A/N: Written in response to a challenge from Chaos Dragon on DeviantArt:
Masterpiece of Romance
Ask a local museum if they would put the ring on display with a display card reading that this was the very ring used by you on that particular day to ask her to be your bride.
On top of this, she insisted the story to be an Alex Rider fanfiction. So here you go. Romance Nylah-style :). And yes, this is Alex X OC. Written as a one shot, but since long chapters make reading (and editing :) a bit difficult, I split it in two. The second and final part will be up later.
Disclaimer: I do not own Alex Rider.
CROSS MY HEART
It's still there. I know it is, I'm sure it is. Because if it isn't... Well. The consequences, they wouldn't be pretty. I have a violent streak, by necessity, and I'm pretty sure I managed to convince the manager of the local museum that it would be beneficial for his health to just leave it there. So it's still there.
Not that I checked.
I'm standing across the street, watching, seeing. People hurry by, eager to get out of the rain, on their way to work, or school. Normal things, everyday things, things that have never been mine. I just stand there, unnoticed because that's what I do, and watch the entrance of the museum. It's open. Nobody has gone inside yet.
The rain today – totally appropriate, reflecting the mood perfectly – is in stark contrast with the sunny day that I first saw her. She was sitting on bench in the park, reading a book. I could see the title, 'Gone with the Wind', and instantly I knew her. Her head was down, long brown hair obscuring her face but that didn't matter, I knew her face. Her face was in the other pictures, spread out on Blunt's desk, but that one, the one with her sitting on the bench in the park, reading her romance novel, was the one that caught my eye. The one that will haunt me forever.
The other pictures showed a plain young woman with an oval shaped face and friendly brown eyes. In most of them, she was smiling shyly, not quiet looking in the lens of the camera, but past it, at somebody standing behind the photographer. Only twenty years of age, she already held a degree in physics. She was brilliant. Only two years older than me.
I will never hold a degree in anything. They don't give out degrees for spying, even if I'm the best one they've got. Sad really. To depend on an eighteen year old old man to save the world. I know now that this is what I am, this is what I'm supposed to be, this is what I want to be. But back then, back when I tried to wiggle my way into her life, I was still rebelling, still trying to squeeze my way out. Only one year ago. Today.
"All right," I said to Blunt, gently placing the picture back on the desk, "When do I start?"
Blunt smiled that thin smile of is, not a real smile, but a carefully crafted facial expression to show he was human, that he could smile when the social situation demanded he did. I saw right through him, just as he saw right through me. He already knew then, had known since I was fourteen, that this was my life, that I would do whatever he asked me to, just as long as I could continue with the subterfuge, the jobs, the undercover work. It's addicting, in a way. Whenever I'm doing it, I hate it. Whenever I'm not doing it, I yearn for it. But I digress.
"As soon as possible," Blunt said, collecting the pictures, carefully stacking them and shoving them back into the thin folder, "She's in Paris already, your flight leaves at four." He handed me the folder. "Plenty of time to read all of this and see Smithers."
"I was going to see Jack," I said, mentally calculating the time I would need to get through London traffic at this hour – noon – and the time needed to quickly catch up and excuse myself again to still be in time for my flight. I hadn't seen her in six months, three of which I had spent at Breacons Beacons, and three in the Columbian jungle, trying to catch a drug lord that had some interesting and damaging hobbies.
The only positive thing I had gotten out of that one was a nice tan.
"You'll have to do that when you get back," Blunt said decisively, "There's no time."
I scowled at him, but let it rest. Protesting, I knew, was futile. Still, I had always followed my own path. I would do so again, and there really wasn't anything for him to do about it. I would go see Smithers real quick, sneak out the back door – yes, of course the Royal and General has a back door; should have used it that day I got shot too – and hop in the tube. By the time they found out I was gone I'd have changed trains three times and them catching me would be nearly impossible.
Of course, as I found out later, they weren't above a little rough-housing and power display. I was merrily chatting with Jack, unobtrusively glancing at the clock on the wall and trying to steer the conversation into the direction of, "by the way, I'm leaving again, see you around", when the back door burst open, shattering the glass. There really was no need for that, because it wasn't locked, but that wasn't the point. They came in, three of them, clad in ordinary, unremarkable clothes, jeans, t-shirts, jackets. Nobody would have recognized them for what they were, namely MI6 agents. They had me slammed against the wall with two guns at my head in no time, and, worse, as I saw when I glanced over my shoulder, they were threatening Jack.
She was on her knees, a stunned and frightened expression on her face. One of the men had his hand on her head, grabbing her hair. His other hand held a gun against her head, a Sig Sauer, I noted dimly.
The last man to enter was Crawley.
As ever dressed in his immaculate business suit, he surveyed the situation, looking around the colourful and messy kitchen – Jack had been trying out one of her recipes – and the volatile situation in it. I struggled a little, which caused one of the men to tighten his grip around my arms, pushing them up higher. I groaned and remained quiet.
"Alex," Crawley said, "I think your orders were to go to the airport immediately after you had seen Smithers."
