'Til Death

Disclaimer: I don't own The New Avengers, nor the characters of Mike Gambit, Purdey, and John Steed. Sadly. They're the property of The Avengers (Film and TV) Enterprises. This story is for entertainment purposes only. No copyright infringement intended

Timeline: Eighth in a series. Takes place in September, 1977, shortly after the conclusion of the series in the Canadian episodes. It is strongly recommended, but not essential, that you go back and read the previous stories in the arc, Lost Boys, Anew, Aftermath, Dance With Me, The Anniversary, Merry Christmas, Mr. Gambit, Brazil, and Life on Mars.

For more information about the series, please see my profile.

When they arrived at the stud farm, Steed saw Purdey safely upstairs, and waited for the sound of the shower before he allowed himself the luxury of a long sigh and a rub of his temples. It had been a day full of uncertainty, fear, confusion, and grief. He still didn't know quite what to make of it all, or whether he believed Purdey's story. She certainly believed it, but he wasn't prepared to let the matter lie.

He moved from the stairs, through the dining room, and into the living area, poured himself a large brandy, and took a mouthful that was a just a touch too generous to give the flavour the studied consideration it deserved. He swirled the liquid around the balloon, hoping it would provide him with some answers.

Gambit. Dead. It was too awful to even contemplate. Steed pictured the young man he'd seen only this morning—vital, active, engaged. Alive. Gambit had been prepared to see this assignment through to the end, knew the risks, though none of them had contemplated the sudden twist that had seen Gambit and Purdey abducted. And certainly none of them had considered the possibility that Gambit wouldn't see the day out alive.

Well, that wasn't quite true. Steed knew as well as anyone that every time an agent took on an assignment, there was a high probability that he or she wouldn't survive to write up the report afterwards. But it was easy, when particular agents saw dozens of missions through with their lives and bodies still relatively intact, to expect the pattern to continue. Staying alive became a habit, and there was no reason to expect its adherents to break it. That didn't make a lick of sense, of course. Anyone could die at any time, for any reason. No one was immortal, least of all Steed, and definitely not Gambit. But in his time with the younger man, Steed had always thought he was too committed to hanging onto life, enjoyed the ride too much, to let it go without a fight. And Gambit had certainly come through more than his share of life-threatening situations, both before and during his work with Steed. Gambit himself had joked that, considering the exploits of his youth, he never should have lived to see twenty. Now, at thirty-four, Purdey was telling Steed that Gambit's luck had finally run out. Steed had made peace with the bullet with his name on it long ago, but there was something about a man—a friend-over two decades younger than him shuffling off this mortal coil that he found impossible to accept. And he wouldn't. Not until Steed had irrefutable evidence that told him otherwise. It was the least he could do. He knew Gambit would do the same for him.

A creaking on the stairs signalled Purdey's arrival, and Steed turned just in time to see her trudge the length of the dining area, only to flop down onto Steed's couch with little grace. Her limbs looked heavy, as though she carried the weight of the world with her. Steed knew she did. Her hair was damp and untidy, and she was clad in a pair of electric blue pyjamas, the same ones she'd run around a London sleeping in during the S-95 debacle. Her face was scrubbed of make-up, which made her look younger and tireder, and also that much sadder. She found the blanket draped over the back of the couch, and tugged it down to cover her lap. She said, in a voice that was almost too steady, "I need a drink."

"Did you take the sedatives Kendrick prescribed?" Steed inquired, resting a protective hand on the tray containing his wide assortment of liquor.

"Yes," Purdey admitted, voice drained of all emotion. "Two."

"Then I'm afraid a drink is off-limits, at least for now," Steed said firmly, but his expression was sympathetic. "But sleep isn't. You have your choice of rooms."

