficult for him than it was going to be.
He sighed, and finally spilled. Daniels had sold CI5 out. And who had brought Daniels into a CI5 operation?
"Malone," I said promptly.
He gaped at me. "Sam, I don't think you realise - "
I didn't give him time to start dwelling on it again. "You asked Daniels for information. That's all. And he provided it. That's all. *Malone* was the one who decided his involvement should be more than that. Right?"
He was forced to admit that it was, but -
"But nothing," I overruled him. "Malone is keen enough to kick our backsides when we screw up, do you think he'd be any less hard on himself? He's a complete bastard, we both know it, but he doesn't start allocating blame where it's not due."
He appeared to give that some thought, chewing on his lower lip in a way that had me fighting not to get distracted. "He asked me what I thought of Daniels' capabilities," he finally said thoughtfully.
"What did you say?"
He sighed again. "I was honest - told him that Daniels wasn't as skilled as a CI5 operative."
"Well, there you go," I said, trying to sound jovial and put it behind us.
"He lost Psad."
I think it was my turn to hesitate, wondering what he meant and so, seeing my confusion, he elaborated for me. "Daniels. The first time Psad met with Meath, Rob was driving and he lost them."
"But you found them again, right?"
He blinked.
"You must have done, Chris. You had the surveillance pics, found the building Meath's company was based in, right?"
Yes, he admitted. He'd taken over driving once he realised that Rob obviously wasn't up to the task.
"And you figured out Rob was selling us out and stopped him? And caught Psad and retrieved the plans and prototype? Right?"
He chuckled for a moment, admitting that yes, he'd done all of that too.
"You're not superhuman, Chris, and as much as we feel that Malone sometimes thinks we ought to be I don't think he's going to see this as your fault."
He nodded thoughtfully, looking more cheerful than he had all morning. And then his mood seemed to darken again.
"What?" I asked, steeling myself for another revelation. I wasn't disappointed.
"Rob... he said some things."
"What things?"
And then he told me about Rob's blackmail attempt.
My mind was whirring, trying to figure out angles, worst-case scenarios while he sat there, looking miserable.
The first thing was to attempt to quantify the threat. "Will he tell Malone?"
Chris shook his head. "I don't know. I don't think so. I think he'll keep it to himself." Frankly, I doubted that but then my opinion of Daniels is hardly high. And I hated the man even more after I'd heard Chris' next hesitant confession.
"He said he hadn't stopped loving me, so... I don't think he'll say anything."
Bastard. He's still manipulating Chris.
I tried to approach it rationally, tackle it like any other problem, although as far as I was concerned there was at least one possible outcome I didn't want to consider - Malone splitting us up.
I started to think aloud. "He may tell Malone, and Malone may not believe him. And if he does... well, as I said we knew that sooner or later he'd find out. I was just hoping that it was later and that we could tell him."
He sort of nodded, although whether that was to indicate that he agreed with me or just that he was following my train of thought I couldn't tell.
"What if Malone asks me about it?"
"Don't lie," I said straight away. "Don't volunteer anything, but don't lie and don't hedge."
He looked startled at my abruptness and I sighed. "Listen, if Malone wants to know he'll ask, straight out. If Rob has talked and Malone hasn't asked straight out, it's because he doesn't want to know. And if Rob hasn't talked..."
"Then don't tell Malone because there's no need to," he completed thoughtfully and I nodded.
"At least not yet," I caveated. "And if Rob has talked, well, it isn't a complete write off." He looked doubtful. "Put it this way - he tried to blackmail you, and he's still behind bars. You didn't let yourself get blackmailed and you still did what you needed to do. So, that removes the main threat that Malone would be concerned about."
He cocked his eyebrow at me appreciatively. "So that means we're unlikely to be kicked out on our asses."
I nodded, wondering whether to bring up the other matter. I'd decided not, but Chris was too far ahead of me. He was watching my face carefully and I'd obviously given something else away. "And?" he asked.
I couldn't hedge - not after my little speech about sharing. "That doesn't mean he'll let us stay partnered together."
I watched as that sunk in. "Oh," he said, his voice subdued.
"That doesn't mean he'll automatically split us up," I said hastily, wanting to take that look off his face. He nodded but I could see that he wasn't convinced.