"Hmpf," I said, as the man twisting my arms twisted them a little further, "I'm not his dog."
"No," Crawley said, "You're not. Because his dog listens to him."
"He has a dog?" I asked, genuinely surprised, and was rewarded with another painful jerk on my arms.
"Alex...," Jack said from the floor, voice shaking, "What's going on? Did you do something?"
"Yeah," I said, "I went and visited you because I haven't seen you in six months, and they were going to send me off again this afternoon."
I tried to twist my head in such a way that I could see both Crawley and Jack, but that proved to be impossible. From the corner of my eyes, I saw Crawley nod, and the MI6 men stepped away from me. I turned around, rubbing my arms. The one holding Jack was slow to comply, but moved when I glared at him. I have a special glare for situations like these, and it works like a charm. I felt pretty satisfied with that, until I saw Jack's face.
Her face was ashen. And she didn't look at Crawley, or the men that had restrained me and each held a gun to my head, or even the man that had grabbed her hair, pushed her down on her knees. She looked at me.
That was when I remembered I had vowed to leave her out of all of this, and never let her see what I'd become.
"Jack," I said, "It'll be all right. I'll be back soon, and we'll catch up properly, all right?"
She didn't say anything, and Crawley frowned at me, before signalling two of the men to grab my arms and force me out the door. For Jack's sake, I let them, though my hands itched to grab their stupid heads and slam them together, something I was perfectly capable of. And also for Jack's sake, I quelled the murderous thoughts that kept forcing their way into my head, for fear it would show on my face. An hour later I was in the plane, heading towards Paris.
Like I said, back then, I still thought I had control over my own life.
Paris in the summer. What can I say? People everywhere, strolling down the wide lanes, down the Jardin de Tuileries, sitting at the fountains near the glass pyramids of the Louvre museum, populating the ridiculously expensive terraces on the Avenue de Champs Elysées. A light breeze dispelled most of the oppressive heat, making it pleasant to be outside, simply enjoying summer. Lots of children in the parks, their parents looking on indulgently, teenagers, roller-skating down the steps and slopes at the Trocadero, students, laying down in the grass with their heads on their books as if trying to learn by osmosis...
I love this place. It's like a second home to me. Ian took me to Paris many times, and at some point we even lived here for six months, during which time he refused to speak English, forcing me to struggle with my French. I learned though. It was wonderful. Back then. Looking back on it now, I can see he was training me even then, but somehow that knowledge doesn't taint the memory. I love Paris.
We were walking along the Seine, quietly, about a meter apart. She hadn't spoken a word since we met, and I had been trying to fill up the void between us by pointing out the sights to her, talking about restaurants and museums and other mindless chatter about anything I could come up with. And then I finally ran out of things to talk about and asked her about herself, but she only replied in monosyllables. Which left me with exactly nothing to work with. Finally, exasperated, I stopped next to a book stall, grabbed her hand and forced her to a stand still.
"Look," I said, "This isn't going to work. Nobody will believe I'm your boyfriend if the only thing I know about you is that your name is Teresa Miller. Come on, talk to me. Tell me what you like, what you dislike, what your favourite colour is, the works. What do you like to be called, Tessa? Or just plain Teresa?"
She stared at me, then shrugged and looked away. She looked extremely vulnerable, and I squashed the feeling of wanting to wrap my arms around her. I was pretty sure she'd freak out if I did that, and to tell the truth, it freaked me out as well. Somehow this girl – woman, I told myself, a woman, she was older than I was – brought up a strong notion of wanting to protect her from the world. She was in the wrong business for that.
"Teresa," she said, "Just call me Teresa."
"All right," I said, "What else?"
She started walking again, and I watched her go before quickly catching up again. Walking next to her again, I reached out and grabbed her hand. She tensed.
"Practice," I said, "You'll have to make it look natural. I'm just holding your hand, Teresa, there's nothing to it."
She relaxed somewhat, and we walked for a while. Finally, she spoke up again.
"When that man, Blunt, asked me to do this... I wasn't sure. But he convinced me it was important, so I did as he asked. I never thought Lucardi would actually hire me and I... was scared. I'm not a spy, and I was afraid I would just blather it all out the first time he'd ask about me."
I nodded. "So you asked for backup, a body guard. That's me. Don't worry, Teresa, I have your back."
It felt odd, saying that. Before, it had been other people, saying it to me. And then either really having my back or just plain lying to me. Point Blank came to mind, unbidden, as always when reflecting rather bitterly on the trustworthiness of MI6. But now it was me offering to look out for someone else, and it felt good. I vowed not to let her down right then and there.
She nodded shyly at me and then looked at me questionably. "You're... pretty young though," she said, "When Mr Blunt said he'd provide me with someone to act as my boyfriend, I thought... well, an older man. I wasn't sure that that wouldn't be suspicious."
"Hence me," I said, grinning, "I'm never suspicious. I'm too young."
I could see a million questions brimming in that brilliant mind, but she just looked at me and shook her head. We walked in silence again, a comfortable silence this time. Every now and then she glanced at me, but she didn't let go of my hand and it was kind of nice. Finally, she spoke up again.
