Probably one of the strangest crossovers you will ever read, but I couldn't resist…it was in my head; I had to get it out somehow, didn't I?! I got pretty intense, in fact, working at it nonstop for about four hours…it's basically a character study, in a way, very descriptive and not much action, and rather emotionally highly-charged... So anyway, the usual spiel: I don't own these characters, and I make no profit off this, and yadda yadda yadda, you know the rest…here goes! : )
POV
He'll come back and save me. He has to. He always does.
It was amazing the amount of certainties she'd discovered in her life lately, considering the peripatetic and highly uncertain existence she now led. But she really did have an uncompromising amount. Like he would always show up in the nick of time to save her. Like she always needed rescuing in the first place. Like giving up just wasn't an option.
For being such a big advocator of free choice, she mused to herself as she slumped in the corner of the dank cell, I sure don't have that many choices.
She stopped thinking for a while. It wasn't worth the bother. The walls dripped loudly and monotonously, the drips irritating her with their almost-beat. Of course what really irritated her was being stuck in this damnable cell in the first place, but there was really very little she could do about that at this point.
Of course, there was even less she could do about the dripping walls. But that seemed the easier thing to worry about and cope with.
She was getting really quite good at coping, too.
The single, heavy wooden door creaked open, the epitome of a horror flick door that would open to show the monster behind it. She looked up, too tired to actually stand up, but hope still making her heart beat painfully in her chest. Maybe he'd come finally to save her.
It wasn't him. The brute of a guard shoved the man into the cell and slammed the door shut again with a definitive clang. It reminded her ominously of a death knell. She raised her middle finger at the door, just for the principle of the thing, even though she knew the guard was long gone.
He collapsed to his knees where the guard had pushed him, too exhausted to keep standing. He wore, bizarrely, a well-cut suit, still buttoned perfectly, tie and kerchief in place. His blonde hair was gelled and styled perfectly. A bruise was flowering around his left eye, and a smudge of dirt streaked his forehead, but otherwise his appearance was well-nigh miraculously immaculate. He looked completely out of place in this cell.
But then,
she thought wryly, looking down at her black slacks and black velvet frockcoat worn in patent imitation of her friend, I don't particularly look like I belong here either. The only way you could look like you fit in here was in medieval rags. Or if you were a skeleton left decoratively strewn about.He ran a shaky hand through his hair, pushing his long bangs back in place. She disbelievingly watched him straighten his suit jacket, brush down his slacks, wipe his face carefully off with his kerchief before settling it back into place in his pocket. No one in their right mind would give a rat's ass what they looked like when in this position.
He looked up.
She got a good look at his face. It was thin, tense, very handsome. His skin was a healthy tan, his eyes a crystal blue, and she suddenly noticed the well-muscled body under the fashionable, pale suit. His eyes were unguarded, despair changing to shock to anger to suspicion to simple surprise before his barriers snapped down over his thoughts. He smiled widely and instantly seemed to perk up at the sight of her.
Or maybe he's just cheering me up she thought to herself as she found herself, impossibly, smiling back, as if they weren't being held captive in a dingy dungeon of a prison cell, somewhere very far from what she considered home.
"Hello," he said, standing up carefully to walk over to her carefully and hold out his hand. She saw the effort it took him to act casually, as if every movement didn't cause him pain. "How do you do?"
She was actually shaking his hand, her left hand still wrapped around her up-raised knees. The hand was hard, calloused, a strong grip, thoroughly what she was not expecting. "H-hi," she said uncertainly, gazing up at him.
His grin impossibly widened, and he sat down next to her, leaning his back against the wall and raising up his knees, mirroring her position exactly. "What an entirely unexpected pleasure," he said, settling himself comfortably, not seeming to care what happened to his gorgeous suit as it touched the wall and floor that hadn't been cleaned—possibly ever, "rooming with a girl. Conditions have improved since the last time I was here. Either that, or they're getting overcrowded."