"So what do we do?"
"Today?" I asked. He just looked at me. "You answer the questions Malone asks honestly. And as for the future, well, we just have to do the best job we can do so that when the day comes for us to tell him we can demonstrate that it hasn't adversely affected our partnership. That we've behaved like professionals throughout."
He nodded again. "Just take each day as it comes, eh, Sammy?" he said softly.
"Yeah, babe," I said. "Just that."
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Sunday, November 11th, 2001
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I haven't been able to get to sleep. Even lying next to Chris hasn't helped.
He's still dead to the world and me? I'm tense. Wound up. Every time I close my eyes I see Gilbert or Wendy or Ian. Or I'm back in that warehouse, lying there pinned and helpless.
Or Chris is bleeding to death, Daniels standing over him with a triumphant smile.
I don't even have to be asleep - my own imagination is conjuring up these horrors in my waking mind.
I've tried pacing, thankful that my leg's eased since physio on Friday, although I have to say that the session didn't cripple or incapacitate me for once. Even pacing, however, isn't helping.
It's just making me feel more frustrated, more... trapped and unsettled and wound up.
I've tried reading, lying quietly on the bed next to Chris but I can't concentrate.
I keep looking at him, watching him, and even that isn't easing my restlessness.
I don't know what I want. No, I do. I want Chris. I want to lose myself in him, forget for a little while that there's a world outside of the two of us, a world of frustration and pain, of death and betrayal. I want to pretend that there's just the two of us, loving and safe and nothing can touch us.
Just for a little while.
But that would mean waking Chris up, and I'd feel like a heel doing that when he so desperately needs his rest. Which is why I'm writing in here instead - to resist the urge to wake him.
He's just stirred, shifting against the mattress and sighing lightly in his sleep and, oh God, I just want him to wake up so I can hold him, have him hold me, fuck his brains out or vice versa.
I just want to forget for a while.
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I woke Chris up.
I didn't do it straight away. I lay there watching him sleep, listening to the low murmurs he let out as he twitched and dreamt. And then, before I could regret it, I went into the bathroom. Made some preparations for what I wanted. Slid my fingers deep within my own body, aching for him, wanting his fingers there, him deep inside me but not willing to delay it anymore, not wanting to wait.
And then I went and woke him up.
Kissed him, like Sleeping Beauty I suppose, only as far as I know that kiss was chaste. This wasn't. It was hard and full of hunger. I slid my tongue into his mouth as he parted his lips with a soft sigh, pulling back to watch as he opened his eyes, sleepy and dazed.
It took him a moment to realise where he was, clad only in his boxer shorts in my bed, and yet another moment to realise that I was hovering above him, my lips mere inches from his, my body heat radiating off me, scorching him as I rested my weight on my hands beside his head.
He smiled. Reached for me. Found me.
He pulled me down into another kiss, and this time his tongue slid past my lips, slowly and sensuously exploring my mouth. Sensuous I could deal with. Slow I didn't want.
I deepened it, letting my hunger through again, lowering myself to rest on his body, avoiding touching his sore arm. He felt me, could feel my need for him and his arms came up around me, his hands sliding down my bare back.
Down to my bare arse.
That woke him up, his own hunger spiking to match my own, his tongue now driving in and out of my mouth and that was what I needed. I rocked against him, rubbing my hardness against the hardness that now greeted me through the soft, clinging cotton of his boxers.
I wanted more. I wanted everything. I released his mouth, placing kisses over his firm chin, feeling the stubble scraping against my lips as I moved down to his neck, savouring the sharp tang of his sweat on my tongue, rolling the taste of him around my mouth as I moved further southwards.
I traced the outline of each of the bruises on his chest, kissing them gently as though I could kiss them away. I can't, of course, no matter how much I might wish to. Like he no doubt wishes that he could kiss away each and every one of my scars.
Although we'd been apart for days, which felt like weeks, I was too impatient to want to spend much time on foreplay. Just enough to stoke his hunger, which appeared to be rising as rapidly as mine. Just enough to make him ache for me the way I ached for him. No teasing. No patience for teasing.
Too hungry.
I took his burgeoning cock into my mouth, feeling it swell and harden under my ministrations. He moaned my name, his hands coming up to tangle in my hair, his hips bucking as I took more and more of him into my throat, swallowing around him.
