Hello, all! This has been bouncing around in my brain for a couple of years, courtesy of the wonderful Mr. Armitage in MI-5/Spooks and dear friends who helped me through the technical details. It just took me until now to nearly finish it.
Some notes to start:
1. I don't own MI-5/Spooks. Or Lucas North (tho, I kind of wish I did).
2. I'm an American playing pretend in London, so please forgive the Americanisms for these British characters.
3. It's quite difficult to develop a company name that doesn't actually exist in this modern age of the internet. So, to avoid any confusion with real life companies because I really don't want to be sued, I went for 'The Hobbit' reference.
Thanks for stopping by! And stay tuned...
Rated T (for now): Language
Chapter 1: Kitchen Blood
There was mud in her hair. She had tried in vain to get some of the globs out before leaving the power plant, but it was pointless really. There was mud in her boots, on her jeans, her badge, smeared on her drawings. Fucking rain. Fucking construction. Fucking project.
It felt good to swear after a long day of professionalism. The Durin Construction Group was a bunch of wannabe engineer renegades who pulled this whole pump system replacement design out of their asses and expected it to work. Shame on them. Double fucking shame on them because it was a nuclear power plant. And as the plant's project engineer, Celia couldn't stand it. Every day, something didn't match or wouldn't fit, and she had to bite her tongue to hold back every swear word in her arsenal.
But not right now. She was officially off the clock and could do whatever the hell she wanted to get over the day. Like sleep. Just sleep. She couldn't remember the last time she clocked 8 hours of sleep. And it was Thursday. Tomorrow was her day off. After a nice, long, hot shower – or better yet a bath, followed by a shower – she was going to bed to pass out. Never mind her phone or the emails that piled up. Tonight was her night.
She pulled her car to the kerb with a satisfied sigh, pulling the key from the ignition and tugging at the damp, stiff fabric of her jeans. God, how she couldn't wait to shed her wet, soiled clothes for something warm and soft. She pulled her backpack out of the backseat, locking the car in her wake as she approached her place, inserting the key into the lock.
Her stomach dropped as she felt no resistance from the deadbolt. The door was unlocked. Had she really been so wrapped up in work this morning that she forgot to lock the door? Her senses heightened, prepared for the worst, as she pushed the door open, glancing anxiously around.
No lights were turned on and nothing looked disturbed. Maybe she was just that scatterbrained this morning. It wouldn't be the first time she had gone off and forgotten something so obvious thanks to this job. She flipped the nearest light switch, stooping to untie her mud-caked boots. They would have to be cleaned in the morning, but that was for tomorrow.
She stepped onto the laminate entry way in her moist socks, sighing in relief to finally have her feet free, stopping as her eyes landed on the living room carpet.
What…what the hell was that stain? It couldn't be wine since she hadn't opened a bottle in several days; besides that, it still looked wet. The hairs on the back of her neck stood up as she realized what is also looked like. Blood. She gulped nervously, gripping her backpack tighter as she moved more into her flat.
More blood red drip spots greeted her eyes as she surveyed the carpet. Surely there wasn't…someone in her flat? Her heart raced at the thought, adrenaline sharpening her senses. Though, if this person was really bleeding all over her carpet, then how could he or she be much of a threat?
She flipped on the kitchen light, swiftly rounding the kitchen doorjamb with a white-knuckle grip on her backpack, ready to swing it in defense. She froze at the sight before her.
"Oh my god…." A man was kneeling in the middle of her kitchen floor in a pool of blood. Her kitchen towels were clutched tightly in his crimson stained hands, pressed against the left side of his abdomen. He didn't turn his ebony haired head at her words, much to her surprise – in fact, he gave no response to her presence at all. "Who…who are you?" She fought to keep her voice steady, sidestepping into the kitchen to get a better look at him.
The defined angles of his face were pale and pained, his eyes closed as though in deep, pensive meditation. His dark coat and jeans did nothing to help his pallor as she watched him struggle in stiff, shallow breaths.
"Someone in need of medical attention." His voice was deep and precise, concentrated to manage his pain.
"Then what are you doing in my kitchen?" She countered, forcing another nervous swallow. "I don't know how to fix…whatever has you bleeding on my kitchen floor."
