Disclaimers:

A. Don't own John Porter or the Strike back - verse, not making any money off this, and have severe doubts anyone could.

B. This story was written as a great conceit. I believe strongly in the rule of fanfic that reads: "No one gives a crap about your Mary Sue." But we were presented with a challenge on the IMDB Richard Armitage board: "You'll Never Guess Who I Ran Into…" in which "we can imagine what it would be like to bump into one of RA's characters and what occurs." So I came up with the original "So I Met John Porter…" story and a couple others. I beg forgiveness, and hope that readers can use my Mary Sue as a lens through which to get to know these characters better.

C. This takes place after events in Strike Back Two: Project Dawn, with the alteration that John Porter is recued at the beginning of the series.

D. Much thanks to Caty for her input.

Chapter 1

October 2011

"No."

"It's a milk run John. You just need to retrieve the intel from the Firm's asset in Kolkata. One simple face-to-face," Layla says from behind her desk.

"I won't bring her anywhere near this."

"And you won't have to. Just meet the asset alone, bring back what she has to say."

"Send Stonebridge."

"I don't remember saying this was a discussion, Sergeant," she snaps coolly.

That's not fair, I think as I snap to. Most of the time part Layla and I get on well enough we don't have to resort to military form to get things done. Most of the time.

"Captain…"

She cuts me off. "At this time we have no other agents to send in that would not send up a red flare. You have not worked in that region before so you are unknown to them. You have been scheduled for this trip for months. To all appearances you're a tourist. It's not a high level asset, but Patel's reports indicate that we need to remain in regular contact or they might lose her. With Patel transferred to the ops center, they need someone to fill in the gap while we find another handler. I thought a little inter-agency favor would help Twenty in the long run, so I volunteered you….Look John, I understand your feelings and I would not ask this of you if I thought it would put her in danger," she finishes in a sympathetic tone.

It doesn't work. If it's a milk run, why the hell were they sending me? I've busted my arse to get back on the active duty roster. One cock up and I'm a fucking messenger boy.

If it was only my head on the block I wouldn't mind, but my capture made the Section send in the team to pull me out. Kyle. Another man down. When she debriefed me in hospital, Layla tried to reassure me that it was not my fault. Kyle's partner had moved into another room leaving him open before the building was secure. And everyone gave me credit for working out that I had been betrayed from the inside, even if it took Stonebridge and Scott to uncover Grant while while I was stuck in hospital. No one officially blamed me, but I feel like the mood in the Section says otherwise. I should have been more alert, more cautious. He should not have been there because of me.

My cock-up probably didn't reassure Layla, who lost command of Section 20 to Colonel Grant and just got it back. Everyone was surprised Layla stayed on after Grant came in. I think having gotten a taste for the "Dark Side" of the freedom of Special Forces, she wanted Section 20 back. Now that she has it, she is walking a fine line. The monumental clusterfuck of Grant's regime has put the programme under a lot of scrutiny from the MoD and Layla is trying to keep everyone's noses clean to keep the Section alive. Which probably means keeping old soldiers with blotted records out of sight until the dust settles.

Christ, I fucking hate politics.

As I walk down the hall to the conference room, I pass Stonebridge and Dani. Twat. But he's a twat who saved my arse so I nod politely they pass by, going over a file in low voices.

"Shipping out?" I ask, suddenly desperate to be in the loop again.

He half turns my way but keeps moving toward the lift. He has some place to be. "Yes. Quick run to one of our favorite vacation spots. Pint when I get back?" I don't bother to mention I'll be gone for three weeks, but nod and tell him to keep his head down with what I hope is a smile before I turn back toward the conference room with a file I know will only take me a few minutes to go over.

Because it's nothing.

I should be glad it's nothing. This was supposed to be our trip. We were going to do some hiking, celebrate Durga Puja with old friends, and then hop across the border into Bangladesh to visit Lexie. Not exactly the romantic getaway, but then Kip is always up for anything. More importantly, it was time for us to make up for time lost over the last year; missing the holidays, my birthday, our anniversary…. For being a complete wanker after I got back from Pakistan with a handful of shotgun pellets tearing up my leg.