She was enchanted by his voice, soft, tinged with an interesting American accent she couldn't quite place, but again not at all what she'd expected. She noticed voices.
"What are you doing here?" she found herself asking helplessly. He was an anomaly, an absurdity, like finding an opera singer at a karoake bar.
"Ah well, authority figures tend to not like my friends and me," he explained easily, wincing as some injured part of his body came into contact with wall or floor. "Of course, this time, getting captured actually was part of the plan, not an accident, so I suppose I have no one to blame but me." he scowled. "Him too."
She followed his gaze's direction, half-expecting to see another person in the room, but of course it was just the two of them. "You let yourself get captured?" she asked incredulously, ever more doubting he was for real. She must be hallucinating; she had spent far too much time in this cell by herself.
He laughed softly. "Gotta love it when a plan comes together." He didn't sound particularly amused.
She blinked. "That sounds like something a friend of mine would do," she said thoughtfully. He glanced over at her, a curious frown on his open, young face, and she closed her mouth, blushing, wishing she hadn't said anything.
"What're you doing here?" he asked her, reaching forward to gingerly massage his right ankle.
She watched his slow, rhythmic movements. His light-colored clothes stood out dazzlingly bright in the dark cell. "Um…I got caught too," she said, still blushing. "My friend and I were helping some people out and, uh…well, I kinda gave myself up so they could get away when the soldiers caught onto us."
He stopped massaging his ankle and turned slowly to look at her, clear blue eyes expressionless. She shivered. He suddenly didn't seem like an indolent young gent, but more a hardened…soldier, older than she'd originally thought, perhaps even twice her age. She couldn't read his expression, had no idea what he was thinking.
He suddenly relaxed and smiled, his whole demeanor and appearance instantly changing to charming playboy again. "You see? Our reasons for being here aren't really all that different after all."
She was glumly forced to agree.
********
The soldier forced him into the cell, not even waiting to see where he fell before closing and locking the door. He fell forward, on his hands and knees, having just barely enough strength to stop falling full body on the floor and lie there for a few hours in blissful unconsciousness.
He sat up on his knees, taking a deep, shaky breath, hating that shakiness he felt deep within his chest, the fluttering of his heart and lungs that just made him feel weaker. He didn't have the time or the patience to feel weak.
He ran a hand through his hair, despising with even more intensity the quivering of his fingers, and brushed down his suit, taking the kerchief out of his breast pocket to wipe the dirt and sweat off his face. Just because he was in yet another cell was no reason to look less than his best. Indeed, it was an incentive to look his very best—and he knew his very best was the best. He didn't want to die looking disheveled after all.
Not that he was going to die today. Of course not. He'd come in, guns blazing, and save him like he always did.
Even in this life, forever on the run, constantly looking over your shoulder, you still needed a few certainties in your life. He knew this very well.
He began surveying his new (and temporary, he hoped to a God he didn't quite believe in) home, but as soon as he looked up, he noticed his sole other companion in the room.
He froze.
She was watching him warily, and despite her awkward sitting position, her knees up against her body, he had the feeling she was ready to either fight or flee, her entire body tensed and adrenaline-pumped. She wore solid black, surreally almost blending into the wall she sat against, except for the oh-so-white hands clasped against her knees and her too-pale face with blood-red lips and exotic turquoise eyes. Even her hair was black, short and straight and framing her face, a black so deep it seemed to absorb all the light that fell on the silky strands.
He was also tensed, automatically, all his instincts crying out to do something, still overwrought after what he'd gone through the past few days on this latest mission. He thought he'd never felt so tense and irritable before in his entire and singularly interesting life, but then, he often felt that way. Every time he went on a mission, just about.
Yet another certainty?
He forced himself to relax and gave the young woman one of his most charming grins. He was almost physically shocked to find a woman in the cell with him. And she looked so young, perhaps not even out of her teens yet.