I wanted him hard. Needed him hard for what came next.
He moaned again, my name falling from his lips like a plea, like a prayer and I couldn't wait any more. I let his length slide from my lips, looking up to catch his eyes with mine and, never breaking our gaze, I moved up his body again, to straddle him. I think he knew then what I was intending, and his eyes widened, his hands coming up to stroke over my thighs even as my hands reached under the pillow for the condoms and lubricant I'd stashed there while he still dreamed. About me, hopefully.
It didn't take long to roll the condom over him and slick him up for what came next, and then I reached behind me, holding him firmly as I lowered myself slowly, taking him into me.
He let out a gasp, and I relished it. Relished the power that I had, I suppose, that I could bring him so much pleasure from such a simple act. I felt the head of his cock press against me and pushed back, hard, feeling it breach me, slide in and oh God that was what I needed. What I craved.
I lowered myself slowly and steadily while he panted beneath me, his eyes dazed and his fingertips digging into the flesh of my thighs. Soft words were spilling from his lips, my name mixed in with endearments - oh baby, oh yes, oh god yes Sam - but I ignored them, focusing on my own pleasure and by extension his.
Feeling him deep within me, deeper than he'd ever been as my backside came to rest on his thighs, was indescribable. I could never tire of that sensation, could spend the rest of my life quite happily with him inside me but some instinct, some primal impulse older than time and stronger than I, got me moving, up and down, feeling him slide in and out of me as I did so.
That was better. Feeling the burn as his girth stretched me, feeling those sharp spikes of sensation as he brushed past my prostrate as he moved within me, hearing the sounds of pleasure falling from his lips, louder now, as though he couldn't keep them back.
"Oh, Christ," he gasped. "You're on fire tonight."
I was. I was burning for him, couldn't get enough. I picked up my pace until I was almost slamming up and down on him, feeling the burn in other places now, my thighs as the muscles protested, the back of my throat as I gasped for breath, the sweat pouring off my body.
His fingers had moved from my thighs to my hips, gripping hard, pulling me forward so that I leant over him, meeting his mouth with mine in a hard, crushing embrace.
There was no gentleness, not this time, just need and desire and, yes, heat.
We were both on fire.
He released me, his eyes closing again as he panted, the sweat pouring off him too, pooling in the hollow of his throat. I couldn't resist, leaning down to lap at it while I continued to rock backwards and forwards, slamming my arse down onto his lap. He was close. I could feel it. Could taste it. Sense it with every fibre of my being.
I rose upright again, balancing myself with my hands on my thighs, gripping his hands which were still resting there. I watched his face as I moved faster, taking as much of him as deeply as I could. He was lost in it, his teeth gripping his bottom lip as his body tensed.
And then he shuddered beneath me, my name escaping him as he bucked into me, spilling deep within my body.
I waited until I'd wrung the last drop from his body and he relaxed with a small sigh, his eyelids fluttering. And then I leant over him once more, bracing myself with my hands on either side of his head, my mouth next to his ear. I could feel him slipping out of my body as I whispered to him what I wanted.
"I want to fuck you."
He let out another of those soft sighs, his eyes opening, so blue and clear and full of emotion.
"Yessss..." A sibilant hiss, granting me what I wanted.
I slid off him, feeling a momentary pang of regret as he slipped all of the way out of me, leaving an empty ache but knowing that this wouldn't be the last time we were joined like that.
And we were about to be joined again.
He was still relaxed from his own orgasm, his thighs falling apart to let me kneel between them. I was still impatient, wanting to bury myself inside him as he'd been buried in me, and so I may have been a little rough in sliding my fingers into him. He didn't protest though, just exhaled again, moving his legs further apart as one finger became two became three in short order.
And then I pulled his legs up over my hips, sliding my knees beneath him as I pulled him towards me. I wasn't quite impatient enough to risk hurting him and so eased into him rather than slamming into him as I wanted to, at least for the first few strokes. I soon picked up the tempo when I felt that he was used to the feel of me inside of him, when his body had adjusted to the intrusion.