"Bullet wound. I can't be sure what it hit," he drew a sharp wheeze, "but I have a good idea."
"Oh god," she gasped, swinging her pack around to scramble for her cell phone, "please stay alive until the ambulance arrives."
"No." He stiffly responded. "No EMS."
"But, you must get to a hospital…you'll die otherwise."
"I don't deny that," he said wryly through another wheezing breath, "but it would be simpler for us both if you drove."
"If I drive…." She trailed off, lost to the absurdity of the situation that she couldn't comprehend. This was supposed to be her night…but the more she looked at him, the more she knew her damp jeans, her shower, her bed would have to wait. She simply couldn't afford to let this stranger die in her kitchen.
"Ok…fine. Let's go. I don't want you to die…whoever you are."
"I won't hurt you." His voice was noticeably weaker than before yet he slowly rose to his feet, swaying slightly as his eyes finally opened. Her breath caught to see the ice blue color, unfocused as they were, on the border of delirium.
"This way, come on." She backpedaled out of the kitchen slowly, trying to hold his eye contact to help keep him focused. Surprisingly, he managed to walk on his own feet, not asking for help even though he was sluggish and unsteady in his movements.
She turned frantically to the entryway closet, fishing out of a pair of flipflops, ripping off her damp socks. Fortunately, he was moving slowly enough that she was still able to reach the front door before him.
She watched him wearily approach her car, half expecting him to drop dead in the front lawn. Grimacing, she cursed her lack of foresight as he dropped with a hiss to passenger seat, already smearing it with blood.
"Why were you shot?" She couldn't help but ask as she pulled into the street.
"I tried to stop a bad guy." His rich voice was starting to slur, drawing her concerned gaze.
"Hey, hey…stay with me." She pleaded, instinctively reaching a hand over to his forearm, gripping the solid muscle in a gentle shake.
"I'm still here." Only his lips moved, barely. The rest of him was amazingly corpselike, eyes pensively closed, head tipped back against the headrest. His skin was so pale in the darkness. She pressed the accelerator harder, praying for green lights all the way.
"How do you define bad guy?" She asked, trying to keep him engaged, to draw him out of his head and the pain. "Are you police?" She swallowed nervously. "A criminal?"
"Neither." He answered simply with what she wasn't sure was a faint laugh or hiss of pain.
"We're almost there." She reassured him, rounding the last turn.
"I'll make it." His voice was eerily confident, almost like he could control his body from bleeding out.
"No offense, but I don't think you get a say in the matter." She thought she saw his lips curl in the bright lights of the ER entrance awning. "Stay here. I'll get someone."
"No. I can walk." His hand rose to the door, fumbling with the handle before it swung open, his legs slowly following. She shook her head uncertainly, knowing he needed to stop moving but not coming up with words to stop him. His steps were short, measured as though every last ounce of his strength was propelling him forward. She clung close to his side, ready to catch him.
"Please, we need help." She called out across the lobby as they entered, hoping someone in charge would see how close to collapse this man was.
"Yes, miss," a pleasant faced nurse appeared out from behind the main desk, her face creasing with worry as she studied him, "what happened?"
"Bullet." He answered, his eyes dropping closed, weaving where he stood. The nurse wrapped a steadying arm around him.
"We'll need more information from you both, but I'll take you back. Mary!" She called out to the other nurse at the main station, looking down to the blood-soaked towels still clutched against his stomach. "Get William out here. And security." The bleeding man offered a sloppy shake of his head as another attendant—a young man, presumably William approached, wrapping his other arm in a firm hold. He slumped forward in their hold, leaning down to the nurse's ear and whispering something. Celia stared curiously, watching his lips move, but unable to make out anything he was saying. The nurse pulled back from him with a concerned look of alarm.
"William, stay with him a moment. And Albert," she looked to the newly arrived security guard, "don't let her leave." Just as Celia opened her mouth to protest, the nurse walked back to the main desk, bending over a computer, typing something. Her mouth opened in a gasp as she read whatever was on the screen and looked back up to them. "We need to notify Dr. Bailey at once that this man requires his attention. Surgery will most likely be needed." She rounded the desk in an urgent jog. "William, help him back – now. Start prepping him."
