This is just a little something that came to me out of nowhere. I'm not sure how realistic it is, it's probably not very, but I've written it now and thought I'd publish it. It doesn't quite seem finished to me, but I'm leaving it anyhow.

Please tell me what you think, I've had a long break from writing, so I'm a little rusty.

Malcolm had never expected to see Tom Quinn again, yet here he was, lounging in his living room, having evidently helped himself to the bottle of whisky Malcolm had, but never touched. He was sipping it nonchalantly with a thin smirk on his face. This was a thoroughly unpleasant disruption to his quiet retirement.

He had frozen in the doorway, hairs standing up on the back of his neck, growing more and more uneasy as Tom surveyed him with thinly veiled loathing from over the rim of his glass. His hair was slightly longer, his face slightly more careworn, but he was otherwise as well groomed as Malcolm remembered.

"Hello Malcolm." Came the deep rumble. It wasn't a friendly greeting, inflected with all the bitterness he had harboured against the service for the past number of years. Malcolm sniffed loudly.

"Tom." He uttered, as coldly as he could. "What are you doing here?" Tom fixed him with a knowing look. "Once a spook, always a spook, surely you know that Malcolm?" His toothy grin was accompanied with a manic flash in his glacial eyes, which worryingly reminded Malcolm of the time when he was being framed for murder.

He didn't move from the doorway, but mused to himself the possibility that Tom had completely snapped, his framing and subsequent actions due to his conscious explosion all those years ago had probably taken their toll, it may have only taken a small problem or reminder in his current life to take him to the brink, but to come round to an old co-workers house this many years later? Surely it couldn't still be affecting him that much?

"I thought you were happy with your new life as head of a private security firm?" Malcolm calmly stated. "What's brought this on now?" Though he was not entirely sure what 'this' was.

"I thought you were still working at The Grid." Tom retorted, like it was a throw-away statement, his eyebrow jerked upwards. Malcolm stiffened, how did he know?

Tom stopped smiling manically, set his glass aside and gestured for Malcolm to sit opposite him. He hesitated, before moving gingerly into the room, stiffly taking a seat in the plush armchair across from the ex-field officer, he felt flustered under his scruntiny. Tom smirked as he noted Malcolm's body language. "Relax." He said softly, with a more genuine smile. "I'm not here to try anything on." He cocked his head as he lifted up the bottle he had helped himself from, sliding another tumbler across the dark mahogany coffee table between them, arching his eyebrow in offerance. Against his better judgement, Malcolm nodded. Tom smirked again as he poured a measure of the amber liquid and helped the glass slide into Malcolm's outstretched hand. Looking up to meet his eyes again, Malcolm saw something of the old Tom there, the Tom who had come to be his friend when the worked together in the service and relaxed slightly.

"I was in the neighbourhood, and…something came up recently." Tom said, in his usual, calm tone, placing the bottle down with a loud 'clunk'. It was Malcolm's turn to raise a quizzical eyebrow.

"A reminder of an old friend." Tom sighed. His expression hardened again as he hunched over, resting his arms on his knees, hands clasped together, studying Malcolm's expression.

After a moment, he moved back suddenly in his seat, snatching up his glass and waving it lazily in his reclined position, grinning insincerely once more. "But first, do tell me," he said with mock glee. "How is dear old Adam Carter doing? Mr Smooth?" He exaggerated the last word, eyes flashing as he remembered the maverick who had been his savour but bitterly remembering the day he had walked up to him when he was being decommissioned, telling him it was over. Malcolm swallowed hard, his erratic behaviour continuing to unnerve him.

"He's dead." He managed, curling his fingers tightly around his glass. His throat felt dry.

"Oh." Tom furrowed his eyebrows, but showed no hint of remorse or sorrow at this news.

"What about Danny." He ventured.

"He's dead too…" Sighed Malcolm, the pain at dredging up the memories of dead colleagues evident in his composure. He finally took a sip of the whiskey, feeling the strong alcohol burn down his throat. Tom's face had fallen at the news of Danny's death, he looked slightly shocked, gazing up at the ceiling in contemplation. They sat in silence for a moment, Malcolm staring into the depths of his glass, swirling the murky liquid around aimlessly. The ticking of the grandfather clock the only sound punctuating the heavy atmosphere. Was this the reason he had come here? To drag up the ghosts of old friends?

Malcolm was brought out of his brooding when he felt Tom's gaze boring into his skull once more, and looked up to meet those haunted eyes he recognised so well, glistening slightly. He wasn't doing himself any good coming here. Tom's eyes roved over his face for a few moments before he broke the silence, straightening up from his relined position.