His hand drifted downwards, stroking his now flaccid cock. I knew he wasn't going to come again so soon but I also knew how good it felt, even after coming, to feel someone inside you, moving over that small, magic gland deep within you, sending shards of pleasure through you even if they didn't result in climax. How good it felt to hold yourself as the last tremors of your coming moved through your body.
It was my turn now to lose myself in his body, to slam into him as he'd slammed into me. He watched me all the time, seeming to take pleasure in my pleasure as every one of my nerve endings screamed for release. His flesh was hot and so fucking tight around me, gripping me as though made for me, like a velvet glove only that wouldn't feel so perfect, so hot, so fucking wonderful as being in him felt.
I could feel the familiar tightening in the pit of my stomach, felt it all the way along my legs, my arms, every muscle straining towards the climax I knew was coming.
And then it hit, surging over me in a huge tidal wave, washing me away, washing me clean.
Oh Christ, it felt good. Better than good. Fucking fantastic.
I collapsed against him, feeling the last few shudders coursing through me as my heart rate returned to normal and his hand slid lazily up and down my back.
I rolled off him, to lie there next to him, panting heavily, and he chuckled, low and soft.
I looked at him, raising one eyebrow at him. He returned my look with an innocent one of his own.
"Knee all right then?" he asked, his amusement clear.
For some reason that struck me as immensely funny. I don't know why. Maybe it was relief, maybe it was just that the sheer joy of having him back hit me then. I don't know. All I know is that I rolled on that bed, holding my sides as they ached and killing myself laughing while he watched me with an indulgent smile on his face, his eyes soft and full of love.
For me.
When I'd got control of myself, I noticed that he was, once again, having difficultly in keeping his eyes open.
"Can you stay awake long enough to clean up?" I asked. He gave a soft snort of laughter, but didn't answer, his eyes languid. I took that as a 'yes' but made sure I didn't dawdle, fetching a cloth and cleaning off his cock and belly, feeling his cock twitch slightly under my fingers, although I don't think he was in any fit state to do anything about it. Round two would have to wait then. Instead I slid it between his thighs, washing away the sticky traces of lubricant.
Then, knowing that he was about to fall asleep any second, I leant over and kissed him softly and sweetly, watching his eyes drift shut again before retreating to my bathroom and the shower that was waiting for me.
He's still asleep. I've peeked in, unable to resist the smile that formed on my face at the sight.
And I'm just marking time until it's time to join him there, and I can sleep too.
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I met Chris at the airport this morning. I don't think he was expecting me - hell, I know he wasn't expecting me. His conversation yesterday was full of 'after Spence has picked me up from the airport and I've got home' references.
I couldn't wait. I mean that literally obviously.
Since he'd conveniently told me the flight times it didn't take long to check the flight schedules and find out which one he was on. And, since I couldn't sleep anyway, around 4am I gave up and drove out to Heathrow, knowing that no matter how bad the traffic I'd get there in plenty of time.
It appeared that Spencer had the same idea. He was already standing in the terminal building, watching the board, when I rolled up. I had to touch his arm before I got his attention.
"Sam," he said, startled. "What are you doing here?"
I was tired and the temptation to be facetious was almost overwhelming but I was good and resisted.
"Picking Chris up. I take it you're here to collect Backup?"
He frowned at that, telling me that he'd been quite happy to pick Chris up as well but I wasn't in the mood for any arguments. Just shrugged and told him shortly that I was there now so...
He was still frowning, so I made a joke of it, or tried to. Told him I thought that since he was bound to have missed Backup I'd get Chris out of his hair ASAP. Besides, I added, I knew how cranky Chris was when he was tired. No point in Spencer being exposed to that if he didn't have to be.
His face cleared, and I thought at the time he was just grateful for the chance to get Backup alone, tell her how much he'd undoubtedly missed her without an audience, but now I'm not so sure.
He suggested that since it was going to be a while before the plane landed and they cleared customs and immigration, the pair of us should grab a coffee. We found a little caf? in the terminal building which had a fairly decent brew, although I doubt Chris, coffee connoisseur that he is, would approve, and spent a pleasant half an hour or so just indulging and chatting about nothing in particular. By that time I definitely needed the caffeine injection.