"Come along, sir." William encouraged softly, guiding the bleary dark-haired man towards the heavy double doors. Celia looked after them, confused, unable to decide if she should follow. What the hell had he told the nurse? What had she looked up?
"What? Who is he?" She asked at last, turning back to the pleasant faced nurse who was now talking in low whispers with the security guard. "What's going on?" Both the guard and the nurse turned towards her as if they'd forgotten about her until now.
"By law, you are required to wait here until further notice," the nurse started. "Albert will keep an eye on you until you're needed." Celia looked to the guard, noting how remarkably alert he looked for the late-night hour.
"Required by law?" She echoed, her mind racing—what about her car? Her uncomfortable jeans? Her day off tomorrow? "How long will I have to wait?" The nurse offered a sympathetic smile.
"Too soon to know. It'll depend on Mr. North's condition."
"Mr. North?" She hated only speaking in questions. "The man that William just took back."
"Yes, him. Now please," she placated with a smile and gesture, "I need to go assist Dr. Bailey, but please wait here. Albert will be keeping watch. We'll let you know when we need you. Thank you."
Celia stood dumbfounded as the nurse turned and headed for the back, presumably to tend to the mysterious Mr. North. How could that possibly be a real name? And who was he to command such immediate attention?
"Can I have you name, please?" She shook from her raging questions at the guard—Albert's—words.
"Celia…Celia Gordon."
"Miss Gordon, how did you come into Mr. North's company tonight?" She wanted to laugh at the formality of the question.
"I came into his company when I came home from work and found him bleeding all over my kitchen." Albert looked at her dubiously, his eyes searching. "That's it…I swear. I didn't even know his name was Mr. North until just now." She couldn't be sure if her believed her or not, but she wasn't sure she cared. She couldn't do anything about it either way.
"As Pamela already informed you, we need you to remain here. I can work with what you've given me for now, but more questions will have to be answered in time."
"Ok…I really don't know anything else." She tried again, hoping maybe he would cut her a break, take pity on her. Her damp jeans were starting to chafe – and couldn't he see the mud in her hair?
"Please, just have a seat." He gestured to the nearest bank of waiting room chairs. "I'll come get you when they're ready for you."
"When they're ready for me?" Her mind sparked with fear fueled by uncertainty. Just who or what had she gotten herself tangled up in by helping him?
"Please, Miss Gordon, have a seat. I cannot divulge anything else at this time."
"What about my car? It's out under the awning."
"It will be taken of, if you'll please be so kind." He motioned again to the nearest chairs as she sighed, looking down at the plastic chairs in disappointment.
So, this was to be her night. Condemned to waiting in the ER until god knows when. She huffed in annoyance, dropping to sit and shifting about on the stiff chair cushion to make herself comfortable. She should have taken the two minutes to change her jeans before they left. A yawn overtook her as she sat, glancing to the clock. 11:49 pm. She sighed again, resigning herself to settle in for the long haul.
xxx
"Miss Gordon? Excuse me…please wake up, Miss Gordon."
Her eyes cracked open, squinting in the bright fluorescent light, groaning at the stiffness in her neck.
"Yes? Hi," she offered a weak smile at the nurse, Pamela, from earlier, "what time is it?" A yawn followed the end of her words.
"Almost 4:30 am." Celia's face scrunched in displeasure as she shifted in the god-awful chair. "You're wanted in the back now. The gentleman you brought in is stable and out of surgery." She straightened, slowly rising to her feet, suppressing another yawn and resisting the urge to stretch.
"How is he doing?" She followed Pamela back through the double doors.
"Poor dear is still lucky to be alive. The doctor was surprised Mr. North was even still conscious, he had lost so much blood. But I'm happy to report, though, that he should make a full recovery." Pamela stopped outside a room with a cracked door, nodding at it with a smile. "They want to see you alone."
"Who's they?" She asked, brow furrowing as Pamela's smile tightened with faint annoyance.
"Just go in, dear. I wouldn't keep them waiting." Pamela knocked soundly on the door, pushing it open as Celia stepped tentatively forward. Her eyes fell first to the bed where the man—Mr. North—peacefully reclined, still ungodly pale, a collection of tubes and wires leading between him and the surrounding equipment. She hadn't really noticed earlier in the rush of it all, but he was strikingly handsome. Was it wrong to think someone unconscious in a hospital bed so attractive?
