Spider Webs

By: Odainath

Author's notes: This is an idea I had a long time ago that I have finally got around to writing. The story uses a lot of Season 7, but Zaf has returned, so it is slightly-AU; it will jump back-and-forth in time so I apologise in advance if it gets confusing. It is set just after episode 6 where the boy that Lucas had been minding was killed.

Enjoy and please review; this one means a lot to me.

Disclaimer: I do not own Spooks; it is the property of Kudos and the BBC.

He knew it was strange, for him to wait for Ros as he was now, but there was a part of him that knew something was wrong. He couldn't quite name what it was that made him uneasy, but it was something more than reason, more than the alertness of a spy, more even than instinct. Around him, people left for the day, Jo and Malcolm farewelling him, Ben following them soon after. Harry remained behind in his office, though that did not surprise Zaf in the slightest, whilst Connie sat at her desk, going over a number of files. Zaf looked around the Grid without really seeing; he couldn't focus on the report he was meant to be writing and there was nothing else that caught his attention.

Behind him, the pods opened, and he looked over his shoulder to find the object of his thoughts walking past him without a second glance. She looked shaky, not at all like her usual self, and kept running her fingers through her hair. The few people that remained seemed not to notice and he rose to his feet and followed Ros to the bathroom. He could hear no water running and knocked gently.

"Ros?"

No answer.

He pushed open the door to find her leaning against the bench, head down, looking into the sink. She was trembling slightly and turned when Zaf called her name again. The look in her eyes spoke volumes, of pain people in their profession tried to suppress.

"Ros, are you all right?"

Yesterday

The air-conditioning was turned too low and Zaf shivered where he sat. He'd been summoned here ten minutes ago, after successfully avoiding the past three appointments, but the in-house psychologist was yet to arrive. Zaf took the time to examine his surroundings; unsurprisingly, the room was minimalist, void of any personality, and felt like the quintessential shrink's office. Diplomas and other university certificates lined one of the walls, showing that Dr Helen Morgan had been an Honours student, completed a Masters Degree, and had received summa cum laude for her PhD.

Zaf supposed that he was meant to be impressed.

The door opened and, Helen Morgan, entered and gave him a small smile, which he didn't return. Smiling no longer came as naturally as it once had.

"So, Zafar," she said, sitting opposite him. "I have a few questions about your incarceration with the Redbacks..."

"I know."

She nodded and rested her clipboard on her knee, a pen poised above a notepad. She was reasonably attractive, in a corporate way; black suit, perfectly groomed hair, and immaculate make-up, yet she hadn't quite managed to pull off the look. There was something not quite right, the lipstick the wrong shade perhaps...

"That's good," Morgan said crisply, breaking his observations. "All right, we'll start with an easy one. How long were you imprisoned for?"

"Nine months," he answered, though why she needed to ask this was beyond him; it wasn't as if the precise date, time and location of his disappearance hadn't been filed and stored. All she'd need to do was type in a few keystrokes.

"A long time."

"It felt like it too."

"I'm sure."

Zaf didn't bother correcting her; the woman had no idea what it had been like. How it had felt when he heard footsteps approaching his cell, listening to the laughs of his captors, praying that he would be found, falling into depression when no one came for months, finally seeing a familiar face then watching them...

She had no idea.

"A colleague of yours, Ros Myers, was also captured, wasn't she?" Helen continued.

"Yes."

"How did you feel when she arrived; you two shared a cell, didn't you?"

Zaf said nothing.

"You must have felt something, Zafar, when Ros first arrived," pressed Helen when Zaf didn't elaborate. Helen Morgan was deceptively patient, Zaf realised, but inside she was easily irritated; she might think that she hid this irritability well from the outside world but Zaf was trained to notice such things.

A pause.

"I was glad to have company."

---

He didn't know how long he had been imprisoned for, and to be frank, he didn't care. Zaf counted his days by simple things; what type of torture was going to be used, what time he was fed, if he was fed. He could hear screaming but he closed his mind to the sound and looked at the wall. He had inscribed his initials into the concrete with a ring pull he had found and traced the grooves gently with his thumb. The letters 'Z and Y' were the only real friends he had now, and it was an odd sort of comfort to know that he, Zafar Younis, 'ZY', was alive. The door to his cell was flung open and he heard a 'thud' as something heavy collided with the ground.

Zaf didn't turn around, even after he had heard the door close. He'd had a number of cell-mates, all of whom had been killed. It was easier to ignore them, not to get attached. They – whoever 'they' were – dragged themselves along the ground towards the toilet and he heard the sound of retching. Unlike the others, this person didn't try and engage him in conversation, and Zaf continued to listen as they pulled themselves up enough to lean against the wall.

Against his better judgement he looked to the side and his eyes widened.