Purdey shook her head. "I'm not going to bed," she told him. "And I'm not going to sleep. If I sleep, I'll have to close my eyes, and every time I do, I see Mike's face. His body. All the blood." She shuddered, and hugged herself tightly. "I don't know which is worse—his face just before he died, or right after. He was yelling at me to run. He looked terrified, but he wasn't afraid for himself. He was afraid for me." She covered her face with her hands. "And when they shot him, all the emotion drained out, just like the blood. And he looked...oh, Steed. It hardly looked like him. All the life, everything that made him look the way he did, it just...vanished." She scrubbed away fresh tears angrily. "And everything he was went with it. And I can't face that again, Steed. Not tonight."

"All right," Steed agreed, moving to sit in the armchair across from her. "You can stay on the couch, and I'll stay up with you."

Purdey regarded him with a mixture of disbelief and anger. "You don't seem very upset," she accused, betrayal etched across her face. "Don't you care that Mike's gone?"

"Of course I do," Steed said calmly. "If he's gone, the loss is insurmountable. But I'm not prepared to accept Gambit's fate just yet, even though you seem quite certain he's no longer with us."

Purdey's mouth tightened. "And you seem quite certain he's still alive," she shot back. "But I was there, Steed. I saw him die. I know what happened. I'm certain of it."

Steed held up a soothing hand. "And I believe you. I believe that you saw what you saw. Far be it from me to discredit an eyewitness, especially when it's you." He sipped his brandy. "But I've come to realise over the years that, more often than not, there's something at work beyond what we think we saw, and it's very important to find it. I think you saw Gambit shot. But I'm not entirely certain that was all there was to see. Don't accept anything at face value."

Purdey gaped at him. "Steed," she said slowly, as though she couldn't believe what she was hearing. "I saw him die. I have no reason to want him dead. It's the last thing I wanted." She choked back more tears. "What could I possibly have missed?"

"I understand it's difficult," Steed reassured. "I know you were in the middle of it. It's impossible for you to be objective, especially in light of the shock and trauma. That's why you need an objective eye, someone to look at it from all the wrong angles, which may just turn out to be the right ones."

"Such as?" Purdey wanted to know.

Steed considered his brandy. "First of all, why weren't you pursued after you went through the window? If they were desperate enough to kill Gambit to keep you in check, I would have thought they'd chase you down rather than let you go as soon as you were out of range. For that matter, why kill Gambit at all? With him dead, you had no reason to surrender. He was worth much more to them alive, as a hostage, to draw you back into the fold. And then there's the small matter of the explosion. Did they mean to use it to destroy the body, or did they take Gambit with them? And if so, why?" He managed a small smile, and Purdey's visage darkened further. "Small things, perhaps. Possibly meaningless. But you must admit they are valid questions, and we owe it to Gambit to chase down every possibility, don't you agree?"

Purdey's visage cleared, and she looked down and picked at the blanket. "Yes," she admitted, finally. "He'd do the same for us."

Steed nodded, once, satisfied that he'd brought her onside. "There we are, then."

"But you have to promise, if we don't find anything, you'll let me lay him to rest," Purdey added, quite seriously. "If we can't...if there's nothing left of him to identify..." She swallowed hard. "I want to make a statement. I want him declared officially dead, and have his file closed. I want to tell his family, so they can have a proper memorial. I want his things to go to someone who will take care of them, and remember him. Not shuffled into storage. I want him to have closure, Steed. He wouldn't want to linger on, just a statistic, an entry, 'missing believed killed.' He deserves more than that." Her eyes were burning brightly, determined. "He wasn't just an agent, Steed. He was Mike."

"Agreed," Steed concurred. "And I promise you, if he is gone, we'll accord him every honour. But I'm not prepared to let him go just yet."

"All right," Purdey murmured, suddenly irresistibly tired. "I think...I'll just lie down for a moment. Will you stay, Steed?"

Steed's smile was kind. "'Til the end, Purdey."

VVV

Five days earlier

"Steed! You're a sight for sore eyes," George Sands exclaimed as the senior agent settled into the chair opposite him in the interrogation room.

"I hope I manage to be rather more than a sight," Steed said genuinely. "What's going on, George? It would have been surprising for anyone in your department to be caught up in something like this, but you?"