She was responding as he'd both hoped and expected, smiling in return, while those exotic blue eyes flashed her confused thoughts with no hint of concealment. If he were going to find a woman in these cells, he certainly wouldn't have expected one like her. She looked like she belonged in college or as a secretary someplace. Definitely not in this prison cell.
"Hello," he said, having to catch himself before he fell over as he stood up. He desperately hoped she couldn't see how exhausted he was. He walked over to her, carefully forcing all emotions save open welcome and charm off his face. He leant over her and held out his hand; she automatically shook it, just like he knew she would, looking befuddled. "How do you do?"
"H-hi," she answered, looking thoroughly confused, all her guard down. He smiled to himself in triumph and settled down next to her, trying not to wince as bits of him came into contact with hard stone floor and wall. He sighed in relief, the most comfortable he'd been in days. It was probably the first real chance he'd had to sit down and do nothing in a very long while…
"What an entirely unexpected pleasure," he said to fill up the silence and keep her off her guard with idle chatter, "rooming with a girl. Conditions have improved since the last time I was here. Either that, or they're getting overcrowded."
He noticed out of the corner of his eye the blissed-out look that crossed her face and quickly disappeared, and wondered at it. Her eyes interested him, the impossible blue; he wondered what nationality she came from originally. And then thorough, total, incredulous confusion crossed her face and she blurted out, "What're you doing here?"
He shrugged bashfully, keeping up the appearance for lack of anything else to do. Old habits die hard, he knew too well. Besides, you never can tell. Just because she was in the cell didn't mean she was a prisoner. He wondered when he'd first started seeing traps everywhere and realized he'd always been like that. "Ah well, authority figures tend to not like my friends and me. Of course this time, getting captured actually was part of the plan, not an accident, so I supposed I have no one to blame but me." Irritation at being the one chosen to be captured again, at all he'd had to endure the past few days even before this, and at his commanding officer drowned out his charming act, and he added with a black scowl, "Him too."
She glanced away, and he immediately regained control of his emotions, hoping he hadn't disturbed her, and surprised at how easily he had lost control in the first place. He must really be tired. He had to be careful; it was fine for him to stay on his guard, but he wanted to keep her off hers. "You let yourself get captured?" she said, and still she sounded like she found him an impossibility.
He laughed, enjoying her broad Midwestern American accent. He heard that accent so seldomly these days; it was good and bizarre to find it here, of all places. Still, she was just as good and bizarre to see in this place, too, as out-of-place as he was sure she thought him.
You never can tell
, he thought again to himself and told her humorlessly, "Gotta love it when a plan comes together."She blinked as if surprised at the forcefulness of his tone of voice. He reproved himself for his lack of discipline, not even being able to control his emotions in front of a mere slip of a girl. "That sounds like something my friend would do," she began and he studied her curiously, abruptly wondering exactly why she was here in the first place.
"What are you doing here?" he asked before he could stop himself. His ankle twinged, reminding him of the bad fall he'd taken yesterday in the forest, and he reached down to massage the tender spot as carefully as he could.
"Um…I got caught too," she said. He could feel her eyes watching his movements, and his whole body stilled, except for the rhythmic movement of his hands. "My friend and I were helping some people out and uh…well, I kinda gave myself up so they could get away when the soldiers caught onto us."
He looked up at her, his hands arrested in their movement, seeing her in an entirely different light. For a moment he forgot his own con, only seeing this girl as more than just a girl, watching her unblinking turquoise eyes in that strong-boned, thin face.
She shivered and looked away from his gaze, reminding him of where he was, who he was, what he was doing here. He allowed himself to relax again and grinned at her, a particularly charming, open grin, he knew. "You see? Our reasons for being here really aren't that different after all."
Her face fell.