"Ros?"

She turned her head and he saw the swelling beneath her jaw and around her eyes; her nose had been broken and blood had dried on her face and neck, which she hadn't bothered to wipe away. He slid along the floor until he was next to her and used the corner of his shirt to clean her as best he could. She was barely conscious but he fancied that he saw her smile before she blacked out completely. Zaf took the time to examine her more closely; her hair was matted, her clothes filthy, but she appeared relatively well-nourished and he guessed she hadn't been incarcerated for a great length of time.

"We thought you might like a friend."

Zaf stiffened as the sound of that voice. He heard footsteps and was dragged upward, his arm twisted painfully behind his back.

"We're even going to let you watch."

---

"Just company?"

"What else would there be?"

He took a deep breath; he hadn't thought of these... events for so long in daylight, and for good reason. They were painful, almost excruciatingly so, not that Morgan cared.

"You weren't close?"

"Do you think we'll get out of here?"

"I don't know, Ros."

"Not overly; we were only together at night."

He blinked; trying to dispel the memories.

It didn't work.

---

Zaf struggled against his bonds as Ros was strapped to a board. She had been hanging from her wrists a few minutes ago, 50 000 volts of electricity running through her body, screaming like a mad thing but had revealed nothing. Now, as the board was tilted downward and a strip of material placed over her face, Zaf wondered if she would still hold out.

Water boarding had nearly broken him.

One of the men stood above her and dribbled a small amount of water onto the material. Ros struggled against the straps but her efforts were fruitless and Zaf flinched as she again began screaming.

"Who is Sugarhorse?"

A scream.

"Who is Sugarhorse?"

Another – louder - scream.

Zaf closed his eyes.

---

He looked down at the carpeted floor; a pale beige that showed every speck of dust. A ridiculous choice for floor covering.

"Why do you think they did that?" Morgan asked, shifting on the sofa, making the leather squeak.

"Kept us apart?" Zaf said, keeping his eyes on the floor. "I have no idea, ask them."

---

Zaf pushed against the bars, willing them to break, as he heard Ros' screams.

Scream.

"Who is Sugarhorse?"

"I don't know who Sugarhorse is."

Scream.

"Tell me who Sugarhorse is."

"I don't fucking know who Sugarhorse is!"

He heard the shackles being unlocked and watched as Ros was led back to the cell. Her body was weak and she stumbled as she was pushed inside. She lost footing and fell down heavily, her shoulder colliding with the hard cement. Zaf knelt down and helped her up. They were being relatively kind to him, which he knew meant one thing.

It would soon be worse.

Zaf led her over to the wall and sat down, pulling her close. He could not offer her food or water or clothing but he could offer comfort. Ros had told him when she had first arrived that she prided herself on being cold but all that had been lost; hot tears ran down her cheeks, falling onto the cement. She cried silently and Zaf held her closer, resting his chin atop her head so she leant against his chest.

He wanted to say something, but no words came to mind.

---

Zaf picked at the denim of his jeans; black, durable, what he had worn before he was taken. Morgan had been quiet for some time.

He hoped she felt uncomfortable.

"I'm asking you, Zafar," she said finally.

He tugged at a loose strand of cotton. "I don't know."

"How did you get out?"

Zaf shrugged.

"Honestly? I have no idea. Ros has never told me."

---

As he had surmised, they began to torture him again after it became obvious that Ros wasn't going to say anything. His body ached from the beatings and Ros was gentle as she laid him down, using a part of her shirt as a cushion. He slid in-and-out of consciousness and was only vaguely aware of what was happening around him.

"I won't fight you; just let us go."

Soft screams, 'fuck!'; thuds against the cement, 'fuck!'; fabric tearing; 'fuck!'

He must have passed out completely but when he woke he found himself looking up at stars rather than a cement ceiling.

"Ros? How did--?"

She shook her head and placed a finger against his lips, silencing him.

"Doesn't matter," she said softly. "Now, I have to leave you for a while; to get clothes and things."

Zaf shook his head but Ros had already gone, a pale silhouette in the distance.

---

"You just... got out. Just like that?"

Zaf sighed, watching as Morgan's pen flew back-and-forth across the page, writing feverishly. No doubt he and Ros would end up as anonymous patients in her next thesis.

"Just like that."

---

Ros came back with a huge backpack, wearing two coats. Zaf had managed to sit up and was leaning his back against a tree. She crouched down and helped him shrug on the larger coat, easing it over his shoulders.

"Here," she said softly, opening the pack, "I've found these..."

She handed him three pills and a bottle of water. He took them, not surprised when the pain began to subside quickly.

"Where did you--?"

"I broke into a chemist," Ros said, answering his unfinished question. "We've got enough for a while. Do you think you can get up? I've got a car about half-a-mile away."