She'd known the op had gone tits up somehow. During debriefing Layla told me the morning after I didn't make contact she got a message from Kip asking if I was O.K. Once she knew that I was out of communication, she asked to be notified of anything drastic, cryptically notified Alex "there was a problem," and then waited.

So was I, in the dark. Alone. Time only marked by beatings and questions and putting me on display while I worked out how I had ended up there. Staring into that video camera, trying to look defiant while wishing to God someone was on the other side. That someone saw me. That Kip did. That Lexie did. The first time that little red light came on I wanted them to be on the other end so much I couldn't breathe. That I was somehow looking at my girls and they were looking at me across the miles and pain and dark.

And then the light went off. I think that moment did more to break me than the ten days of isolation and torture did.

Beyond not revealing any information other than what is on your I.D. tags, the regular Army can make decisions on how to best survive imprisonment without dishonoring the U.K. or the service, but in the Regiment an older standard of honor applies and most troopers would rather take a shallow grave than collaborate by parroting some psychotic manifesto.

I was going to keep my mouth shut and I was going to kill that fucker if it was the last thing I ever did.

Then they held up that card. The one with my name. My real name. HOW DID THE FUCK DID THEY GET MY NAME!

That was when I knew I had been sold out by someone in the Section. And I had to read it so that everyone watching would know.

Now I'm relieved they weren't there, that Kip and Alex never saw that. It makes me sick that anyone saw that. If the extraction team had come in minutes earlier, just five fucking minutes…

I can't say how it felt to see my girls in the London hospital. There are no words for that kind of relief, happiness, whatever that moment is. I never wanted to let them go. Even Lexie hung onto me for a while, and Kip kept holding my hand the entire visit. Would they have still held onto me if they known what I had done? I had faced Alex's disappointment in me before, I don't know if I could do it again.

Even so, after I got home the honeymoon did not last long.

For years I relied on working out every morning as a way of staying in shape, getting my frustrations out, and keeping a shred of pride in myself. Recovering from injuries, I could get to my bench to do the free weights for my upper body, but what I missed was running, being out in the grey light just as the world was waking up.

Stuck on the couch I went from bloke to bastard in seven days flat.

Alex was the first to bailout, returning to Oxfam in Bangladesh after I snapped at her and we got into a row. We'd patched things up via e-mail, but I have not spoken to her since. Kip bore up longer but with her temper I should have known it would only last so long before she gave me both barrels and stormed out. For a couple of days. She had not even pulled onto Kensington before texting me to say she was just angry and needed some time away. My temper got better as I got more mobile with physical therapy, but we never quite came back from that. It was like a tiny playful spark of her affection was buried…

I try to keep from thinking that I've seen that before.

And then there was that night….

And now when we need time together to sort this out, work is interfering.

For something they could send a bloody intern for.

Bollocks.

I promised to tell Kip what I could, to keep her informed enough to make her own choices, but I'm not sure this applies. I am still thinking it over as I park at the Greenwich campus. I smell the Thames in the chill Autumn sunlight slanting through the massive white buildings as I start across the grass to Queen Annes Court where I am meeting her to pick her up after her meeting with Greg.

Her advisor, I correct myself as her sharp voice barks out across the plaza.

"HEY! YOU ARSEHOLE! THAT'S MY WORK!"

Someone dark and skinny sprints across the front of the building heading for Romney Road, slinging a familiar backpack over his shoulder. My girlfriend pounds after him as she alternates hurling curses with demanding "GIVE IT BACK!" like a kid on a playground.

I can't help but smile a bit as I take off across the grass to intercept him.

I'm about a hundred yards into the pursuit when my leg starts screaming at me that it is not ready for Olympic trials and the little bastard dashes up the steps of Queen Mary and ducks behind the columns into the courtyard. I veer off, heading for Park Row, hoping the classrooms and hallways will slow him down so I can catch him at the East Gate.