"When I saw you... But you really are it, aren't you, an agent. I mean, you've done this before."
I blinked, thought about it and then shrugged. "Yes, I suppose you could call me that. An agent."
She looked at me, puzzled, but I didn't feel like explaining myself.
"You'll have to take my word for it," I said, trying to reassure her that I knew what I was doing, "I can handle myself, and I can help you with what you need to do, as long as you don't expect me to actually try and get what you're doing."
I wasn't sure I convinced her, but we were getting more and more comfortable, and for now, that was enough. She talked, then, telling me about herself, how she had always felt like an outsider, being too smart for her age, until she found herself studying physics at the age of sixteen, graduating two months ago with honours. Then, while looking around, shifting through the offers she had gotten, all from prestigious research facilities and universities, how MI6 had approached her, asking her to pursue the one offer she had put aside almost immediately, of Professor Lucardi at Sorbonne, because they had traced some of the money Lucardi was funded with back to Scorpia.
I listened to her talk about her family, her brother, her parents, and filed all that information away. Most of it I knew already, of course, by reading her file, but hearing her talk about it made it real. I could picture her now, picture her life. I tightened my grip on her hand. She stopped talking, and we sat down on a bench.
"What about you?" she asked, "I have to know about you too."
Quickly, I sifted through my cover, picking out details, ordering them. They were mostly half-truths, in order for me to easily improvise when a subject came up that wasn't covered by my cover.
"Not much to tell," I said, "I'm an orphan, so no parents, no close relatives. Finished secondary school last year, entered the military. I'm on leave for three months, so I could join you here in Paris. When I get back, I'll probably be sent out to Afganistan."
"Really?" she asked, "You'll go to Afganistan?"
I thought about that. Could be true. Who knew where they'd send me, after all. I shrugged. "Honestly, I have no idea. Anyway, we met through a mutual friend, a Clive Barclay."
She nodded pensively, recognizing the name of a former fellow student. "Are you really in the army?" she asked.
I laughed. "God no. Though I do have some military training. I'll be all right in that respect, should anybody try to test me on that. Which they won't. Up until now, nobody has ever questioned my covers."
"So how old are you, really?"
"Nineteen," I lied.
"OK."
A boat passed by, and we watched it quietly. Discretely, I looked at my watch, to determine if it was already time for lunch. I was getting hungry.
"And just how much of what you've told me is really true?" she asked.
I shrugged. "Some of it. It doesn't matter. That's my story, and I'll stick by it, so you should too."
I got up, held out my hand and she allowed me to pull her to her feet, smiling. This time, I gently put my arm around her shoulders, and she let me, although I could feel her tense up again.
"Three months is enough, right?" I asked her as we left the river and headed towards Quartier Latin to find a restaurant, "To find out what he's doing?"
She nodded, but looked uncertain. I smiled at her, relaxed, and steered her towards the nearest restaurant, my mind already on what I wanted for lunch. She let me lead her, settling more comfortably into my hold of her. The rest of the day went by in a pleasant haze, and when we finally returned to our tiny apartment in Orsay, south of Paris, where the science faculty of the Universite de Paris-Sud was located. It was a one room apartment, with a queen-sized bed in the corner, a tiny kitchenette in the other and a small bathroom which contained a shower, a sink and a toilet miraculously cramped into two square meters. Things were going to be a bit awkward the coming months, but we would just have to live with it.
Not that I minded too much at that point.
Things went sort of smoothly from then on. Teresa would go to work, to the university, and I'd laze about the apartment, read, surf the internet or go out for a run to keep in shape. Each day, around noon, I'd go to the university and either wait for her outside or walk right into her small office which she shared with two graduate students, her desk crammed between the door and the wall so she could barely squeeze around it to get to her seat. I had asked her about it, the less than adequate work space she had been assigned, and she had laughed, saying she was hardly ever there anyway. She seemed to enjoy herself after the first two weeks, when she finally became a little more secure in what she was doing. She'd come home late, we'd share a dinner I cooked for her, chat, and then she went off to bed while I took the couch.
After two weeks, I was ready to scream.
It should have been enjoyable. For once, I had a lot of time to myself. During the day, I could do whatever I pleased, hang around, look around the small town. During lunch and in the evening, we would discuss her work, how she was slowly grasping what the man was trying to accomplish, the information she lacked and how to get it, which was kind of interesting but also way out of my league.
I had been good in science, in school, but now I found my education lacking. Of course, I had never finished school in the first place, but that had never hindered me. It did now. She had to repeatedly explain basic things to me, things I should have learned in school, and I could feel her curiosity grow. I avoided her questions though, deflecting them by asking questions of my own about things she liked to talk about (physics), or start an account of what I had done that day (nothing much). But that wasn't the worst of it.
Having so much free time on my hands got me thinking. And too much thinking inevitably brought out memories I'd rather have stayed buried. And in fact, had managed to push so far away that up until then, I had hardly thought about them. At the end of the third week, I had gotten my first, terrifying, flashback.
