Disclaimer: BBC, Kudos; they own it all.
Warnings: *Spoilers for 9.8
A/N: Too many theories out there not to be used. Wish I could credit, but the discussions have been far too extensive - if your fan theory ends up here, give a shout-out. For this first chapter; starting out with something simple. :) Reviews, comments and ideas welcomed as always.
The young nurse ushers him in with an uneasy smile, her eyes straying between the guard at the door and the man on the bed. Harry thanks her, and she hastily takes her leave.
The room is quieter now without the hiss of the ventilator, though the monitors still keep watch over their charge. Harry had received the call in the early hours of the morning; had felt a mild surprise that they had decided to inform him of Lucas' stabilized condition.
"I suppose they've got me on regular obs."
The voice is husky - Harry suspects it is from more than just disuse. He stops his scrutiny of the machines and wires still surrounding the bed and regards Lucas with a crooked smile.
"You jumped once." Harry looks discomfited; the smile flickers and, for a moment, bends wrong. He colours his tone with sufficient inquiry when he continues, "it wouldn't be wrong to think you would do it again."
Lucas' laugh is hollow. "Both legs, ribs, a wrist, and a shoulder. I'm not going anywhere, Harry."
"No," Harry allows a full grimace. "No, you're not."
The former agent runs his good hand along the bedrail. Fiddles aimlessly with the bed covers, tugs at the IV line.
"Why didn't you just let me die?"
"I don't know," Harry answers truthfully.
Fingers close into a fist around the sheets, and Lucas glares at the door and the unseen guard behind it. "It would've been kinder to let me bleed out on the streets."
"Yes. But justice has to be served."
It is a cold statement coming from him, Harry knows, and almost cruel. He feels a tug of guilt – kicking a man when he's down, this man, who used to be one of his own, suddenly sits uncomfortably with him.
"Stop that." Lucas snarls, blue eyes sparking silver. "Don't you dare. I don't want your pity."
"What do you want, then?" Harry snaps the words out with uncovered bite.
For a moment Lucas had looked ready to spring, muscles coiled in his neck and teeth bared. But any notion of menace fades on the backdrop of plaster and tubing, and the flash of pain that he determinedly dampens as his movements jar healing bones.
The fight goes out of the younger man in one long exhale.
"Too many things. Too impossible things."
Lucas sighs and rubs at the bridge of his nose, jaw muscles tense under cheeks rough with days' old stubble. Harry realises, with a sudden chill, that he looks almost as he had looked the day they got him back (has it really been 3 years?)
"So this is it." Lucas lifts his gaze back up. "An issue for clemency would be impossible, then, given the– given my circumstances?"
Harry goes for a smile again, knowing it would come out grim. "I wouldn't call anything impossible. But yes, very far from likely."
The hand on the bedrail is shaking slightly now, and the monitor beeps a little louder, a little faster.
"So what will it be? Another eight years? Ten? Twenty-five?" Lucas' voice wavers. "You and I, we'd both call it deserved, but I can't, Harry, I- not again. Not again."
- You know, when you sent Lucas to Moscow, he paid an appalling price.
- He was an excellent field officer, but that was then. Things are different now.
- How is he?
Who knows? Damaged.
He has slid into the chair by the bed before he realises he's there, and takes Lucas' hand in his. The grip is excruciatingly tight as Lucas latches on, but he returns it, anchors it. Wants to be here for him, for when he was not, all those years ago.
"You want justice?" The smile cracks before it can form, but Lucas tries again. "Life for a life then, for every person I've killed. The figures don't add up, but it's retribution all the same, isn't it?
"So kill me. Kill me now." It is a rictus grin when he finally succeeds.
Harry shakes his head, tries to tighten his already painful grip. They will both have bruises in the morning.
"You know I can't."
The long fingers slacken, signaling an end to the contact. When Harry does not reciprocate, Lucas jerks his hand away with a surprising violence.
"Then why are you here?" He asks coldly.
"Lucas…" Harry feels the edge of uncertainty touch his mind. The loss of contact had shocked an odd pain into him, sharpening now in reaction to this new hostility. He wants to believe this to be salvageable, somehow.
"Lucas," he tries again.
"Go away, Harry." Lucas closes his eyes. "I'm tired."
He lingers by the bedside for the rest of his stay, hoping for a further response, another diatribe, anything that could reestablish even a shadow of their former relationship. If they could only talk, properly. He had meant to, that night, but he has left it now far too late.
Lucas remains silent. So then, does he.
When the hour has passed, the guard enters and formally, politely, informs him that visiting hours are over. He gets up, shaking out stiff legs. Lucas does not stir when he makes his way to the door, motionless under the covers save for the rise and fall of his chest.
Harry takes a look back.
"I'll come see you tomorrow, Lucas."
And walks out without waiting for a reply he knows will not come.