Obviously, this story contains major spoilers for British Organisation Without A Cool Acronym. Don't read this unless you've finished that.

…

Alone in his cubicle, James Williams cursed as his hand slipped, knocking his plastic cup of water onto the floor. Ignoring the growing water stain on the floor, James swallowed and looked down at his violently shaking hands. He slowly clenched them into fists, but that just made them shake harder, so he opened them out again, tipped his head back, and sighed sadly.

Then he quickly straightened up.

No, James. You're not allowed to do this. You have to let the pain envelop you, like you've been doing for five years. You don't deserve help.

It was these kinds of poisonous thoughts that had been ruling James's head for the last five years. And he had let them. After what he had done, he knew he didn't deserve anything better.

He had been avoiding everyone who had been involved in the incident five years ago. Ruth, Robin, Zero, Ferb, Gretchen. Especially the two people he had scarred the most.

Stephen Bush.

And Esther van Dyke.

He had had a few exchanges with Esther over the years, but he hadn't spoken to Stephen since that day. Every time it looked like they were about to meet in the corridor, he always either turned around or went a different way. Once, Stephan had called his name. Not wanting to hurt Stephen any more, James hadn't replied.

It was getting increasingly harder to avoid his former friends. Since Ruth had now been promoted to deputy of the entire organisation, she was everywhere. But Ruth, along with Ferb and Gretchen, was one of the very few people to forgive him completely. But he didn't hold that very highly; he hadn't hurt them like he had the others.

Leaving the mess in his office, James stumbled out into the corridor and awkwardly stood up straight as two agents' heads turned to face him. He exhaled and forced himself to smile at them. Nobody else knew about his betrayal. He looked weak enough as it was; poor James Williams, no longer on B.O.W.C.A.'s top ten list, no friends, never out on missions.

All three of those parts were true. Since he never went out on missions anymore, several agents had surpassed him in skill until he was barely on B.O.W.C.A.'s top TWENTY list. And he had alienated himself to the point of having no friends. None of his former friends, and certainly no new friends. He wouldn't be able to bear it if he hurt someone else the way he had hurt Esther, Stephen, and Robin.

Speaking of Robin…

"James?"

James's head jerked up and he found himself looking into the frowning face of Maria "Robin" Robinson. Her facial injuries had long since faded, but James could still almost see the massive bruise covering most of the left side of her face.

The bruise HE had inflicted on her.

James's mouth opened and closed but no sound came out. He hung his head so that he didn't have to look at Robin anymore, but, remembering his vow to make himself feel all the pain, forced himself to look back up at her. "I was just leaving, Maria," he told her, his voice croaky.

Had it really been so long since he last used his voice?

Robin's frown deepened. "James, nobody calls me Maria. Not even my own parents. Please come back to us. We miss you."

James squeezed his eyes shut and lifted his chin. "I was just leaving," he repeated dully, opening his eyes to look her in the eye. "If you wish to talk, you will have to find someone who will not assault you."

Robin's frown melted into a concerned grimace. "Is that what this is about?"

"It's not about anything, Maria. Goodbye." Expertly holding back tears, James moved past Robin and walked normally down the corridor. Nobody even gave him a glance as he reached the door to the stairwell.

As he placed his hand on the door to push it open, he felt a sharp pain shoot through his chest. He winced and pressed his other hand against his chest to try and suppress the pain. Normally he would let himself feel it, but people were nearby.

Unfortunately, just as he managed to open the door, he found someone else on the other side.

"Oh!" Gretchen Fletcher flinched and stepped back, jiggling the little bundle in her arms.

James swallowed nervously and moved back to allow Gretchen to come through. However, Gretchen didn't move. She put on a friendly smile. "James, hello. How are you?"

James didn't reply. Instead, he dropped his gaze and bit the corner of his lip, hoping Gretchen wouldn't say anything else to him.

Luckily, she didn't. She awkwardly came through the door and passed James on her way towards her office. As she did, James caught a glimpse of the seven-month-old baby in Gretchen's arms. It was the first James had seen of little Lydia Fletcher, the daughter of Gretchen and Ferb Fletcher. He had overheard Ferb telling many stories in the staffroom about his beautiful daughter, and he knew that Gretchen brought little Lydia into the office most days now, but he had never actually seen the baby for himself. And he hadn't wanted to. He didn't even deserve to.

Finally, James reached the front door. Pushing it open, he strode out into the cold. Being midwinter, an eighteen-inch blanket of snow was on the ground, and James immediately shivered, regretting coming outside in just his jeans and hoodie.

He never wore suits anymore. The suit with the bullet hole and bloodstains was hanging up in his wardrobe at home, gathering dust with his five other suits. He just wore the same jeans, T-shirt, and hoodie for a week, then washed it over Sunday, when he didn't have to work. Inspector Initials hadn't seemed to notice his new wardrobe, but even if she had, she didn't seem to care.

When he got home, he was frozen. But he wasn't making any effort to protect himself from the cold. It was just more pain for him to bear. He took off his hoodie, flung it onto his bed, went into the bathroom, and ran a bath. He allowed himself the luxury of warm water, but not hot, the way he used to like it.

Lying in the warm water was the best he had felt in a long time. Lying there, with the warmth enveloping him… It was a pleasant change from pain.

He only allowed himself brief breaks like this. His home was his safe haven. It was the only time he allowed himself to be safe…warm…happy.

Well, not happy. Just not depressed. He hadn't been happy for many years, since before Truth Day, as he knew it as. `

And he knew he would never be happy again.