It was the cramped apartment that did it. I had been sitting on the couch, somewhere in the afternoon, reading. Then, for a moment, I had glanced up, and had noticed just how close the wall was. I had just stared at it, noticing the cracks in it, the hardly visible stain near the bottom, and sweat had broken out. I no longer was in our third floor apartment, I was in another place, another cramped place, a cell. I was alone and scared out of my wits, listening to the screams coming from somewhere in the building, knowing that at some point they would come for me too...
And then I snapped out of it, jumped up and fled the apartment, to return only when I was sure Teresa would be there. I slept badly that night.
The second time, she was there for it. I simply panicked in the shower when suddenly the shower changed into a tunnel, a tunnel I had to crawl through to get to the Stormbreaker facilities, only this time I got stuck. Without knowing it, I had sunk to the floor, water splashing down on me, and only her pounding on the door snapped me out of it. She looked at me worriedly when I finally got out of the bathroom, and I mumbled something about forgetting the time and left it at that.
The next day I called Blunt.
"I want another assignment," I said as soon as I finally managed to get him on the line, "Nothing is happening, Teresa is handling herself just fine, she doesn't need me."
Blunt was silent for a moment. Then, "Are you saying you want out of this because you are bored?"
I winced. He made me sound like a whining teenager. "No. Yes. Look, I'm just sitting here, she's doing all the work. Surely there must be something I can do. Maybe break into Lucardi's house or something, see if he's got anything to hide."
"Would you recognize anything suspicious if you saw it?" he asked, "A particularly suspicious formula, for instance? A paper outlining the working of those theta rays?"
"No thanks to you," I grumbled, "You took me out of school. Thanks to you, I'm just stupid."
"You mean you feel stupid next to Teresa," he said coolly, "Can't stand anybody being smarter than you, can you, Alex?"
I didn't answer that one because one, I'd probably blow up and be extremely loud while doing that, unwise as I was in a very public place, namely the square in front of the building Teresa worked, and two, because his words held an uncomfortable truth to them. Teresa was smart, her quick mind not only managing to grasp complex and specialized subjects like physics, but in everything she did. She had learnt French in under two months before she came here, and was now almost as fluent as I was. Any TV game show we watched, be it in French or in English, she'd have all the answers. She attacked crosswords in the newspaper with enthusiasm, finishing them before I even started to ponder the first word. She solved a Rubik's cube almost without really looking at it (I'd seen her do it while at the same time reading the newspaper).
It was scary. And intriguing. Especially since she seemed to be totally unaware of just how intimidating she was. She'd laugh at my bewildered face at yet another one of her inadvertent demonstrations of the agility of her brain, and tell me it didn't matter, it was just a trick.
Yes, I most certainly felt stupid in her presence. My only consolation was that I wasn't the only one.
"Alex?"
I shook myself out of my contemplations of my brilliant room-mate, argued some more with Blunt, to no avail, and finally hung up when I saw Teresa coming out of the building, this time in the company of her two co-workers, a girl named Julie, and a young man named Gaston.
She smiled at me, quickly pecked me on the cheek as always when in company of strangers, and the four of us had an enjoyable lunch in a nearby café. I listened to their animated conversation, their laughter, their easy teasing and realized that they were living in a different world. Their world was one of puzzles to solve, discussions on their work or on politics, plans to travel, see the world. My world was dark and treacherous, one wrong move would get me killed, one mistake could cost innocent people their lives.
The oddest feeling came over me then and looking back on it now, I blame it on the weeks of forced inactivity. I felt like standing on a threshold, somehow. Their world, I could almost touch it, feel it, and suddenly I was convinced that I only had to reach out, had to touch it, and it would be mine. I could have all of this, I could work hard, take some courses at the university... It'd be tough, but doable. I wasn't above a little hard work and I knew I wasn't dumb. Who knew what I would have been doing now if MI6 hadn't interfered when I was fourteen...
I fell silent and stared at Teresa, who seemed to be moving and talking in slow motion, gesturing wildly and almost knocking down her glass of juice. Her eyes sparkled as she turned to look at me, hand still in mid gesture, a questioning look on her face. Then she raised her eyebrows, and the happiness in her eyes changed to worry.
"Alex?" she asked, "Something wrong?"
The others stopped talking as well and they all looked at me. I blinked, and realized that whatever was showing on my face, it wasn't pleasant. Quickly, I smiled.
"Nah," I said, "Just thinking. Are we done yet?"
They all started feeling their pockets to find their money, and we split the bill evenly. I walked Teresa back to the university, a little behind Gaston and Julie, my arm firmly around her shoulders. It felt comfortable. I didn't allow myself to think too much about it, but simply enjoyed the moment until finally she had to go into the building. At the top of the stairs she looked back at me, a strange look in her eyes, and then she was gone.
That night I got an urgent phone call from Blunt, ordering me out. "We've lost contact with one of our agents," he said, "You're closest. Go check."
Awake instantly, I listened to his instructions as I groped around for my clothes. I could feel my excitement rise, the rush of adrenaline that preceded every dive into the unknown, and it wasn't until I saw Teresa, sitting up in her bed with bleary eyes, staring at the gun in my hands, that I realized how it must look to her.