*******
They fell into silence for a while after that, and she watched him carefully, detailing as much of him as she often did her friend. He was obviously exhausted and in pain but, just as obviously, he wasn't going to allow it to bother him. He slumped against the wall, his eyes closed, his breathing shallow and steady. She noticed the lines around his eyes and mouth from smiling, and she noticed the other lines, of strain, of tension, that he normally wouldn't allow anyone to see.
She wondered who he was. He was a good actor, pretending to be a charming innocent, but she could tell it was just an act, and a half-hearted one (at the moment anyway) at that. Perhaps he was just too tired to be his real, blazingly charming self. Of course, if he did turn on the charm full blast, she had the feeling she'd just melt into a soggy puddle right here on the floor.
There was only one other man who affected her like that, and he did it for slightly different reasons. This man almost lying down next to her brought out conflicting reactions: she wanted both to mother him and kiss him like crazy.
Life is too confusing, she told herself dryly, to figure out if you want to feed him chicken soup or shag him rotten. Especially when you're probably only slight less than half his age.
She shifted position and accidentally bumped his arm. His hand was around her wrist in a vicelike grip before she could even squeak.
"Ouch," she said, keeping her fear and shock out of her voice as much as possible.
He glared at her for an instant longer, those ice-blue eyes burning, then let go of her. "Sorry," he muttered, not even attempting a rakish smile for her benefit.
She was glad to finally see something other than playboy charm. Irritability and tension she could understand in this place, not that indifferent attitude, as if he didn't seem to notice or care just exactly what his situation was. "Quite all right," she assured him, rubbing her wrist. She hadn't realized how narrow, how tiny it was until he'd put his hand around it. He didn't have that big of hands. "I really can't blame you."
"I should have better control," he burst out and looked as if he wished he hadn't.
"Why? Were you ordered to?" she flashed back, sick and tired of his pretending.
He stiffened, which just added to her irritation. He looked like he was sitting at attention. "What makes you say that?"
She shrugged and flopped back against the wall, her back jarring in protest at the violent movement. She ignored it. "You're trying too hard. I feel like you're gonna salute me or something."
He actually laughed at that. "The army would be shocked," he said, amusement lightly coloring his tone. "When all else fails, fall back to basics."
And when you can't hold up the charming act anymore, she added to herself but didn't say aloud. He seemed very stubborn and really too disrespectful of authority to be a soldier, but there was something…disciplined, ordered, about him that she'd picked up on.
Maybe he was just tired of being locked up in cells.
He was eyeing the door now, with a longing he couldn't hide in his eyes. "If only they hadn't searched my inside pockets," he sighed. "I know I could have picked that lock."
She smiled lop-sidedly. "You pick locks too?"
He glanced back at her and returned her grin with interest. "I have my talents."
"Oh really," she answered dryly, glad for an escape from her depressing thoughts.
"Of course!" he looked wounded at her doubting him. She had to give him credit, he was an amusing companion, considering where they were. "There's more to me than meets the eye, you know," he pointed out confidentially.
"Oh I already knew that," she assured him. He blinked and shifted uncomfortably. She wondered what she'd said to cause that reaction.
"You too," he said an instant before the silence between them could become oppressive. "There's more to you than meets the eye as well."
She paused, considering, then smiled bitterly. "No, there's not, really. Just because I'm in here," she waved a languid hand around the stinking cell, trying to be as cool as he was, "does not make me an interesting person."
"Oh I wouldn't say that," he answered in a soft voice, and she blushed.
"Why not?" she asked, her face still heated. Still, at least it brought some warmth and feeling to her frozen cheeks.
"Well, you're here, aren't you?" he answered reasonably. "Believe me, you were the last thing I expected to find in here. And you're handling it remarkably well."
Her thoughts flew immediately back to just before he'd entered the cell. "What else can I do?" she replied simply.
He frowned, cocking his head to one side in perplexity, looking absolutely adorable. "What do you mean?" he asked.
"There isn't much else I could do, is there?" she replied with some asperity, not wishing to explain herself. She knew it would sound stupid and cliched when said aloud. "There are no other options."