"How long did it take?" The ex-spook asked darkly. "How many of Harry's bad decisions, how many innocent lives ruined and friends deaths did it take before it got to you Malcolm?" His tone was cold yet insistent and Malcolm could feel the words cutting through him. The older man felt a bubble of anger rise in chest, the need to defend his old friend charged to the forefront.

"We all have to make regrettable choices sometimes." He said tersely, glaring at the dark haired man opposite him, who was regarding him in ill disguised contempt. He wasn't sure what kind of game he was playing, but he wasn't about to let it get to him.

Tom threw himself forward in his seat, getting as close to Malcolm's face as he could over the coffee table, while still remaining seated. His startlingly bright blue eyes were searching him, as if looking for the truth.

"But something gave in, didn't it Malcolm?" He breathed. "He did something to make you question it all, I can see it in your eyes. You grew a conscious too." Malcolm felt his resolve breaking as his mind conjured up thoughts of Ruth and Nico and the situation in which he had offered himself up for execution.

He looked away from Tom's intense gaze.

"I…Ruth, the boy…I couldn't let him die…" He mumbled, feeling betrayed by his own tongue as the words tumbled out. Tom snorted derisively. "Ruth?" He spat, making Malcolm flinch. "Harry's little lapdog?" That was accompanied by a sneer and Malcolm's eyes snapped back up, flashing with anger.

"I'll have you know that Ruth is a brilliant, strong and brave woman." He retorted, voice rising. "You have no idea what she's been through, she lost everything and it may have strained her relationship with Harry but she's learnt to get past it. Unlike some people." He let the words hang in the air as he glared at Tom, daring him to berate anymore team members.

Tom was slightly taken aback at Malcolm's outburst. It took him a moment to compose himself before dryly commenting; "Sounds like Harry ruined her life."

Malcolm gave him a shrewd look, before begrudgingly explaining.

"A situation arose…and regrettably a family member's life was put in danger, Harry wouldn't make the call so I offered myself up instead. That was when I realised I was too old to play at being a spy." He smiled wistfully.

Tom hissed "The service has wrecked a lot of people's lives."And he gazed forlornly into the distance.

"Why are you here Tom, really?" Malcolm asked tiredly, he'd had enough of the snarky, embittered comments. He watched as Tom sighed and rubbed his face. He fancied that he saw a flicker of regret in his eyes.

"I heard Zoë was in Chile." He stated, watching carefully for Malcolm's reaction, who shifted uncomfortably in his seat, mind whirring over the implications of this knowledge.

"How do you know?" He whispered, that feeling of dread returning in the pit of his stomach.

Tom smiled faintly. "I have my means." Malcolm decided he didn't really want to probe further.

"Do you know why?" He managed once more, feeling increasingly uneasy at the turn of conversation.

"All I know is that she was shat on like me." Was the hollow reply.

Malcolm sighed deeply, it was true that Zoë had been unfairly subjected to a media blood hunt, but at least she had gotten with a life.

"It's not quite like that Tom, if it wasn't for Harry, she'd be in prison." He asserted carefully.

"I see." Tom downed the rest of his drink, shook his head and stood up abruptly, his head swimming.

"Well, I'd better get out of your hair." He chuckled, now looking slightly apologetic. Malcolm's eyes nearly popped out of his head at Tom's schizophrenic behaviour. As Tom moved round the room, he turned and fixed Malcolm with a serious look once more.

"Is she happy, Malcolm?"

Malcolm was floored, all he'd wanted to know was how Zoë was? It was true they had adored each other and she had been so stung when she had thought Tom was a traitor. He knew that Tom had probably felt equally hurt when she had turned away from him after his decommissioning.

"She married a photographer and she has a daughter. I think she's happier than she ever could have been." He replied truthfully.

"What's her name?" Tom asked, swallowing hard.

"Layla."

Tom smiled, a true smile this time, one that reached his eyes. "That's a nice name." He spoke softly. He reached towards the door, but Malcolm's voice stopped him just as he was about to open it.

"That's all you really wanted to know, isn't it?"

Tom turned to fix his gaze on the old tech whiz. "I was unceremoniously dumped, the least she deserved was a happy life." He was about to leave again, but faltered. He looked over his shoulder one last time.

"I'm sorry Malcolm."

He didn't need telling what he was apologising for. And with that, Tom was gone, as suddenly as he had arrived.

Malcolm felt a rush of relief and regrettingly hoped he wouldn't be visited by anymore ghosts anytime soon.