"Miss Gordon." Her eyes darted to a tall, severe blond woman whose voice conveyed all authority in soft, round tones. Celia couldn't help but be jealous of how put together this woman looked for 4:30 am. Was this Mr. North's girlfriend? Wife?
"Yes, the nurse said you wanted to see me." She looked between the woman and the shorter, older man behind her who had yet to speak.
"Ros Meyers, Security Services." Celia's eyes widened in surprised confusion, turning to the man in the bed.
"And him?"
"Lucas."
"Security Services, also?"
"We all are." The older man stepped forward, congenially holding out his hand. "Harry Pearce."
"Celia Gordon." She gave her name on instinct, shaking Harry's hand.
"The doctors are calling the surgery a success," he said, "they say he should make a complete recovery in a month or so, maybe less. Depends how he cooperates." Ros' face tightened in annoyed lines on Harry's words, already dreading the fights ahead to keep him in bed to recover.
"I'm glad to hear it," Celia said with a small nod, fighting back a yawn, "he didn't show it, but I know he had to be a in a lot of pain."
"He thrives on it—uses it to keep pushing himself," Ros said sagely, "he has known little else in the last eight years."
"Poor man." Celia turned her tired eyes to the bed, further studying the strong line of his jaw, the fall of his raven hair. Suddenly she wanted to see those ice blue eyes again. Why couldn't she have just met him somewhere normal?
"Where did you find him?" Harry's soft question cut through her thoughts as she turned back to him and Ros.
"I found him in the middle of my kitchen floor, in a pool of blood," she shook her head almost in disbelief as she continued to recount, "I came home from work and found the door unlocked. I don't remember if I left it unlocked this morning, but I don't know how he could have possibly picked it in his condition. There was blood on the carpet and the trail lead me to him. That's it." She shrugged her shoulders, not sure what else to say or what else they wanted to hear.
"Did he ask you to bring him here?" The continually collected tone of Ros' voice was unnerving. Celia had the distinct impression that Ros knew the answers before even asking the questions.
"Yes, well—not here specifically, but to a hospital. He said it would be simpler if I drove….," Celia's eyes widened in sudden uncertainty, "was somebody after him? Are they…would they know about my home?"
"No, Miss Gordon," Harry said comfortingly, offering a reassuring smile. "We have checked your place and neighborhood since we were notified of Lucas' admission. You will find your kitchen cleaned and in pristine condition. Thank you for your help this evening."
"You…you had my place cleaned? In the…," she paused, unable to recall exactly how much time had passed, "while I was asleep in the waiting room?"
"He was looking for a place to hide just long enough to patch himself up," Harry said gently, "you shouldn't have to suffer from the inconvenience of his decision."
"I…well, thank you, I think." The absurdity of the situation was staggering. Security Services – fucking MI-5 – had her kitchen cleaned because their officer bleed all over the place. She supposed it made since, but still…who the hell had a story like that?
"It was the least we could do," Ros offered a brief flash of a smile, "thank you, again. Go get some sleep." Celia snorted a soft laugh, shaking her head as her eyes fell to her disgustingly stiff clothes.
"I cannot wait. Thank you; goodnight. I'm – I'm glad your officer will be alright."
Harry and Ros offered up polite farewells and cordial smiles, watching the mud-splattered, exhausted woman turn for the door and quietly slip into the hallway.
"At least her story matches what the crew found at her place." Ros said softly, eyes still trained on the door.
"I didn't expect to hear any differently," Harry simply said, turning to Ros with a distantly amused look, "she was just a victim of Lucas' circumstance. They found no sign that her front door lock had been picked, so she unintentionally invited trouble—she just probably didn't expect it to arrive in the form of Lucas North."
"And now he is our problem," bitter annoyance tinged Ros' words as she glared at the bed, "he is going to be hell to deal with. It's a survival instinct for him now…he won't take bed rest willingly."
"Then we'll just tie him down if we have to, but he'll get there. Meanwhile," Harry cast one last fatherly glance towards the bed before he moved to gather his coat, "we still have jobs to do."