But as just as I reach the iron gate what feels like a donkey kicks me in the small of my back into the street. I can hear tires squeal and feel my shoulders bruise as I roll across a car hood. I'm trying to right myself in narrow lane when two hands grab the back of my jacket and propel me across the road giving me a few seconds to throw my hands up to keep from being slammed headfirst into the iron railing on the far side. I swing wide as I turn round, trying to put some distance between me and my opponent. Too slow, too high. He ducks, staying in close so he can throw another punch. I roll with it last second so his fist glances off my chin, block the next jab, but catch the roundhouse kick full in the torso which winds me and throws me off balance. I go with it put some space between us and gain my bearings.

Right.

The pain in my leg is a muffled shout in the back of my head as I close with an opponent smaller than I had expected, of indeterminate east Asian extraction. By the clothes it is not the thief, but someone else. A shadow probably, now buying him time. Blocking a punch, I grab his leg with the next kick and swing him into the fence, staying inside his reach to snap his head back with an uppercut, following with two swift jabs in the solar plexus to keep him down.

I see the thief coming at me out of the corner off my eye and have to back off his Shadow to deflect the spinning back heel kick aimed at my head.

Well trained, I think as the momentum from the kick carries his fist into my ribs. Exhaling with the blow, I shift my weight back, ready for the next move when the thief shouts something and they both leg it, my ego soothed slightly by the stumbling, curled over run of the Shadow.

I'm not even tempted to follow.

I relax slowly, coming off the balls of my feet as I discover just how out of breath I am, gasping cold damp air in the grey shadows between the buildings facing the street.

Shit.

And then I lean up against the railing, trying to keep from curling in a ball as I discover the muscles in my thigh feel like they are tearing themselves apart.

FUCK!

There's a couple civilians asking if I'm alright when I see the backpack dumped few yards down the street. One of them hands it to me as Kip, a plod trailing in her wake, pushes her way through the small crowd and hugs me close.

"Oh my God, John. Are you o.k.?" She strokes my face as she looks at me, her dark green eyes wide and skin pale, making the red line of the healed cut on her temple stand out.

It was just a couple of muggers. A couple of muggers I should have been able to handle. I force myself to stand upright and control my breathing as I clear my throat. "Yeah, yeah. 'M fine. Here. They dumped it."

"What? Oh…Thank you." She half throttles me again briefly and gives me a quick kiss I don't have time to respond to before opening the various pockets on the bag.

"Are you missing anything, miss?" The cop asks after a few moments of watching her root around in it.

"No, I don't think…No. It doesn't seem so."

"They didn't find the wallet before Mr. Hero stopped them, I suppose," the officer says, taking the bag from her to look it over.

"Oh, I don't carry it in my bag," True, Miss Tomboy carries a wallet and mobile in her pockets. "That must be why they dumped it. "

"I'm surprised they left this," the officer replies, pulling her computer out.

"It's just a netbook, a glorified flashdrive with a keyboard. It was worth more to me for the work I had on it than any street value they could get for it. Thank you John." I get another kiss with a little linger this time, promise of rewards to come.

If my bloody leg will stop killing me.

"Yes, very brave of you, but they could have been armed. Next time just give us a call and let the professionals handle it."

Before Kip can correct him, I jump in, "Of course. Lost my head. Won't happen again."

I meet the sly sideways look she gives me with a wink.

"See that it doesn't. Can you give me a description of the suspects?"

"I'm surprised you couldn't pick it out" Kip asks from my kitchen table a couple of hours later.

"I've heard enough Malay, Korean, Chinese, and Japanese to know it wasn't any of those. Beyond that…" I shrug as her brindle and white Boxer-mutt Pilot yanks on the rope toy I have I my hand. Languages always were a weak spot. In the Regiment I struggled to learn more than a tourist could get by on. I have to watch El Mensual sometimes just to keep from losing bits of the Spanish I learned in school.

"Angel? What the hell does this mean?" She waves a paper in my direction.

Trying not to limp, pull 55 pounds of furry resistance over the table.

"You o.k.?" she asks, looking down at my thigh.

"Yup. Er…That's asking you to attach the form certifying your birth certificate." She looks at me skeptically. "I'm fine. I just overdid it a little."

Still skeptical, she takes the form back. "Well, thank you," she says quietly. "And thank the Gods you were in the military and understand red tape."