Sands shook his head and spread his arms wide. "Not me, Steed, I promise you. I know it sounds like a cliché, but in all honesty I have no idea where those files came from. I signed out files, but not at that security level. I was working on the files they found in my desk, but only in the office-I never would have dreamt of taking them out of the building, not in a million years."

"Could you have done it by accident? Absently taken the wrong folders?" Steed suggested.

"No, no, never," George dismissed. "I'm careful about that sort of thing. You know me."

"I thought I did."

"You still do!" George leaned forward. "Listen, Steed, I'm as surprised as anyone. I don't know what to say. When Maud called in the security boys, I didn't know what to do. I understand why Maud did it, and I believe the files were there, but I haven't the foggiest idea where they came from, and that's the truth."

"All right." Steed's gaze was level, tone non-committal. "Let's put all that aside. Have you been approached by anyone? Threatened? Seen anything suspicious within your department?"

Sands shook his head. "Nothing. If I'm being got at, I'm the last to know."

"What about Maud? Has she been acting oddly? Has she received any communications that seemed suspect?"

"No, no, nothing like that. We've been perfectly happy. We're seeing the marriage counsellor, of course, but that's department mandated."

Steed frowned. "Marriage counsellor?"

"Yes, they sent out a memo. Married staff only. We went a few times, Maud and I, to keep the bureaucrats happy."

"And did you learn anything?"

"Just that we're happy. Nothing earth-shattering."

"And yet she reported you for having stolen the files," Steed pointed out mildly.

"That's exactly what I'd expect her to do in that position—try and save me from myself before I could talk her out of it! I can be a stubborn so-and-so, and she knows it." Sands smiled momentarily with pride. "And I don't blame her for it. I only don't understand how the files could have gotten into my desk. That I have no idea about. But whatever's going on is nothing to do with me or Maud. And that's why I'm so glad to see you, Steed. If anyone can get to the bottom of it, it's you."

Steed was watching and listening carefully, gauging George's emphasis on every word, and interpreting the significance behind every gesture. "All right," he said finally. "I am looking into it, and I promise I'll do everything in my power to get to the bottom of it. But until I clear you, if I can clear you, you're going to be in custody. You know that."

Sands nodded. "Of course. It's the standard procedure. I'd expect nothing less."

"Good." Steed rose from the table. "I'll contact you if I have something concrete. Until then, sit tight. And if you remember anything, let me know."

"Of course," George repeated, smiling with gratitude, as Steed turned toward the door. "John?" he added, just before Steed quit the room, and Steed glanced back over his shoulder. "Thanks." Steed only nodded and left. He couldn't promise anything more.

VVV

Purdey and Gambit were waiting for him in the corridor outside the interrogation division when Steed finished. They moved toward him as he passed through security, and out into the waiting area. "Well?" he inquired as they approached. "What did you make of Maud?"

Gambit glanced at Purdey, who nodded her assent, then spoke. "We asked her if she knew what it was about, or if she thought George was being got at, and she doesn't. As far as we can tell, she's telling us the truth."

"We don't think she's being got at, either," Purdey added. "Did you have any luck with George?"

Steed looked ruefully over his shoulder, toward the interrogation room, then turned back and shook his head. "Nothing. Instinct tells me that George was being truthful as well. If it's not either of them, it doesn't leave us with many leads."

"Maud mentioned a marriage counsellor," Purdey informed. "Could that be significant?"

"It might. George said the same. He said there was a memo sent out. If we're lucky, it might still be in his office."

"Won't know until we look," Gambit agreed. "Your car's still not here, Purdey. Who are you riding with?"

Purdey put a finger to her lips in thought. "Let's find out, shall we?" she said coyly. "Eenie, meenie, minie, mo."

VVV

Purdey wound up back in Gambit's car, and they followed Steed all the way back to the building housing George Sands' department. A few inquiries and a security man with the right key gained them entry into the man's office. They were assured that all of Sands' papers were still contained within, the agents assigned to investigate warned off from disturbing the contents by Steed himself. The senior agent knew better than anyone that where something was found was just as important as what was found. This meant that all of Sands' papers were exactly where he had left them.