Zaf eventually stood, leaning heavily on Ros, and they made their way slowly down the edge of the road, out-of-sight. Pain was still shooting through his body as they reached the car and he got into the backseat. He must have fallen asleep and when he woke they were at an abandoned house. He couldn't see any other houses nearby, which was no doubt exactly why Ros had chosen this spot. Ros helped him inside; it was completely bare, but dry, and Zaf lay down on the floor.

"Ros?" he said softly.

"Yes?"

It was dawn and the light was soft as it poured through the windows, making the bruises on Ros' face seem that much worse. He patted the floor next to him.

"Rest."

The instant the word passed through his lips a wave of tiredness looked to hit Ros and her posture slackened.

"That sounds nice."

---

"How did you end up in Russia?"

"I don't know."

Morgan raised an eyebrow.

"You just appeared out of thin air?"

"Maybe."

---

Ros' eyes were closed and Zaf drove sedately, hoping that she wouldn't wake up. The city was alive at night and he headed for the nearest hotel. Ros had taken money along with pain medication from the chemist and there was enough for a couple of nights at least.

He pulled up and shook her shoulder gently.

"Ros, come on, let's go."

She nodded and they got out of the car, Zaf carrying the backpack which was considerably lighter. The receptionist looked up as they approached; she was middle-aged, a peroxide-blonde and undoubtedly bored. She and Ros spoke, though Zaf couldn't understand either of them as they spoke Russian, and Ros soon touched his arm and led him to the elevator.

"If anyone asks, our names are Maria and Alexander Edwards."

Zaf nodded as the elevator doors opened.

"Gotcha."

---

"When did you contact Harry Pearce?"

Zaf had pulled out the full strand and wrapped the cotton around his fingers, watching as the tips of his fingers swelled and became red.

"I didn't."

"I'm sorry?"

"Ros did that. He knew that her death was fake but as far as he was concerned I was dead and buried. She didn't want to give him a heart attack."

"And he gave you an operation immediately."

Zaf gave a harsh laugh as he loosened the cotton.

"We were two dead, completely deniable officers in a hostile country. We were worth our weight in gold. Of course he started us early."

---

Russia was cold and Zaf pulled up the collar of his overcoat as he met Ros on a bridge. They had been there for six months, gathering and siphoning information to the Grid, and Zaf had enjoyed every minute. He had forgotten during his incarceration just much he had enjoyed being a 'spook.' He gave a side-long look at Ros; she had put on weight since their escape and her hair had grown, making her appear softer, which Zaf knew was a complete facade. She was as dangerous as ever. He'd also gained weight, and was nearly the same size he'd been before his capture and had regained his strength making him, once again, formidable.

"Control wants us to burn the operation," Ros said without a greeting.

"I take it we're not?"

Ros' eyes were almost predatory. "Do you think we should?"

Zaf said nothing as he moved past her, towards their contact's apartment.

---

The air-conditioning had stopped and the room was warm, uncomfortably so. Helen Morgan seemed not to notice as she kept writing, her pen scratching against paper.

"And soon after that you both came back to London?"

"We arrived on Remembrance Day."

Scratch, scratch, scratch.

"You were here for the attack?"

"Ros and I were part of the team trying to prevent the attack," Zaf said, trying to block out the noise. It was relatively easy; after all, he had learnt to block out far worse.

"Were you at the service when Adam Carter was killed?"

She looked up when he said nothing for several seconds; eyes expectant.

"Yes."

"How did you feel about the death of Adam Carter?"

Zaf exhaled a long breath; he tried not to think about Adam often, which was much easier than he cared to acknowledge. But after spending months in a cell, hoping that you'd be rescued, only to escape when another member of Section D was imprisoned, made him somewhat bitter. It was unfair, Zaf knew that, but emotions weren't governed by logic.

"Upset, obviously. He was a close colleague."

"That's all?"

"Should there be more?"

"What about Ros?"

A pause; he and Ros had held whispered conversations at night. She told him of what had happened since he'd been gone; Connie's arrival, her involvement with Yalta, the Iranian Consul, Ana, but she had never once spoken about Adam, which said everything.

"He was a close colleague to Ros as well."

---

Grief.

Unimaginable grief.

Ros' skin was pale as she looked at the billowing smoke and Zaf placed a hand on her shoulder. She was trembling beneath his touch and Zaf barely heard the stranger – whoever he was – speak.

"Adam Carter is dead."

As if either Ros or Zaf needed to be told that. No one could survive a blast of that magnitude; not even Adam. Ros closed her eyes and stepped away, Zaf's hand falling down. She bit her lip, the tendons in her neck tense. She stayed like that for several seconds before opening her eyes; impassive and emotionless once again.