"You could cry," he pointed out. She rolled her eyes, not even dignifying that with a reply. "You could scream and beat the place down," he went on thoughtfully, as if that particular idea held its attractions. "You could just give up."
"No, I couldn't," she surprised even herself by answering. "That's not an option. Perhaps a temporary one, but only for a few minutes of total, utter despair, and I haven't gone quite that far yet." She watched the emotions cross his mobile face and struggled to explain. "You can't just give up. You can't just…die. You have to survive. You have to go on. There really isn't a choice."
Something odd flashed across his gorgeous blue eyes, recognition and something else she couldn't define. He nodded slowly in agreement.
"Besides, he'll save me," they said in exact unison.
They stared at each other in wild surprise.
***********
His eyes were too tired to even bother staying open. None of them had gotten much sleep the past few days; they'd had to be on their guard the entire time. Besides, he didn't think she was that much of a threat.
That didn't stop his instincts automatically taking over and grabbing her wrist when she accidentally brushed against him. His eyes flew open and caught her wide-eyed gaze, the black pupils contracting until they were a mere pinprick, lost in the deep , exotic blue of her lenses—
He almost lost himself in those same blue orbs as they stared at each other for a long, frozen moment. She finally broke his almost-unbearable tension by saying, "Ouch," in the most expressionless voice he thought possible.
He gaped at her an instant longer, then remembered to let go. "Sorry," he said, glancing away from her, hoping she wouldn't see his face burning. He was mortified at how easily he'd been ready to hurt her in defense of himself.
"Quite all right," she answered, visibly taking control of her facial expressions, and absently, causally, covering the wrist he'd grabbed, but not before he saw the red marks burnt into the cold white skin. Her wrist had been so tiny, so fragile, in his grip. Even more guilt crashed over him. "I really can't blame you."
"I should have better control," he said through gritted teeth and snapped his mouth shut, damning himself for speaking his thoughts aloud in front of this girl and refusing to allow any more of his feelings out.
"Why? Were you ordered to?" she snapped back, temper coloring her cheeks.
He couldn't stop his body from stiffening. "What makes you say that?" he said, aiming for a light, easy tone but failing miserably, sounding merely wary instead.
She shrugged one shoulder and flopped back against the wall violently. His own back winced in sympathy. She seemed cool, self-contained, and he envied her that control. "You're trying too hard. I feel like you're gonna salute me or something."
He snorted derisively, feeling yet again that irony was out to get him and shove itself down his throat. "The army would be shocked," he told her, pleased he finally had his voice at least under control, the light, tolerant tone exactly what he'd been aiming for. A tiny frown crossed his face as he thought of his team, his commanding officer in particular. "When all else fails, fall back to basics."
Which means military training and discipline and practicalities he thought to himself. Damn, they really did get to me, didn't they?
He glanced at the door reflexively, checking no guard was watching them through the tiny grille window, then let his gaze drift back to it an instant later and stay there. He could feel her gaze on him again, and he hoped she couldn't see how uncomfortable he felt being watched. Her gaze was so calm, appraising, too otherworldly for this claustrophobic, dangerous setting. He spoke to cover his discomfort. "If only they hadn't searched my inside pockets. I know I could have picked that lock."
He glanced out of the corner of his eye at the girl to gauge her reaction. A whimsical smile sat tiredly on her face, and suddenly he could see the strain she was under. He wondered how long she'd been stuck in this cell and found himself hoping it hadn't been long. "You pick locks too?" she said, her voice deeper-pitched, acerbic.
He turned to her and grinned back, fully in control of himself and his persona again. She hadn't even noticed the change, he was gratified to note as he watched her respond to the smile. "I have my talents," he told her modestly.
"Oh really."
"Of course!" he gave her his best wounded look, the one that never failed him. "There's more to me than meets the eye, you know."