At last the announcement came that flight BA216 would shortly be arriving and, with seeming telepathy, we both wordlessly and simultaneously rose to our feet, not wanting to wait any longer. We shared a brief, sheepish grin, and moved over to the arrivals lounge. I don't know what Spence was feeling, but it seemed as though every one of my nerve endings was singing. While Chris had been home before, this time was different.
This time he was staying.
Maybe that was the reason for the butterflies in my stomach. It was stupid. I knew he loved me - he'd told me often enough and Chris, for all his faults, is honest. And I knew I loved him, and had told him the same. And I wasn't exactly nervous. I think I was more wound up about everything, a restlessness that I hadn't been able to shake. The fact that I also hadn't been able to turn my brain off either hadn't helped.
I just know that I stood there, on tenterhooks in that arrivals lounge, waiting impatiently for the doors to open and for them to come through, for Chris to come through, straining for the first glance of him as soon as the passengers started trickling through. I didn't care what Spencer thought. I didn't care what anyone thought, and besides he was waiting for Backup, watching the door as eagerly as I was. I don't know, or care, whether my eagerness, whether the similarities in our eagerness, made him think or wonder.
And then I saw them - Backup first and then Chris. Backup saw Spencer and her face lit up, and I saw her elbow Chris, gesturing towards us. He saw Spencer first, looking up and giving our friend a tired smile. He looked exhausted, and there was something on his forehead, something small and white, adding to his pallor it seemed.
And then he saw me, and his face lit up with a smile even broader than Backup's. It was as though there was no one else, nothing else in that concourse but me.
I felt the same.
His steps quickened towards me, but I managed to hold myself in check, conscious on some level of Spencer beside me moving forward to greet Backup with a kiss on the cheek and by taking her bag. My eyes, however, never left his face. Chris seemed to come to himself too, and his pace slowed.
And then I realised that the white thing on his forehead was a bandage.
"What happened?" The words were out of my mouth before I could stop them. "I thought you said it went off without a hitch?"
He stopped in front of me and shifted uncomfortably as my eyes travelled over his form, taking in his other injuries. His hands caught my attention, and without thinking I reached out and took hold of one, raising it so that I could see the grazes more easily.
And then I met his eyes again, frowning, while he went back to shifting uncomfortably, looking sheepish.
Next to me, Backup cleared her throat and I realised with a start that she and Spencer were standing right next to us and she was regarding the pair of us quizzically. I didn't let go of Chris' hand though, on the grounds that I wasn't exactly holding it. I was just looking at it, just as Backup had looked at mine after the fight in that caravan in Lexington.
Yeah, right. I'm sure she thought it was exactly the same thing. Actually, if my suspicions about her attraction to me before Spencer came along are right, she may well have been thinking just that.
"You didn't tell him?" she asked Chris, arching her brow in that way she has.
"Tell me what?" I asked, jumping in with both feet. "Chris?"
He shifted uncomfortably again, avoiding my eyes, and I dropped his hand. "Chris?" This time there was an edge in my voice that even he couldn't ignore.
He stared at his feet and muttered something about hitting Daniels once or twice or fifteen or sixteen times.
I was completely taken aback. Actually, make that gobsmacked.
"What?" He sent a pleading look at Backup, and I just switched my gaze back and forth between the two of them, hoping that one of them would put me out of my misery sooner rather than later. "Chris, what aren't you telling me? Are you in trouble? For hitting Daniels?"
That's what I thought. I thought that's why he hadn't told me - because he was in deep shit. Lost his temper with Daniels finally and exploded, and that Daniels had bitched to Malone about it.
Some friend.
The truth was worse than I expected.
"Daniels sold us out to Psad," Chris admitted, looking me straight in the eye and looking even more tired and drawn, if possible.
Shit. I just stared at him, all sorts of 'what ifs' running through my mind. If Daniels had got Chris killed... well, let's just say that Gilbert wouldn't be the only one who needed to consider his future.
Backup interjected at that point, in her soft voice. "Daniels agreed to lose Psad in exchange for money, so that we wouldn't be able to follow him to his meeting with Meath."
Things suddenly clicked into place. "That's why you tagged him," I said numbly.
Backup shook her head. "Nope," she said with a smile. "We already had that plan. You know how Malone feels about making sure that all the bases are covered. It just came in more handy than we thought it would."