"Hey," I said softly, "Go back to sleep. Something came up. I should be back by morning."
Her eyes widened. "Something to do with us?" she asked, and I could hear the fear in her voice.
I shook my head. "No, it's got nothing to do with what you're doing. This is just something I have to check."
"And you need a gun for that?" Disapproval in her voice, this time.
I shrugged. "I'm doing my job," I said, "You do yours."
I holstered the gun, put on a light jacket to hide it from sight and grabbed the keys to the rental car we'd had to our disposal for the past weeks. We had used it only once. Paris public transportation was easier and usually quicker. At the door I stopped and turned to look at her, trying to look reassuring.
"Look," I said, "Don't worry. You're fine. I should be back real soon, all right?"
"It's not me I'm worried about," she said.
I had no answer to that, so I just stared at her. Then I shrugged, waved, and rushed out the door.
Forty eight hours later I stumbled through the door of our small apartment, took two steps and crashed on the couch face down. I laid there for a moment before realising I couldn't breathe that way, so I turned my head sideways, barely suppressing a groan. For a while, I just concentrated on the nice, soft cushions of the couch, the fact that it was nice and dark in the apartment so my aching head wouldn't have to deal with any bright light, and the quietness of the place. Then my thoughts shot to Teresa and I groaned internally, knowing I had to get up and check if she was all right.
I was just about to push myself up when a soft hand pushed me down again. I reacted instantly. In one fluid movement, I flung myself from the couch, grabbed the person touching me by the wrists and pushed her all the way against the wall. She let out a light squeak, but otherwise remained quiet, staring at me with huge, shocked eyes.
"Teresa," I said, breathing heavily, "Don't do that."
With that, I let go, stepped back and fell down on the couch again, backwards this time. She remained standing for a moment, surveying me. Then, when it seemed I wouldn't attack her again, she approached carefully and sat down next to me.
"Are you all right?" she asked.
I barked out a short laugh. "Yes, I'm fine," I said, "Just tired. Haven't slept since... since I left here, I guess. What day is it?"
"Saturday, technically," she said, "Come on, get up."
"What? I'm going to sleep, Teresa."
"Yes, but you're going to do it in a proper bed."
She reached, grabbed my arm and started tugging. I resisted.
"I'm fine," I said.
"No you're not, you're exhausted, and..." she suddenly let go and stared at her hand. "What's this?"
She jumped up, rushed to the wall and flicked on the light. I groaned for real this time and squeezed my eyes shut, so I couldn't see her reaction to what was undoubtedly blood on her hand, blood that had been oozing out of the shallow stab wound in my arm. It looked worse than it was, but of course she didn't see it that way.
"Take off your jacket," she ordered, and I painfully obliged, squinting through my eyelashes at her blurry figure. She was wearing a dark blue long t-shirt and that was it. My eyes travelled down her thighs, and for some reason I didn't have as much trouble focusing now.
"Hey," she said, slapping me slightly, "Keep your eyes where they belong."
"Hmm," I said. The concussion made me slightly flippant. "I think they're exactly where they're supposed to be."
"Come on, Alex, help me out here," she said, tugging my arm once again.
She finally managed to coax me into the bathroom, out of my clothes and into the shower. I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror and realised just where the sudden protectiveness came from: I looked like hell. Eyes too bright in a deathly pale face, nasty cut in my left upper arm, numerous bruises from falling down a flight of stairs. All in all, I thought, I'd come off lightly.
After I finished showering and had gotten semi-dressed in a pair of sweat pants and a clean t-shirt, she pushed me towards her bed. Without protesting, I fell down in it and allowed her to tuck me in. It felt nice. I laid back and watched her scurry around the once again dark apartment, trying to collect some blankets and a pillow so she could sleep on the couch. It seemed unfair somehow.
"Hey," I said.
She stopped and looked at me. I was floating, the world was swirling around me, and somehow she was in the centre of that swirling. I patted the empty spot beside me.
"Plenty of room," I said.
She just stood there, staring at me. I felt myself drifting away. Everything became hazy.
"Don't worry," I slurred, "Not gonna try anything."
The world dissipated, to be replaced by a flurry of greys, a river of random thoughts and images and then nothing.
I woke up once. A greyish light was already peeking through the curtains. I was extremely comfortable, until I moved. Pain shot through my limbs and for a moment I just laid there, breathing slowly, waiting for the pain to subside. It did, eventually. I resolved to remain as motionless as possible.
Next to me, almost touching, I could feel another warm presence. I listened to her breathing for a while until I drifted off again.
And that is how I ended up in her bed.
We never spoke of it. We acted it, of course, like we had all that time, holding hands in public, showing affection. I'd go and meet her for lunch, sometimes meeting outside, sometimes pulling her out of her work inside the building, creating the ground work for the people in there for seeing me move around the building irregularly. And if our greetings became a bit more passionate, it was to fool the onlookers, her co-workers, her boss. Nothing really changed.
