Serious writer's block. Well, when I say 'writer's block', what I really mean is 'procrastinating on a project I should have finished several millennia ago'.
Read, review and enjoy! Might turn this into a long fic. Set in an AU series 9, after the appearance of Beth and Dmitri.
Disclaimer: Spooks isn't mine; if it were, Lucas would still be alive.
The bulbous raindrops that were typical of the London skyline fell swiftly and heavily, their impact on the ground combining to make a never-ending percussion that beat intensely onto the capital's streets. It was a gloomy reminder to those who happened to be unfortunate enough to be pacing the streets that morning that it was probably not destined to be the best of days.
In the heart of Trafalgar Square a tall but slight man stood sombrely by Nelson's Column, his floppy black hair plastered to his ashen face by the downpour. Across from his grey-eyed gaze, the Square's fountain thundered away as magnificent as ever, the contents blending chaotically with the ensuing rain.
A flash of lightning streaked across the sky, lighting London alight with its power for a split second – a small distraction from the endless torrents of rain. The man looked cautiously towards the sky, raindrops streaking down his chiselled jaw to his neck, dampening his open shirt collar. He closed his eyes contentedly for a moment as the chilling rain cooled his flaming skin; working with a fever was not the wisest decision he had ever made in his life. But his kind of work waits for no man to get over the flu.
His grey eyes lingered over the fountain, flitting across the Square from time to time as the foot traffic began to half-heartedly pick up as it approached lunch time in London. A few stockbroker types briskly hot-footed it across the soaking ground, golfing umbrellas and newspapers held aloft in an attempt to fend off the rain.
The man shrunk into his jacket slightly as the rain's intensity increased and then swiftly unbuttoned it, letting the water dot his dark brown shirt. A small smile crossed his lips.
A little better.
He placed a hand to his brow, the cool of his skin temporarily subduing the heady fever he was running. His hand abruptly dropped to his hip, the steel of his gun sitting comfortably in the palm of his hand within an instant of catching sight of the woman.
She was tallish – perhaps five feet seven – and gave him a run for his money in the pale and drawn stakes; her waifish limbs elegantly dropped the rucksack she was carrying onto the edge of the fountain, causing her loose green shirt to fall off her shoulder slightly, completely exposing her thin black tank vest to the elements. The woman hastily tugged her shirt back over her pallid shoulder, not bothering to button it up – the rain was clearly not something that caused her bother.
The man hesitantly took a step forward.
"Lucas, no," a voice crackled in his ear.
"Tariq, she's right there," he hissed into his shirt collar.
"Wait. We have to be sure that it's her," a second voice chimed in.
"Harry, who else could it be? She fits the description."
"Fits the description or is the description? We can't afford to make any mistakes here, as I'm sure you well know. Wait until she leaves. Approach if she leaves the bag, if not, follow from a safe distance."
Lucas muttered an agreement and returned to his position by the column, eyeing the thin woman rifling through the rucksack. She quickly zipped the blue bag up and promptly walked away, blending into the crowd like just another city worker.
"She's left the bag behind," Lucas muttered softly into the receiver, carefully pacing towards the fountain.
"Approach with caution. Do not under any circumstances touch the bag Lucas, do you hear me? Do not touch the bag," Harry spoke urgently, a rare hint of worry in his voice.
Lucas warily inspected the rucksack, watching for any obvious signs of tampering or sabotage. "It seems good. No signs of damage."
Good. Now walk away Lucas, we'll arrange for the bomb squad to dispose of it."
"Do we even know if it's a bomb? It's not as if we were handed any black and white intel, the whole leak could have been faked," he questioned, distancing himself from the fountain.
"If it can be avoided Lucas, under no circumstances will I allow British citizens to become victims of terrorist activity. Better a few hours of the bomb squad's services wasted than a Square full of bodies."
"True," Lucas agreed. "Alright Harry, I'm coming back on the grid—"
Lucas' words were drowned out by the fireball that erupted from the fountain behind him, rubble and debris flying through the rainstorm. Lucas flailed blindly through the air as he was lifted clean off his feet by the blast. He crumpled like a broken doll as he landed heavily on the concrete pavement, his ears ringing and head throbbing. Somehow he managed to conjure a thought coherent enough to tell him to contact the Grid.
"Harry?" he coughed into his collar. "It looks as if that intel was right all along."