"Oh, I already knew that," she murmured, her eyes flicking back and forth from one of his eyes to the other, a tiny smile on her lips. He squirmed under her gaze and broke away, despising himself for that, but more bothered than he wanted to admit by her words. He took a moment to again regain control of his thoughts and emotions.
"You too," he said finally, directly meeting her gaze, knowing he was the one in control of the conversation now. "There's more to you than meets the eye as well."
Surprised flared in her bright blue eyes, surprise and something almost like pleasure, as if he'd complimented her. Then anger flashed in those eyes and she said, "No, there's not, really. Just because I am in here," she waved a hand around the room and jarred him with its familiarity of insolence, of indifference to their situation, "does not make me an interesting person."
He watched her in wide-eyed interest in the darkness, this strange, placid girl who appeared to belong here even less than he did and yet seemed just as capable of handling it as him. "Oh, I wouldn't say that," he said without meaning to and saw her blush. He also blushed, surprising himself.
"Why not?" she asked in what seemed mild curiosity.
"Well, you're here, aren't you?" He kept his tone light, reasonable. "Believe me, you were the last thing I expected to see in here. And you're handling it remarkably well," he had to add in complete honesty.
A strange frown settled on her pale face, glimmering in the darkness of the cell. "What else can I do?" she said to him with a simplicity that took his breath away.
He frowned in reply, puzzled, unconsciously making it as charming and engaging as he could, noting her recharged interest. He smothered a wry grin. Old habits die hard, he thought again and said, "What do you mean?" He waited for her answer.
She looked uncomfortable and answered a little snappishly, as if to cover her embarrassment, "There isn't much else I can do, is there? There are no other options."
He floundered, trying to voice his failed expectations from when he'd first seen this girl in the cell with him. "You could cry," he said at last. She snorted. "You could scream and beat the place down," he immediately added and just as immediately wished he hadn't; the idea was too thoroughly attractive for his own good. Dear god I've got to get out of this place and go to bed he thought with desperate longing. "You could just give up," he said in a small voice.
"No I couldn't," she answered with a vehemence that seemed to surprise her as much as him. "That's not an option. Perhaps a temporary one," she immediately allowed, as if she expected him to protest, eyes bright with some overpowering emotion, "but only for a few minutes of total, utter despair, and I haven't quite gone that far yet." He knew his face was showing the feelings that were too big for him to hide; he could see the emotions reflected in her eyes as she struggled to find the words she wanted. "You can't just give up," she said at last, echoing his own thoughts so completely he felt sure she must be reading his mind. "You can't just…die. You have to survive. You have to go on." She shrugged infinitesimally. "There really isn't a choice."
No choice. He found himself in complete agreement. This girl seemed to know exactly his own thoughts, his own feelings and philosophical ideas, even more than his team did sometimes. And thinking of his team brought him back yet again to anxious thoughts of his commanding officer, thoughts he couldn't deny or push away. Thoughts that maybe his commanding officer wouldn't be able to save the day—or him—this time.
"Besides, he'll save me," he said aloud, just to reassure himself.
He was thoroughly shocked to hear her say the exact same thing at the exact same time.
********
Neither had anymore to say after that, and she could tell he was too tired to keep up the charm, so she let him doze, careful to not brush against him again, as much for his sake as for hers. The mothering instinct again, she thought to herself dryly. Yeah, it wouldn't do to startle him awake again—who knew what he'd do this time—but she was more concerned with making sure he got some sleep than she was with her personal safety.
Which just left her with her own thoughts for company. They weren't very pleasant thoughts. She'd been left in this cell since yesterday and was starting to feel desperate. If he didn't show up soon, she didn't know what she would do with herself…
She heard gunshots in the distance, but she knew they were within the building, and he was instantly awake and off the floor, displaying an amazing amount of energy for a man who'd just been sprawled out next to her and almost snoring.