After that first assignment, Blunt seemed to think I could actually handle myself on my own, because a week later he called again, having me do some surveillance in Geneva because the cover of the agent in place had been compromised. So I left her again, reassuring her that I would be back and ignoring her worried face. Things went smoothly, and I returned unharmed two days later. Lovemaking was extra passionate that night.
As I was staring at the ceiling, watching the shadows move from the moonlight that shone through a crack in the curtains, she was trailing the scar on my chest. There were other scars there, of course, but the one right above my heart stood out. It was so obviously a bullet wound that I always had trouble explaining it away. Usually, I opted for heart surgery when I was young. She didn't fall for that one, though.
Placing her hand over the scar, she lifted her head from my shoulder and looked at me.
"Who are you, really," she asked.
Shrugging was sort of hard, so I just shook my head. "Does it matter?"
She thought about that. "Yes," she said, "It does. I can see the outside, the though guy who can actually be romantic when he puts mind into it, but some of it is an act. You live by subterfuge, by telling lies. And there's the violence. It scares me."
I pulled her closer and kissed her on her head. "It shouldn't. I'm here to protect you, among other things. I won't let anything happen to you."
"I'm not worried about me! I told you that."
"Well, you shouldn't worry about me either. I can handle myself just fine."
"I can see that." She sighed. "It's just... you're so young. And you're smart. Why... are you doing this? I could see you go to college, you're smart enough to get in on a grant, and yet, here you are, not even finished secondary school, playing... spy."
"It's not a game," I said, ignoring all her other comments.
She let out an exasperated sigh. "Talking with you is a near impossibility, do you know that?"
I grinned. "I'm a guy. Talking with guys is always a near impossibility."
"That's not what I mean and you know it. I can't have a relationship based on sex alone. I need to understand you, talk to you, and you need to talk back to me and tell me what you feel, what you think, and stop answering with 'that's classified' because that drives me crazy."
My turn to sigh. "Look," I said, turning my head and looking at her slightly cross eyed because of her proximity, "You knew this when we started this. I can't help myself. What I do, that really is classified, I'm not allowed to tell you anything about it even if MI6 would approve of our relationship, which they won't."
"That doesn't mean I have to accept an 'I'm fine' when you clearly aren't. What you do... and you're nineteen..."
"Eighteen," I muttered absent mindedly.
That quieted her. I could feel her body move restlessly against mine. This wasn't finished.
"Are you a criminal?" she finally asked.
I laughed. "No."
"Oh."
Silence again. I felt myself drifting off, though part of me kept scanning the apartment for non-existent irregularities, an annoying habit I couldn't seem to get myself free off. No matter how many times I told myself I was safe somewhere, there was always the feeling that something could attack out of nowhere, that I should be prepared. Finally, when I had convinced myself that the moving shadows really were that, moving shadows, and had started to really drift off, she spoke again.
"Would you... would you give it all up? For me?"
Instantly, I was wide awake again. I opened my eyes and stared up at the ceiling. The shadows were still there, same shape, same place. Shadows in my mind too, covering up the more horrific memories. Memories that had caused uncomfortable flashbacks during the past weeks, until I had gone back to work again. I was fine now.
Would I give it all up?
Four years ago, I would have said yes. Fourteen year old me hadn't been prepared for all of this, no matter what my training had been. Spying isn't romantic, it isn't glamorous, and James Bond is so far away from reality the films make me laugh. It's a shady world, with dirty tricks, shifting loyalties and lots and lots of betrayal. People are being used, discarded when no longer needed, left to their own devices. Nobody fights fair.
Could I give it up? I remembered sitting in the restaurant, watching Teresa and her friends, feeling disconnected from her world. I had felt it then, the threshold. I only needed to step over it, turn my back on my world and enter hers. I could go back to school, maybe even get my A-levels, go to college... What would it be like, living in her world?
"Yes," I said, "I would."
She was sitting on the edge of the bed, looking down on something in her lap. I moved, rolled and then reached up, letting my hand trail over her back. She shivered.
"Don't do that," she said, sounding as if her mind was somewhere else completely.
I let my hand drop down on the bed and contented myself with just looking at her. She had a frown on her face, and her eyes were moving with quick, short jerks, reading something really fast. She was biting her lip, and I was just about to reach up again and touch her face when she looked at me.
"Something struck me last night," she said, "All the while I was thinking I was missing something, and I was right, but it wasn't me, it's him."
I popped myself up on one elbow and looked at her quizzically. "What do you mean?" I asked.
"I mean, I thought I just didn't get it, and I was trying so hard to understand what he was doing," she said, and I could see the remnants of the insecurity in her face. "But he's leaving something out, he's not giving me all the data, look."
She pointed at a graph on her printout. I smiled. "You do know I don't have a clue as to what you're talking about, do you?" I said.
She blushed. "I'm sorry, it's just that I'm so used to talking to people who understand..."
"Instead of stupid old me," I said.
She looked hurt. "You know that's not true. You're not stupid. And I didn't mean it like that." She shook her head and gestured impatiently. "But I think I need more information. Professor Lucardi's research. Otherwise, what he's doing makes absolutely no sense."