"So..." I don't think my brain was quite working properly. "When did you...?"
"Find out about Daniels?" prompted Backup. I nodded mutely, and she glanced briefly at Chris, who was staring at me silently, and said, "I think Chris found out the day I flew over. I arrived to find Daniels conveniently unconscious and handcuffed to the radiator."
"I overheard him on the phone to Psad," Chris threw in quietly, still watching my face. "I confronted him about it and it got a bit nasty."
A bit. I looked into his face, silently taking in the bruises again, and he flushed. "And you didn't tell me because?" I asked, my voice as quiet as Chris' had been.
Chris shrugged, his expression telling me he thought that I was bound to give him a harder time about this than Malone. "You were four thousand miles away," he said simply. "What could you have done?"
The words 'I didn't want to worry you' hung in the air between us, unsaid. They didn't need to be said. We both knew that there were things that I hadn't told him for exactly the same reason. I considered it for a moment, and then nodded. As far as I was concerned the matter was over.
Except for one small detail.
"How much trouble are you in with Malone about it?"
"About hitting Daniels?" he hedged. He must have been even more tired than I thought if he needed confirmation that that was what I was asking. I nodded again and he sighed and told me that Malone was okay about it, saying something along the lines of 'any means necessary'. And then he rather plaintively asked, "Can we go home now?"
That sounded like a plan, but rather than make a big deal of it in front of Backup and Spencer I just settled on a nod and steered him towards the exit, hearing him sigh gratefully as I did so.
We said goodbye to them at the entrance to the car park and I think that by that time Spencer was almost as eager to get Backup alone as I was to get Chris to myself, probably for much the same reason, and it wasn't about sex, well, not entirely.
Chris was obviously on autopilot at that point, and I had to steer him towards the car too, taking his bag off him as he fumbled with the boot lock and gently pushing him towards the passenger door.
I think he fell asleep in the car as I drove back into town, heading instinctively towards my place, justifying that decision on the grounds that I had food and hot water but mainly, I think, because for both of us it seems to have become 'home'. Well, I like to think so anyway.
Although we got caught up in the early morning rush hour traffic coming back, I coped with that too, maybe because Chris was finally getting rest and I just felt more content than I had been for days just because he was there next to me.
More content. Just not... right yet, I suppose. I'd say on an even Keel but I don't think that Chris would appreciate the pun. He's probably heard it more than once.
Arriving home, however, went some way towards helping with that. I woke Chris up as gently as I could when we pulled up outside my place, and he opened his eyes to give me another sleepy but beaming smile before leaning over and giving me a sweet kiss. I fetched his bag out of the boot while he levered himself out of the passenger seat and stood there, blinking in the dim morning light and shivering slightly. So once again, I steered him on his way, towards the entrance to my building, just taking some simple pleasure from touching him.
As soon as we walked through the door I dumped his bag on the floor and he turned towards me, our arms going around one another. He let out a soft sigh, and laid his head on my shoulder, slumping into my embrace and snuggling up against me while I rested my cheek on his soft, spiky hair, breathing in the scent of his aftershave and feeling... happier.
There was so much I wanted to tell him, so much I wanted to share and yet, as I stood there, I heard his breathing start to even out and realised that he was falling asleep again in my arms. And so, with a soft chuckle, I steered him towards the bedroom, helping him out of his clothes and then sitting him down on the mattress.
And then I saw the full extent of his injuries. There were bruises across his abdomen and chest, obviously put there by Daniels' fists - another reason to hate that son of a bitch. They'll heal, I know that, but that knowledge didn't help the anger swelling in me any. But worst of all was the white bandage around his lower arm.
"Chris?" I asked, touching it gently. "What happened?"
He made a soft, confused sound, fighting to stay awake, before my question percolated through to his brain. "Erm... Cut myself."
Yeah, honey, I think I'd figured that one out for myself.
"How?" I was more forceful than I should have been, I suppose, but I don't think he was in any condition to notice. I just had visions of Daniels going after him with a knife and they chilled me to the bone.
He thought about that for a long moment, still looking completely shattered and not at all with it, and then he managed to get his mouth working again. "Coffee table. Glass. Fell through it."
I didn't know whether to be relieved or horrified. I settled for catching him as he swayed for a moment, his eyes drifting shut, and then helped him slip sideways down onto the mattress.