---

"And you've both returned to active duty here in Britain. In fact, you've both received promotions. Ros, Section Chief; you, Senior Field Officer."

Zaf's eyes narrowed; he didn't like Morgan's tone.

"I think we both deserve them."

"Are you lying to me, Zafar?"

---

The 'click' of a safety catch released; a gun pressed hard against his temple, digging into his skin.

"Are you lying to me?"

"No."

"Is she lying to me?"

"No."

The gun being pulled away, only for its butt to connect with his jaw, sending him flying; Ros' shrieks as she tried to free herself, tried to get to him as he was kicked over, and over, and over...

"Let him go, you fucking bastards!"

---

"Zafar?"

"No."

Liar, liar.

"Are you sure--?"

A knock at the door interrupted them and a familiar person poked her head around the door. Ros didn't spare Helen Morgan a second glance as she looked at Zaf.

"You're needed."

Zaf rose to his feet and hurried across the room, eager to escape the psychologist and her questions. Ros shut the door behind them both and they walked through the labyrinth of corridors toward the Grid. He didn't quite know why he had spun a web of lies to Helen Morgan but he felt no compunction in doing so. Beside him, Ros looked straight ahead, and he glimpsed the nearly invisible scar beneath her ear, the result of a knife nick which could have been far worse had Zaf not broken the man's jaw.

"Thank you," he said gratefully as they approached the pods.

"Not at all," Ros said flippantly.

She and Zaf stepped through the pods and Ros caught his arm before he could get to his desk.

"Did she make you talk about--?"

"Yes."

"Are you all right?"

"We should prepare for the summit."

Today

"Ros, are you all right?"

She turned and leant against the bench, her head bowed toward the ground. Zaf approached slowly until he was a mere two foot away but said nothing, waiting for Ros to break the silence. She was covered in blood spatters, he realised, the dark red a sharp contrast to her skin. He stepped closer and used the corner of his shirt to wipe away a drop that had landed on his neck. It felt like déjà vu, a throwback to their first meeting in the cell.

Ros reached out and grabbed his wrist. She needed human contact, he knew that, even something as simple as holding another person's hand. After all, that is what got them through their incarceration. How long they stood like that, he wasn't sure, but Ros didn't move or speak. They were the same – he and Ros – both brought back from the dead; both cold, both formidable actors, both with a shared, horrific experience, and it was because of this knowledge that he pulled her close until they were inches apart. Up close, she appeared fragile, the severe glint in her eyes free of its mask; the different shades of green, the shroud of an internal prison that only he could recognise.

"He was sixteen," she said finally, "sixteen."

"Who?"

"Dean Mitchell. Sands killed him at the train station, in front of us, in front of his mother..."

He could feel her breath against his skin, warm in contrast to the cold air of the bathroom, and he pulled her still closer until he could rest his chin atop her head. Again, it was an echo of their incarceration; it felt familiar, natural, for he and Ros to be like this, and he held her tighter.

"Do you want me to drive you home?" he asked softly into her hair.

Ros didn't look up.

"Please."

---

"There was no need to kill him."

Zaf looked at Ros who sat on her sofa, legs curled beneath her. She had recovered somewhat, but was still pale. He rummaged in the kitchen cupboards until he found a bottle of scotch and two glasses. He poured two – healthy – measures and crossed the room.

"Drink," he said, handing her a tumbler.

She took it without protest but placed it on the coffee table between them.

"It's just... it reminded me of..."

She didn't finish her sentence and looked upward at the ceiling.

"Reminded you of what?" Zaf asked.

"When they used to take you away," she said softly. "And I couldn't do anything; all I could hear was you..."

"Me screaming?"

She nodded, and looked towards him.

"Do you think about it often?"

"I try not to," he said evasively, knowing she would see straight through his answer.

A smile twisted at her lips. "That's not what I asked, Zaf."

"Every day," he said quickly. "Every night, I should say, I can't sleep..."

Ros reached out and took a sip of her drink.

"No, nor can I."

Zaf looked around Ros' apartment; unsure of what else to say. Thankfully, it was a comfortable silence. Like its owner, the apartment was immaculate, and the surfaces were clean and sharp. It wasn't at all like Zaf's current place of residence; with his youthful neighbours that played music to the early hours, shaking the walls. His eyes went back to Ros; she had finished her drink and was examining the crystal tumbler as if it were the most interesting object in the world.

"I should--"

"No."

Ros' voice was abrupt and Zaf looked at her in surprise.

"We don't have anyone else, Zaf," she said softly. "Even now."

Zaf paused, wanting to tell her she was wrong, that they had plenty of other people, but found he couldn't lie; not to Ros.

"No, I suppose we don't."

Author's notes: Just a short fic. Hopefully it's not too shite.

Please review,

Odainath.