The downside was that Sands, while fastidious and organised, had apparently thought it important to retain every piece of paper he had ever received in the course of his work, and Purdey and Gambit's hearts sank at the sight of a desk laden with stacks and stacks of files, bolstered by a neat row of filing cabinets along the back wall, the capacity of which appeared to be soul-crushingly large.

"Steed…" Purdey began, eyes flicking sideways toward her boss with mild annoyance.

"Yes, George is a bit of a pack rat," Steed confirmed cheerfully.

"Now you tell us," Gambit muttered. "If I'd known I was set for an all-nighter, I would have brought a flask and some provisions."

"Come now, it shouldn't take too long," Steed said brightly, striding to the desk and setting his bowler and brolly on the surface. "And look on the bright side. If George saves everything, then he must still have the memo."

"Right," Gambit said faintly. "The bright side." He looked at Purdey. "Desk or filing cabinet?"

"Desk," Purdey decided, with a sigh, even as Steed settled into the office chair. "If it's a recent memo, it's more likely to be there anyway."

"But we should cover all the angles," Gambit said knowingly, looking to Steed. "Right?"

Steed beamed at his younger compatriots. "I couldn't have put it better myself."

That was the last pertinent piece of information Steed's colleagues gleaned from him for quite some time. He lapsed into a thoughtful silence not long after Purdey and Gambit began scouring the office for the memo, eyes distant and brow furrowed. Purdey and Gambit let him be, knowing he was pondering the whys and wherefores of his friend's possible betrayal.

In the end, it was Purdey who found the memo, half-covered by another, more recent notice, dog-eared but definitely readable. She removed it carefully from the stack she'd been searching, crawling out from beneath the desk, under which she'd made herself a cosy little work area when perching on the end of the desk proved to be less-than-comfortable. "I've got it," she exclaimed, sticking her arm out and waving the paper in front of Steed's abdomen as she disentangled herself from the files she'd been reading. Steed and Gambit crowded around as she climbed to her feet, and the three read the contents in silence.

"It's just what Mrs. Sands said," Gambit observed when he'd finished. "A general order for all married employees."

"So it would seem," Steed murmured, tapping his umbrella against his chin in thought. "I wonder." He rose abruptly and left the office, started off down the hall, leaving Purdey and Gambit to hurriedly lock up the office and trail in his wake.

"Where are we going, Steed?" Purdey wanted to know, catching up to the man and falling into step beside him.

"I want to know who exactly had that memo written up and distributed," Steed told her, shaking his head when she consulted the piece of paper in her hands. "I know what it says on there, but I'd like to be certain. They'll have a record of it, but I don't know that they'll surrender it to someone outside their department without full clearance."

Purdey smiled broadly. "I think you ought to let me do the asking."

VVV

In the end, Steed and Gambit lurked out in the corridor, trying to look inconspicuous, while Purdey went into the records office and worked her charms. Steed regarded the younger man with mild interest.

"How are things?" Steed asked conversationally, as though he were doing nothing more than killing time, but Gambit knew Steed better than that.

"What do you mean by 'things'?" he asked suspiciously.

"Oh, you know. Work. Family. Relationships."

"Relationships?" Gambit arched an eyebrow. "Are you worried I'm having trouble getting dates?"

Steed widened his eyes comically. "Certainly not."

"What do you mean, then?"

"Well, as a purely hypothetical example, is there something you and I ought to talk about?"

Gambit pulled a face. "No. At least, I hope not."

Steed smiled. "I didn't think so. What about you and Purdey? Is there anything, ah, going on, I should know about?"

Gambit didn't respond right away, but looked elsewhere with studied indifference. "There definitely isn't anything going on between me and Purdey," he said, but in a way that hinted that he wasn't entirely happy about that state of affairs.