"They're here," he said in unconcealable relief and looked rumpled for the first time since their meeting. It almost seemed as if sheer force of personality had held together an image of well-dressed and well-groomed young charmer, and now relief had relaxed even that most basic of cons.
"Who?" she asked, scrambling to her own feet and stumbling. Her muscles hadn't been prepared for the sudden movement, but his undeniable hope and sudden energy were as contagious as his smiles.
He gave her one of those smiles, she had the feeling the first genuine one she'd received, and she was suitably dazzled. "My friends. They tend to get impatient. Are you ready to go?"
Confusion seemed an almost permanent state of mind for her lately, she thought to herself in desperate wryness. Gallows humor only got you so far; she was reaching the end of her tether. "Ready to go?" she repeated blankly. "I can't."
The look he gave her suggested she was mad. And she probably did seem like it, too. "Why not?" he snapped, glancing back and forth between her and the door with longing clear in his pale eyes.
"My friend—"
The door burst open, a small crowd of people tumbling in. Both he and she jumped back in surprise, and an instant later he jumped forward again to join in the fray.
"Doctor!" she cried in undisguised relief. Her knees were abruptly wobbly; she could hardly stand. The relief she felt at seeing him was almost unbearable. She was finally free.
The Doctor clambered out of the mass of limbs and ran over to her, picking her up in a fierce, full-bodied hug. "Thank goodness you're all right," he whispered.
She stared over his shoulder, pushing a strand of his golden-brown curly hair out of the way so she could have a better view. Three wildly strange men were punching, hitting, and acting in various other violent ways toward a small group of guards. The guards were most definitely losing.
He was fighting too, landing a blow directly in the face of the guard who had pushed him into the cell a scant two or three hours before. The guard promptly fell to the floor, unconscious, and a feral grin crossed his healthily tanned face as he turned to the next guard.
She watched the well-trained instincts take over, the movement of muscles beneath his still remarkably-impeccable suit. He seemed to be enjoying himself, all his former weakness, exhaustion, and urbane charm gone in an instant.
She didn't recognize him at all.
The Doctor let her go and also turned to face the fighting, a disapproving frown settling on his face. The four team members finished their fight, he and the one in the crumpled leather jacket grinning at each other and giving each other an exuberant high five.
The white-haired man with the cigar clamped between his teeth turned to the Doctor and smiled around his cigar, holding out a gloved hand to the younger man. "Thanks for your help in getting us in here," he said, his words not at all affected by the impediment in his mouth.
"Not at all," the Doctor answered, shaking the other man's hand. "But did you have to be so…violent?"
The leader looked down at the pile of unconscious bodies and shrugged. "They'll be fine when they wake up." He turned to the young blonde in the pale suit and said, "Ready to go, Face?"
She had kept her gaze on him—Face—the entire time, never once looking away from him. She was surprised at how badly he now scared her. There was definitely more to him than met the eye, even more than she'd suspected.
She realized he was looking at her now, uncomfortable, as if he could tell she was afraid of him. Face. Huh. Well, he certainly had one. "Yeah, Hannibal," he said, finally looking at his CO. The con man was still there, she could see him, but that part of him was subsumed by the soldier now. "We can go now." He stood imperceptibly straighter, the exhaustion carefully swept off his face, all signs of weakness disappearing now that he was with his team again.
Damn you she thought at him angrily. He seemed to catch the thought; he met her gaze again unblinkingly, forcing her to realize she really didn't know him, what lay beneath, and then he smiled dazzlingly, his face again transforming into the debonair charmer, and she didn't know what to think anymore.
He stepped up to her, holding out his hand. Once again she found herself automatically taking it. "It was really quite lovely meeting you," he said, looking down at her, amusement dancing in those crystal blue eyes of his. "We must do this again sometime."
"In more pleasant circumstances next time I hope, Face," Hannibal said, watching the two younger people in undisguised interest.