"I don't understand it," I reply as Pilot flops on her side and I drag her across the lino. "I just know how to fill it out. If you actually understand it, you are listed as certifiably insane and sent to Whitehall." I almost said, "…Intelligence," but I suppose I can't use that joke anymore.

This is the last break before the final push into her thesis defense, but that means her student visa is running out so Kip is also trying to get a Post-Study Work visa in order to stay in the U.K.. She starts growling as she sifts through mess of paper on the table, almost knocking over her wine glass. She's the only woman I met who growls. "Goddamnit! Where did I put that damn thing?"

Gets robbed, not a problem. Deals with government bureaucracy, big problem.

Bloody adorable.

Even when she is stressed out and stroppy, I think as I watch her bent over the table, her soft red and gold hair falling in waves and loose curls onto the pages as she mumbles to herself about what needs to be attached to what.

"You know, there is an easier way to keep you here than going through all this bullshit," I suggest from the doorway.

"What? Oh, heh." She blushes a bit, her pale skin easy to read as a book. "I don't think we're quite at that point of desperation."

Desperation?

"I don't know why I am bothering with all this," she continues. "It will just sit on some peon's desk for months before the next person up chain sends me a letter to tell me I forgot some other fucking form! The solicitor has been completely useless!"

"Then why don't you give it a rest," I snap, more abrupt than I meant to but she doesn't catch it. I take a deep breath before finishing more gently, "You can take care of it when we get back."

She breathes deeply for a moment. "No. I'm fine, I'm fine. Sorry. I just want to get this last bit done so I don't have to worry about it during our trip...I'm sorry this cut into one of our last nights at home."

I shrug, pull the rope from Pilot's teeth, put it up on the fridge, and head into the garage. Kip has too much on her plate to deal with my bullshit.

I'm not stewing. It was a joke.

Oh…Bugger! Even with the painkillers, I grit my teeth as I kneel slowly on a wad of rags on the floor to get down where I have the proper angle to work on the Roadrunner's quarter panel. I broke my ankle during a training jump when I was with the Parachute regiment and I was back on Active Duty in six weeks. These days…

These days I get my arse kicked by two muggers a good two stone lighter than me.

These days I let the Section down. I let Layla down. I fucked up and got caught, and now I'm handholding civilian assets. Low level civilian assets.

These days Stonebridge is ten years younger than I am.

I freeze a moment as the anger flips into a cold knot that grips my stomach.

Fuck it.

I've sufficiently lost myself in fine sanding the epoxy fill on the contour of the wing when I hear at knock at doorframe.

"All done...then?" I take my dust mask off and I slowly pull to my feet to find myself looking at her tits. Her shirt unbuttoned and no bra, the sweet swell of her breasts swinging slightly under the fabric. She smiles gently with a familiar heat in her eyes as she walks over to give me one of her patented full-contact kisses.

Warm and strong, her perfume smells of faintly lemon blossoms and summer sunlight and she tastes of sweet wine. I run my hands up and down her long curves and hold her tight.

When we come up for air, I rest my forehead on hers a moment. "Hold that thought, I have to wash my..."

But she slips her shirt off and lays it on the floor over the small pile of rags.

Then she slips to her knees.

Then...

"Oh god, yeah!"

Soft and warm and slow until I need it hard and hot and fast, taking her time, savoring it, until she drinks it all down.

Much later, God, I love this woman is the only thought that pushes it way through the haze as I slide down the side of the car onto the floor.

That and I'm never going to be able to smell bondo again without going to half mast.

She says nothing except a couple quiet "Ow's" and chuckling as she slowly straightens her knees out before sitting next to me, taking my hand and laying her head on my shoulder. A nice, comfortable moment.

Until she catches me staring at the red line on her temple.

"Stop it."

I exhale sharply as I look down at our hands. I didn't even know I was doing it. "Sorry."

"Stop that too."

In bed later as she sleeps, I can feel her warm body, her ankle hooked over mine. I stare at the ceiling, listening to her quiet breathing.

"Desperation."

I don't need to tell her about the meet.