"I believe you," I said, "Tell me what you're looking for, and I'll get it for you."
She was silent for a moment, looking pensive.
"It'd be on his computer," she said finally, "Do you think you could get in on it?"
I let myself drop on the bed again and tugged at her arm to pull her down with me. She squeaked as a large portion of the stack of papers on her lap fell to the floor, but I silenced her protesting with a kiss. When she stopped resisting me I smiled into the kiss.
"Sure I can," I said.
"There's someone I want you to meet," I said a few days later.
We were sitting on a bench in a park, a variety of sandwich wrappings between us, sipping wine from a carton cup. Not very romantic, but very private, and privacy was what we needed. The boyfriend cover turned out to be a great excuse to show up at odd hours to pull her out from her work, and go basically anywhere without anybody feeling the slightest desire to join us. Simply stating that we wanted to be alone was enough for them to smile and wink at us, before leaving us love birds to ourselves. I could simply show up in the evening too and we would sit in her office, and although this was slightly scandalous, nobody thought much about it.
On one such an occasion, I had placed a key logger on her boss's computer, allowing me to review everything he had typed. Including user names and passwords. I was planning on retrieving the device that night, using a visit to Teresa as an excuse to be in the building.
"Oh?" she said, "Who? Wait a minute..." She stared at me, an alarmed look on her face. "They're replacing you, aren't they... they found out about us, and they're sending in a new guy..."
"No no, that's not it," I said, "I want you to meet my... sister."
"Sister? Your sister? You mean, a real sister, or an MI6 sister?"
"Well," I said, "She's not really my sister, but she's the closest thing to a sister I've got. She has been taking care of me since I was seven. I've known her for a long time, and I really think of her as my sister."
She stared at me. "Are you saying," she said slowly, "That you're introducing me to somebody from your personal life?"
"I guess I am," I said.
I had thought about it ever since she had asked me if I would give up spying for her. I knew I wasn't supposed to let Teresa in on my life, and that having her meet Jack would be a serious breach in security, but I didn't care. This was my life. If I was going to do this, I needed Jack to be in on it.
"All right," Teresa said, looking interested.
We cleaned up and dumped our trash in the nearest dustbin, and then I escorted her back to the university, where I kissed her goodbye.
"Stay late again tonight," I muttered in her ear when we were hugging each other like we were saying goodbye for a long time instead of for a few hours, "I need to retrieve that key logger."
She let go of me and stepped back, raising her eyebrows. "Already? You only put it there last night."
"It's enough. He'll have logged in today, right? I can't risk anybody finding it."
She nodded, then looked over her shoulder at the entrance of the building. "I could get it. That way you won't have to come in and nobody will get suspicious when they see you in professor Lucardi's office."
"I thought you didn't want to do things like that?" I asked, "That that was what you had me for? To do the dirty work?"
She laughed. "Getting a little device from a computer is hardly dirty work. It's just plugged in between the keyboard and the computer, right? I only have to pull it out and then replace the plug of the keyboard into the computer. I can do that."
She turned and walked back into the building. I stared after her. She had slowly been gaining confidence in her work, in her life here in Orsay. Strangely enough, even with her brains, the way she had waltzed through school and university, she still felt insecure about herself. She'd call herself stupid more often than not, berating herself for little mistakes. She always forgot her keys, her mobile, her purse. She devoured books in her sparse free time, most of them romance novels. And then that revelation, in the middle of the night, that she didn't understand professor Lucardi's work because the man was withholding information...
I smiled, turned and walked away. Not home. To find a jewellery store.
Jack practically crushed me in a fierce hug, right under the Eiffel Tower. I hugged her back, a little less forceful, and then tried to pry myself loose.
"Jack, I need to breathe," I said.
She let go then, took a step back and looked at me, tilting her head a little like she always did when I had gotten myself in trouble somehow. Teresa and I had taken the train to Paris in the morning, visited the Notre Dame cathedral, had strolled along the Seine, doubling back a few times, until I had made absolutely sure we weren't followed, and then had gone up to the first floor of the Eiffel Tower, where I had watched the park for an hour until Jack arrived. As by my instructions, she had sat down on a bench, taken out a book and had started reading, while I scrutinized everybody that was in her vicinity. Then she had left, walking back towards the Seine, allowing me to see if anybody was following her. Nobody did. Exactly one hour later, we met next to the lift.
"Oh, Alex," she said, "You look... fantastic." She punched my shoulder and I grabbed it in mock hurt. "Happy, even. I haven't seen you smile like this in ages."
"Yeah, well," I said, looking at Teresa standing a few metres away from us, fidgeting with her handbag, "I guess it's the company. Who wouldn't want to walk around with two beautiful women at his side?"
Teresa blushed at that, and Jack just punched me again. "Flatter will get you nowhere," she said, and then, looking at Teresa, "You didn't say anything about a... friend?"
Teresa's blush deepened, and Jack turned to look at me, eyebrows raised so high they nearly disappeared into her hairline. I resisted the urge to squirm under her scrutiny and looked back steadily. She stepped forward, grabbed my arm and dragged me away from a now bewildered looking Teresa. When we were out of earshot, she stopped.