He was still holding her hand, she noticed distantly. He gently turned it around, lightly holding her fingers, her thin wrist, and brought the small white hand up to his mouth to kiss it. A tiny electric jolt shivered through her as she watched him, her eyes never leaving his, his eyes never leaving hers. He let her hand drop gracefully and took a step back from her.
"Good-bye," he said simply to her and turned away. He and his team left the room.
"Marc?" the Doctor asked quietly a cold, silent moment later. Still the water dripped down the walls, still with that irritating almost-beat.
"Good-bye," she whispered after him into the silence.
*********
He was awake and up the instant he heard the gunshots, relief overpowering his reason, his exhaustion, everything. He knew who it was.
"They're here," he said. The force of his relief suddenly hit him; he was really too weak for his own emotions at the moment, and he almost staggered to the floor again.
"Who?" she said, also standing up and absently brushing down her slacks and odd coat. He'd almost forgotten she was there.
He flashed her a wild, reckless grin, feeling alive for the first time in days. "My friends. They tend to get impatient. Are you ready to go?"
She shook her head, not in negation but in slow-thinking and slow-reacting confusion. "Ready to go?" she repeated blankly. "I can't."
"Why not?" he snapped impatiently, glancing at the door again and again and fidgeting. He knew his team would be here any moment. He just wished they'd hurry up. He couldn't wait to get out, and he couldn't understand why she could wait.
"My friend—" she started, but her words were drowned out by the door bursting open and a pile of people—guards, his friends, and someone else, a complete stranger—tumbling in.
He jumped into the fray gladly, only distantly noticing the utter stranger shake himself loose and launch himself at the girl to give her a bear hug. So this was her friend. She had a stricken, slack look on her face, as if too much had happened for her to comprehend. But it didn't matter, not really, not when his freedom (of a sort, anyway) was an opened-door away, and he had a fight to win, and his friends were by his side again.
He punched the guard who had treated him so ruthlessly, and he watched the brute fall, satisfaction giving him more strength to face the next man.
He felt good.
He high-fived Murdock, flashing his friend a grin, and abruptly caught her eye. He froze, all the good feeling and adrenaline leaching out of him when he saw the look on her face. Hannibal was talking to the other man, her friend, but he didn't hear anything until his commanding officer said his name. "Ready to go, Face?"
He'd just said the same words to her. Her gaze was burning into him, but he couldn't look away, no matter how much he wanted to.
Still, Hannibal's personality was the stronger, and his gaze finally broke away from hers. "Yeah, Hannibal," he said into the abruptly ringing silence, feeling all their gazes on him, hers especially. He felt himself straighten, his face slacken into impassivity, almost of its own accord. "We can go now."
He cautiously peeked to see if she was still glaring at him. She was. He fell back onto all he had, all he'd ever had—his charm. He smiled at her, stepped up to her, holding out his hand. She automatically took it, her hand seeming to move independently of her brain, while her dark, burning turquoise eyes bored into him. "It was really quite lovely meeting you," he said, hating the ease in the way the light words fell from his mouth, conveying nothing. He knew no one, least of all her, could tell he was shaking inside, shaken by the intensity of that gaze. "We must do this again sometime."
Hannibal said something else, but he didn't pay attention. She was finally calming down, the anger and fear and—what else?—finally draining away from her pale face, out of her dark eyes. He found himself, entirely without conscious thought or initiative, taking her hand and brushing it with his lips. The coldness of her hand on his mouth stung, sending a shiver down his spine. He dropped her hand, watching her face carefully. She looked confused again, her emotions overwhelming her, unable to cope or sort out what she felt.
Best to leave now then.
"Good-bye," he told her, bowing his head a little, so she couldn't see his eyes. He turned away quickly, so she wouldn't see the confusion also written on his face. He led his team out of the cell, away from her, away from that place and time.
He realized he'd never learned her name.
So what do you think? Awe-inspiring piece of unadulterated Art? Or melodramatic piece of utter crap? How 'bout a happy medium? Comments, please! : )