I think he was asleep before his head touched the pillow.
I pulled the duvet up over him and watched him for a moment before kissing him gently on the forehead and coming out here to do what I always do. Fill in this thing.
He'll probably sleep for hours and so I think I'll join him. Sleep has been a bit thin on the ground over the last couple of nights. Maybe I'm being too optimistic, but having Chris there, even if it doesn't banish the nightmares entirely, makes it easier to deal with the aftermath.
And besides, I just want to lie next to him and hold him for a while. Nothing wrong with that, right?
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Saturday, November 10th, 2001
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Chris is coming home.
He phoned me from the airport - told me that he and Backup are catching the 6.15pm flight out of Dulles, arriving at 6.25am tomorrow. And since the case is in its closedown stages, he's been in constant touch with Malone, already completed the paperwork and e-mailed his report to Ops, apparently his debriefing can wait until Monday morning, 9am.
He's under strict instructions, apparently, to get some sleep since Malone wants him firing on all cylinders on Monday.
He wanted to know how I was, of course, and I told him I was still coping. Looking forward to him getting home, but coping. It's not too far a stretch to admit that I'm actually longing for him to get here because coping is about all I'm doing right now.
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I was right. Not sure that it will ever be 'over' because I still have to learn to live with the information, and I'm not the only one.
When I arrived back at Ops, Malone was there waiting for me and for once I wasn't left cooling my heels in the Control Room while he dealt with more important matters. Spencer ushered me straight in with a look of sympathy that didn't go unnoticed. It tipped me off to two things - the first that Meath's revelations of yesterday are obviously working their way through CI5's own version of the information superhighway and the second that he didn't think I was going to like whatever Malone had to tell me.
Malone looked tired, and a bit rumpled which was so unusual it put me straight on my guard. As did the offer of a chair.
When I'd seated myself he folded his arms, placing them on the desk and giving me a serious look. I have to admit that what followed was pretty much what I'd expected.
He started off by telling me that after reviewing the information on my abduction he was 'reasonably happy' that it and Gentern, meaning Gilbert of course, were not related. Typical Malone, really, using phrases like 'reasonably certain'. You could show him concrete evidence and that's as committal as he'd get. And that was nothing I hadn't been expecting. In fact, I told him that yesterday, and the rage I was still struggling to hold in about the whole situation still had enough of a grip over me to get me rather rashly pointing that out to Malone.
He frowned briefly but didn't call me on my outburst, and strangely enough that reaction acted more like a shot of cold water than any amount of reaming out would have done. He was humouring me. I needed humouring. The realisation got me biting my tongue, struggling for that renowned cool and distance from the situation.
It must have shown because he sighed and went on to share the rest of the night's work with me.
Meath has pretty much coughed up to everything and then some. I got the impression that they could have put a case file about the Lindburgh baby in front of him and he'd have ended up fingering someone for that too. As well as giving Malone chapter and verse on his dealings with Gilbert he'd provided more concrete evidence in the form of bank account numbers and transaction details that even now Spencer and his team were working on. With swooping on Gilbert so soon yesterday after Meath's arrest Malone believes that Gilbert won't have had time to cover his tracks as thoroughly this time.
Apparently I'm to thank for that. Go me.
Meath appears to think that it's better to come clean, including the fact that his men carried out the break in on instructions from one James Gilbert, who provided them with details of Gentern's security measures, including passwords and weak spots he'd identified. Jesus, Gilbert must have thought that all of his Christmases had come at once when he was taken on retainer and saw just how woeful Gentern's security actually was. What an opportunity for him - raising a stink about just how woeful they were to the right ears on the one hand and exploiting them on the other.
Gilbert isn't talking. He's too savvy for that. He's holding his tongue, determined that he'll have his day in court. I'm assuming that he thinks that his high priced lawyer will discredit Meath's reliability as a witness on the stand. Especially as Gilbert was in the States at the time of the theft, unlike Meath who was up to his eyeballs in it.
So, in summary, Malone believes that this time they'll have more than enough evidence to nail Gilbert for industrial espionage and theft.
Assuming that Gentern want to press charges. It appears that they're worried about the adverse publicity that a trial would bring. Having their own security advisor steal from them isn't exactly a peon to their intelligence.