Before Steed could pursue the matter, Purdey herself emerged from the file room. She looked from one of her colleagues to the other with interest as she noted their respective expressions.

"What's going on?" she inquired.

"Nothing, it seems," Steed told her, glancing meaningfully at Gambit, who pretended not to notice the significance of the way he had worded his reply. "Did you find anything?"

Purdey smiled secretively. "Well, strictly speaking, I shouldn't have gotten anywhere. Luckily, the clerk took a shine to me, and I was able to look at some of their files."

"What did that cost you?" Gambit quipped, and Purdey shot him a look.

"Wouldn't you like to know?" she said coyly, turning to Steed. "I had them search everywhere. There's no record of that memo ever being issued to this department, or any department for that matter. As far as anyone can tell, it doesn't exist."

"Which means it was planted," Gambit deduced. "That's what you think, don't you Steed? Someone wanted Sands and his colleagues pouring their lives out to…" He took the memo from Purdey, who still had it clutched in her grasp, and located the name of the so-called marriage counsellor. "…Dr. Smith."

"The possibility did cross my mind," Steed agreed thoughtfully. "And it bears looking into, no matter how tangential its relationship to George's current situation. I want you to identify every married employee in George's department, and I want to know if they've been seeing Dr. Smith. Also whether they've had any…disturbances…in their relationships since they began their sessions. You may want to look into Dr. Smith as well. I'd like to know what his background is, and whether he's really a doctor. Meet me at the farm first thing tomorrow morning, and we'll go over your findings."

Gambit nodded smartly. "Right."

"What will you be doing, Steed?" Purdey wanted to know.

Steed smiled mysteriously. "I've a sudden urge to marry someone," he said with cheerful nonchalance, then took his leave before his bewildered young colleagues could question him further.

VVV

Six days later

Pale morning light slipped through a crack in the curtains, and cut a swath across Purdey's equally pale, sleeping face. She stirred, head moving gently from side to side on the pillow she didn't remember putting under her head. Purdey frowned, still half-asleep, eyes still shut tight. It wasn't just the pillow. She couldn't remember much of anything from the night before, but she had a feeling she should.

She finally cracked open her eyes, squinting against the light, and found herself staring at an unfamiliar ceiling, one that definitely didn't belong to her basement flat. She blinked at it uncomprehendingly, but it still took her a few moments for her to identify it as the ceiling of Steed's living room. Why she was there still eluded her. The frown deepened.

She sat up, gingerly, her head protesting with the sort of headache that came from dehydration. That tallied with her parched mouth. Her tongue felt like sandpaper, and tasted about as palatable. It was still preferable to the awful, hollow feeling in her chest, like someone had scooped out her insides. She propped herself up on her elbows and lower arms and looked around vaguely, realising suddenly that she was stretched out on Steed's couch, a blanket pulled over her form, with her elbows digging into the aforementioned pillow. A quick examination of her form revealed that she was clad in a pair of pyjamas. She didn't remember putting them on.

There were no other sounds in the house, save the ticking of the clock on Steed's mantle, and the distant whinny of a horse in the stable. If someone else was in the house, they weren't awake yet, or at the very least weren't up and about. She pulled the blanket off her legs, and swung them over the edge of the couch, braced herself there with her hands, tried to remember. Her mind was maddeningly fuzzy, the entire last 24 hours concealed in an all-encompassing haze. She thought hard for a moment, then gave up. From experience, she knew it would come on its own. Pushing the issue would only make things worse.

She rose, padding across the living area on bare feet to cross to the French doors, and the not-completely-closed curtains. She parted them with the backs of her hands, gazed out over the vast grounds behind Steed's manor house. The grass was green, but the sky was grey-not a dark grey signalling rain, but a light, bland, depressing grey, dropped like a curtain over the house. Or a mourning shroud. The phrase caught in Purdey's mind like a burr, and stuck there, digging in, delivering a sudden shock to the system.

Gambit's dead.