"Are you insane?" she whispered.
I glanced around. Her whisper was so loud it attracted attention. Jack noticed it too, because she relaxed a little and let go of my arm.
"Aren't you on an assignment?" she continued, in a much softer whisper, "Should you be involving yourself with anybody?"
"She is my assignment," I said, "We're... um... investigating something."
She stared at me. "And you're sleeping with her?"
"I'm not a child any more, Jack," I said, slightly annoyed, "Besides, it's not like I haven't done that before."
Jack shook her head. "Too much information, Alex," she said. She looked at Teresa, and then at me again. "I don't get it," she said, "Why are you dragging me into this?"
"Well," I said, grabbing her arm, "I wanted you to meet her. Come on. Let's have lunch. I'm starving."
I dragged the slightly bewildered looking Jack back to a now very nervous looking Teresa, and we set out to find a restaurant that wasn't packed. After a few awkward questions, the two women seemed to be getting along brilliantly, and I relaxed a little. I kept checking if we were being followed though, and subjected Jack to a fairly detailed interrogation to find out if she had noticed anything odd on her way here.
"So," Jack said, after the waiter had taken our orders, "You're working at the university, and Alex is your boyfriend."
Teresa looked at me. I shrugged. Jack knew what I did, even if I left out the details. A lot of details. She turned back to Jack.
"Yes," she said simply.
Jack nodded pensively, looked at me, shrugged, and changed the subject to an embarrassing but hilarious incident from my youth. The rest of the day went by smoothly, and after we had dined in a small restaurant in Montmartre, we strolled around the square with the artists drawing portraits. One particularly persistent artist kept following us and showing us his work, and on impulse I pulled Teresa back and sat her down on the rickety folding chair the guy was carrying around with him. He bullied her into smiling serenely and she did, shooting me awkward glances every now and then. I watched her features appear on paper, standing a little bit away from them. Jack came and stood next to me.
"Tell me, why am I here, really," she said.
"I wanted to see you. Last time was sort of brief."
She sighed. "I didn't appreciate that," she said, "It made me feel..."
"Insignificant? Out of control of your own life? Helpless?" I asked.
She was silent. I could feel her look at me.
"I suppose so," she said.
I looked down at my shoes, hands in my pockets. "Then you know how I feel all the time."
The artist was chatting happily with Teresa at that point, and she answered in monosyllables, trying to keep the smile frozen on her face. She was starting to look a little desperate, but the artist, as no doubt his intention had been, was starting to attract attention of a small crowd of tourists.
"What are you saying, Alex," Jack asked.
A bright flash made Teresa wince. The tourist wielding the camera smiled happily at her and I scowled at him.
"I want out," I said, "I've had it up till here with the whole spying business. It's making me sick."
As I was speaking, I was pondering the truth of my words. It did make me sick every now and then, sometimes quite literally. But there also always was that rush of excitement, the adrenaline that pumped through my veins whenever I landed myself in a dangerous situation again. And the feeling of triumph when I made it out, when the mission was a success... would I really give that all up?
"What has she got to do with that?" Jack asked.
Teresa shifted her head a little and looked at me. The artist started chiding her for moving, and she quickly moved back into position.
"I'm going to ask her to marry me," I said.
That shocked Jack into silence. I purposely kept my eyes on the artist, who was now beckoning Teresa to come and see her portrait which, I had to admit, wasn't half bad. He'd managed somehow to capture the insecurity in her smile while portraying her outward confidence. I avoided looking at Jack and stepped forward to join in the admiration. Already, another girl was sitting down on the fold out chair, straightening her skirt and pushing her hair behind her ears. The artist rolled up the drawing, handed it to Teresa with a flourish and I paid him. Then the three of us walked into the direction of the stairs leading down from the Basilique du Sacré-Cœur. As we started down the steps, Jack grabbed my arm, letting us fall behind a little.
"Alex..." she said, "Are you serious?"
I dug into my pocket and, with a short glance in Teresa's direction to see if she was looking back at us, retrieved the small box I had been carrying around. Quickly, I opened it and showed her the contents, the small ring with the three tiny diamonds I had bought a few days previously. Before Jack could reach out and touch it, I closed it again and stuffed it back into my pocket. Jack was silent for a moment.
"OK," she said finally, "So you are. But..."
She gestured helplessly. I shrugged. "What?" I asked.
She shook her head. "It's... I don't know. It feels... you're eighteen, Alex."
"I know that."
"You can't marry when you're eighteen?"
"Why not? It's completely legal. I don't need anybody's permission."
"But... you're so young. You should..."
"See the world? Travel? Have some adventures before I settle down?"
Jack grimaced. She had seen me grow more and more quiet over the years, each and every mission tainting me more, drawing me further and further into the shady world or espionage. Only she could see through the façade I kept, the happy smiles, the jokes. I knew I wasn't the only one who felt helpless.
"You love her then," she said.
I looked at Teresa, now at the bottom of the stairs, looking up at us with a confused look on her face.
"What's not to love?" I asked.