"I have," Malone told me tightly, "informed them that the matter is out of their hands and that, regardless of their feelings, Gilbert and Meath will be prosecuted."
Prosecution and conviction are, of course, two different things. I won't be holding my breath, but if Gilbert walks away from this unpunished as well, well I don't think he'll be living too long. If Psad's people don't see to him I'm sure that someone else will be waiting in the wings.
Patience is, after all, a virtue.
Oh, and it appears that I was right about the blackmail attempt. Meath admitted that Gilbert and Psad were arguing about price while he was shuttling backwards and forwards, getting increasingly agitated about the risk of discovery. From what Malone said, as well as what I witnessed yesterday, Meath seems quite bitter about the fact that he's the one been taking all the risks while Gilbert gets the bulk of the proceeds.
I think I can relate to that.
Somehow, Psad found out about CI5's investigation, probably from Gilbert I assume although Malone didn't say, and as a result Gilbert wanted to hang fire for a while, wait until the heat died down. His predator's instinct, I suppose. Must have told him that he wasn't the only lion sniffing around the waterhole. So, far from shifting the merchandise within days as they'd expected, once Gilbert had seen me his natural caution reasserted itself, which didn't go down too well with Psad who already had a buyer lined up.
Nor did it go down well with Meath, who panicked and decided to get shot of the stuff as soon as possible - selling it back to the people that he'd stolen it from if necessary.
Gilbert must have been shitting himself when he found that out too. All of his careful planning coming to naught.
Malone, I think, was waiting for my reaction - or maybe waiting to see if I would have one. I don't know whether he was relieved or disappointed when I didn't so much as twitch, just put on my unmoved and impassive face and told him that it wasn't anything that I hadn't already guessed. He nodded, more to himself than to me it seemed, and then moved on to the other bit of information he had for me.
He was sorry, he said, to have to inform me that there was no likelihood of Gilbert being brought to book for the events in Berlin of three years ago. MI6 had undertaken an investigation at the time and, in spite of what had transpired recently, they were reluctant to reopen it. In other words, they were still protecting their reputation and therefore still protecting Gilbert by default.
"In other words," he concluded, "I'm afraid that they do not believe that Meath's testimony is enough to change their conclusions."
"They know," I said. "They just have no desire to deal with it. No more than they did three years ago. And I can't say I wasn't expecting that either."
He gave me a sharp look, almost as if he were trying to figure out what was going on behind the fa?ade I'd adopted.
"I'm glad to see, Mr Curtis," he finally said, "that you are adopting a pragmatic approach to this whole affair." There was something in his expression that told me that he was still trying to figure me out, see if the face I was presenting to the world was really what was going on inside.
I shrugged. "I'm angry," I said. "I won't try to deny it. But I should imagine that Gilbert will be spending a long time behind bars, assuming he makes it that far."
I shouldn't have said that, I suppose, because it immediately seemed to trigger alarm bells in Malone, who gave me another piercing look. "As you said, sir," I added in a soft murmur, "MI6 have no desire to reopen the investigation. I should imagine they're quite firm about that point." Which had an element of truth in it, and there was no point in adding anything else.
He sighed and rubbed his eyes, suddenly looking tired and old. I think it was the 'old' that got to me. "You might be right, Mr Curtis," he admitted and then I was treated to another considering look.
"If you're wondering whether that bothers me, sir," I said thoughtfully, "the answer is no, not really. Those that live by the sword and all that... Just..."
"Yes, Mr Curtis?" he prompted me.
I shifted a little uncomfortably, not really liking him to see past what I'd been willing to show him up until now. Not really liking the expectation in his eyes that I wasn't going to fail him, become someone like Gilbert. But I felt like I owed him an answer, I suppose. Gratitude. "I'm just glad I don't have to deal with that culture anymore," I confessed, looking just past him so that I didn't have to meet his eyes.
There was a short pause until I heard him say, so softly that I wasn't sure at first whether I imagined it, "So am I, Mr Curtis. So am I."
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Malone phoned me this morning. Apologised for bothering me on a weekend, if you can believe that. Asked me if I could come into Ops this afternoon.
Why do I get the feeling that it's not over?
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