She nearly collapsed as the memories came rushing back, unhindered by her mind's futile attempt to protect itself, and it took all her strength to stay upright and not howl loud enough to wake any and all occupants of the house. She pressed her palms against the glass of the French doors, bracing herself, head bowed, needing the support. She wanted to cry, but there were no tears left. She was all cried out, at least for now, and she struck her fist uselessly against the glass, cursing her own body for failing her at the time she most needed a release.

Suddenly, the living room seemed cramped, claustrophobic. She needed out, needed space. She turned abruptly and dashed to the hall closet, threw it open, found a coat and a pair of boots she'd left there once upon a time for convenience's sake. She slammed the closet door shut again before her eyes could linger on Gambit's rarely-used mac, occupying the same closet, and pulled the boots on, shrugging on the coat over her pyjamas, before retracing her steps and opening the French doors to step out onto the veranda, then carry on into the field.

Her pyjama bottoms were too long, and they dragged into the grass, wet with dew, becoming soaked in the process. Her pace was slow, steady, but determined. She walked away from the house, trying to flee from her grief. In the early morning mist, she was a slight figure: crossed arms, hunched shoulders, head bowed to watch her feet cut a path through the grass.

If there had been anyone around to observe her, they would have thought she was mad. Maybe she was going mad. Grief could lead to madness, she knew. She'd had more than her share of experience with the emotion, of the tolls that loss could take on a body. First the death of her father, something she knew, without question, had left its mark on her. But she'd picked herself up from that, and, determined to move on, had tried to build a new life for herself. Larry was another loss, a different loss—the loss of a chance at the life she had strived to build. She'd had to restart again from scratch, to mend the destruction left in his wake. When Larry reemerged, he had brought that loss back again, and added to it with his death. And Purdey, to a certain, though lesser, extent, had had to rebuild things once more, had to fight to mend her frayed friendships, her career. Now here she was, once more confronted by grief, and forced to pick herself up again, to put the pieces back together into something she could call a life. Her enthusiasm for that particular task was waning.

She'd always known this could happen, had known the chances were better than slim. In their line of work, any or all of them could die any day, whether in the heat of a gun fight on an assignment, or quietly from a poisoned drink in their own flats. It was a reality, one they confronted every time one of their fellow agents gave his life in the line of duty, or one of them had a particularly close call. But as Steed was wont to say, you closed the file. You moved on. Dwelling on it wouldn't make it any better, or easier. And yet, in spite of it all, she was in a strange sort of denial about it all, had never really believed that Gambit or Steed would die. They'd been lucky so many times, survived so many attempts on their lives, that it was easy to decide that they were indestructible, which made it all the harder to process when she thought they really were gone for good.

There was only one time that she'd really, truly believed Gambit was dead for any extended period. It was the case concerning the doubles, perfect doppelgangers surgically altered by a certain Dr. Praetor to step seamlessly into the lives of high-ranking agents and residents of Whitehall. Purdey had come face-to-face with the man she believed to be Gambit's double, "Terry Walton," and discovered just too late that "Terry" had paid Gambit a visit and gunned him down in cold blood. Purdey felt as though the world had dropped out from beneath her, and what followed in the next two or so hours was a blur of frantically trying to work out who to tell and what to do, while desperately trying to resist the urge to be violently sick (successfully), and to keep the flood of tears at bay (less so). She never told Gambit or Steed that she had to stop her car en route to report to Craig (who had been replaced himself at that point, though she didn't know it at the time) because she thought she really was going to be sick all over the upholstery. In the end she wasn't, but spent a good ten minutes crying her eyes out before pulling herself together to meet Craig. It wasn't her finest moment, but it hurt so badly that she needed the release, needed to mourn, even a little, before she finished her duties as an agent and could officially be let off the hook to mourn as a friend. She didn't have time to dwell on the enormity of his loss, but she knew enough to realise what she'd lost. "If he was here right now, I'd—" That was what she'd screamed at "Walton", just before he'd outed himself as the real Gambit. She was never entirely certain how she would have finished that sentence given the chance. It was coming out so quickly, from a place deep and raw and honest that she'd been hiding from herself for so long, and she covered it over quickly just as soon as she knew Gambit was alive and well. But she'd had time to think about it—really think-in the past twenty-four hours. The words came easily to her lips now, but she had no one to say them to.

She kicked the ground angrily. What did she do now? When her father died, she had chosen to focus on her career as a dancer—that was her path. Then, when Larry came, it was a family and a home life she was ultimately striving for. After Larry, and then her abrupt dismissal from the ballet, she'd had to recalibrate. By 1975, her goal was to become a top Ministry agent. She'd done that, or was doing that—she supposed it was an ongoing thing. But that also necessitated being part of a team, her team, and with Gambit gone, that team was no more. There was Steed, of course. There was always Steed. They could carry on, as a partnership, or add someone new, though that seemed like sacrilege at this point in time. She didn't even know if she wanted the job any longer, if she could do it without feeling Gambit's ghost over her shoulder at every turn. But more than that, as she stood out in that field, she came to the realisation that, recently, she'd quit focussing solely on the team and the job. She had, consciously or unconsciously, been building something between her and Gambit for some time. An endgame that she rarely overtly admitted to herself, but that had always existed. She'd always thought there would be time for it. Time to straighten out her feelings. Time to come to terms with her past and what she had in the present. Time to say things in something other than jest.

But there was no time now. None. Not for anything. Not for Gambit, not for her. Not for them. Not ever. And she had only herself to blame.

She kicked, stomped the ground again, angry at the world, and Smith, but most of all herself. She'd had chances, lots of chances.

The urge to cry washed over her again, but there were still no tears. She looked up at the sky, the grey reflecting what she felt on the inside, as though the weather could sense her pain and had chosen to be sympathetic, complementing her shade for shade. She realised she was rapidly running out of Steed's back yard, so to speak, and stopped. There were woods up ahead. She could probably lose herself in them for an hour or so, but what would be the point? She wasn't going to find Gambit under an errant toadstool, though he'd probably have a terrible joke to make about the idea. She felt her mouth quirk up on one side as she pictured the expression on his face as he told it, felt her customary tsk rise to her lips. She was going to miss his bad jokes, just as much as she would everything else about him. She wasn't certain when she was going to be able to laugh again, given the terrible numb feeling in her heart.

Since she'd run out of field, there was nowhere to go but back again. Last time she'd taken a walk in a field, she'd worried she'd run into Larry's body on the way back, but the clean-up crew had taken him away by then. The next thing she'd worried about was the others' reaction, reflected in their eyes. Steed's eyes, sympathetic, with the slightest tinge of recrimination for her actions. Gambit's, concerned and begging her to forgive him. The only way she could see Gambit's eyes now was to close her own, but that quickly dissolved into a picture of his lifeless features, so she tried to avoid picturing them. She could still see Steed's eyes, though, which was something. He would worry if he found her missing, and she'd already caused him too much of that in the last twenty-four hours. Slowly, sadly, she turned back toward the house.

Steed was seated at the dining room table when she came in, fully dressed in a suit, with breakfast laid out on the table, and the newspaper in his lap. He looked up as she shut the French doors. "I thought you must have needed the fresh air," he said by way of greeting, knowing better than to try a 'good morning' under the circumstances. "Though I was about to start a search if you didn't return in the next quarter of an hour." He watched Purdey discard her coat and leave it draped untidily over the back of the couch, before she slipped into the chair across from him, a waif in electric blue pyjamas. "How are you feeling?" he inquired, face creased in concern.

"How do you think?" Purdey replied bitterly, hugging herself as if it was desperately cold, despite the warmth of the house.

Steed nodded in understanding, indicated the toast rack. "Help yourself to some breakfast."

Purdey shook her head. "I don't want anything."

Steed didn't press the issue, but she could tell that wouldn't be the end of it. "Well, whenever the urge does strike, all you have to do is ask. Whatever you like."

She managed a small nod of gratitude. "Thank you, Steed."

"My pleasure." He beamed at her, and she felt her spirits lift slightly. "Now, I realise that this is probably the last thing you'd like to discuss just now, but I think you should know where things stand. I'm having Kendrick examine the remains we found in the building, and there's a team going over the site with a fine tooth comb. I've also put the word out to be on the lookout for Smith and Gambit. They'll be checking in at regular intervals with their findings. I'd supervise the investigation in person, but I'm needed here."

"To act as a babysitter," Purdey finished glumly. "You don't trust me to be alone, do you? You think I'll do something rash."

"To act as a friend," Steed corrected. "And no, I don't think you're about to end it all, although you might feel like it in a particularly dark moment. But I do think you need some sort of support, and I'm not about to withhold it."

Purdey turned a jaded eye on him. "What about you? You seem awfully cheerful. Don't you need support, or are you putting on a brave front for my sake?"

"Neither of those alternatives is particularly applicable just now," Steed said truthfully. "For the time being, I have no concrete evidence that Gambit is dead. As far as I'm concerned, he's missing, believed captured, and I'll continue believing it until someone gives me a reason to think otherwise."

"But I saw him killed!" Purdey wailed, a measure of annoyance creeping into her voice. "I know he was dead. There was no way he could survive what Smith did to him."

"Saw him killed, perhaps," Steed amended, picking up the thread of their conversation from the nice before. "But there are ways that could have been faked. Or you, as the witness, misled."

"You don't believe me!" Purdey shot back in frustration. "I don't know what I can say to persuade you, Steed. Why would I imagine he was killed, when all I want is for him to be alive? And if he's not dead, why would Smith want him?"

"Any number of reasons," Steed replied calmly. "Hostage. Interrogation. Sell him to the highest bidder."

Purdey shook her head. "A dead hostage is no good to anyone. They must know that. And they know I saw them kill him, they know I escaped, so they must know you know. There's no reason for them to fake it." Her eyes bore into his, seemingly impassive. "Don't you trust me?"

Steed reached across the table and covered her hand with his. "Of course I trust you," he soothed. "You saw what you saw. I don't doubt that. But I've been in this business long enough to know that there are many, many ways to interpret the same sequence of events, and I want to be certain we don't miss out on the other ways by stopping at your version. If we did, and it turned out that Gambit was still alive, and we left him to his fate, what sort of friend would that make me? Or you?" He held her gaze, trying to make her understand. "We owe it to Gambit to chase down every lead until we can be certain that there's nothing left to chase. He was—is-our friend, and if we were in his place, I know he'd do the same for us. So yes, I am going to keep searching, and I'm also going to keep an eye on you, because whatever else Gambit might need if he's still alive, it's not someone rushing in to avenge him, endangering both his life and his rescuer's in the process."

Purdey pulled her hand away. "I wouldn't do that," she murmured.

"Oh yes you would," Steed contradicted, and Purdey looked up in surprise. "I'd be very worried if the thought hadn't crossed your mind. It would certainly cross mine, and has, and it most definitely crossed Gambit's when we thought we might lose you. But if it does come to that—and I sincerely hope it doesn't—we'll hunt Smith down properly, with a clear head and the sort of professionalism Gambit deserves. And at the moment I don't think you're capable of that, so I suppose at the moment I am babysitting you, but I think it's all for a good cause."

Purdey smirked in spite of herself. "You have it all worked out, don't you?"

"I wish I did, but I believe I'm off to a good start," Steed agreed cheerfully. "Now, can I tempt you with some breakfast?"

Purdey's face fell again. "No," she replied stubbornly. "No, I don't think so." She looked down at her dew-soaked pyjama bottoms. "A shower maybe. A warm one. Or a bath." She could submerge in a bath, maybe forget everything for half an hour. Maybe. She rose. "You'll be here when I come back down?"

"Of course," Steed assured. "For as long as you need."

"Thank you," she whispered, then fled up the stairs, because she'd suddenly reacquired the ability to cry.