Rating: M, sexy stuff
Disclaimer: See chapter 1
Spoilers: Everything
Pairing: David/Julia
Summary: She's a fugitive trying so hard not to exist. He's the lover trying so hard to forget.


A package arrives in the mail. A warning or a threat. He doesn't know which. It's anonymous. No demands or instructions accompany the contents. But someone clearly wants him to know that they know about his inappropriate relationship with Julia Montague.

He got rid of all the recordings he had of her voice. He handed them over to the officers investigating her murder long ago. But this isn't a recording of her exchanging cagey remarks with Stephen Hunter-Dunn or Richard Longcross. It's of him and Julia, and what they can be heard doing has nothing whatever to do with politics.

He remembers the night it must have been recorded. He'd been pissed about something and had taken it out on The Blackwood's unsuspecting gym equipment. Back in his room, his annoyance had resurfaced when he emerged from his shower to find no clean undies in his suitcase. His towel dropped to the floor as he rummaged a little too vigorously through the small selection of clothes he'd brought with him. He hated living out of a bag. It reminded him of being in the army. Or of those first few months after Vicky kicked him out. He'd couch-surfed a while, refusing to admit the permanency of their separation and commit to a place of his own. When he finally signed the lease on his flat, it felt like the worst kind of a failure, final confirmation that his marriage was over.

With his back turned and mind occupied, he hadn't heard her approach. She simply appeared at the twin doors they'd gotten in the habit of keeping ajar.

"I feel distinctly overdressed."

David turned at the sound of her voice, low and lilting and husky. Julia stood on the threshold, a shoulder propped against the doorframe and a wineglass dangling from her perfectly manicured fingertips. She looked as immaculate as ever, dressed in navy and cream, her pants pinstriped and her blouse silky. She hadn't even dispensed with the high heels that helped her stride so impressively from conference room to office, from car to government chamber, from television studio to upmarket restaurant.

David glanced down at his naked body, felt his penis stir between his thighs. He faced her fully, watched her eyes slowly descend. Julia never refrained from showing her appreciation of his physical form. It was a nice change after Vicky, who'd gradually come to eye him with a mixture of caution and disappointment. And even, he sometimes thought, a level of concealed disgust. Julia's eyes were never fearful, always direct, often hungry. Lazily, languidly, sensually so. She was a woman adept at image, good with details. So as a lover, she was almost as stimulated by visuals as she was by touch.

David planted his feet a little wider, lifted a hand to indicate her state of dress in relation to his. "I could help with that, if you like."

Julia sipped her wine, lips curving up in a small smile. She stepped inside his room, heels clicking slowly across the hardwood floor. Her gaze swept over his bed then returned to his body. She moved closer as he stood still, skin prickling with tension and arousal. Eyes on his, she sat on the end of his bed. She tipped her head to one side as she considered him. Then she took one last sip of her drink and set it on the floor by her feet.

"Come here," she murmured, soft and certain.

He abandoned his suitcase, stepped over his wet towel. He moved towards her in bare feet, feeling every inch of his nakedness. Julia's head tipped further and further back as he approached, her eyes maintaining contact. Her gaze only relinquished his when he stopped in front of her, towered over her. Her gaze dropped as her hands lifted, moving over his chest, his belly, his back. Grasping an arse cheek in each hand, she drew him closer, pressed her hot mouth to his torso. She kissed him with parted lips and a wet tongue, bathed him in scorching breaths. Her hands caressed his mottled skin, reached up to stroke his tattooed arms. Then her mouth moved lower, drawing him into the warm, wet cavern of her mouth.

His eyes closed over and his head fell back. His hips flexed as she fed him deep, sucked him hard. Her nails scratched his skin, urged him into her. Her tongue laved the tip of him, the underside of him. His hands cupped her head as he hardened further in her mouth. She moved unhurriedly, savouringly. She set up a regular rhythm then broke it. She hummed onto his cock then withdrew completely. She kept him on sexual tenterhooks, kept him guessing. Within minutes, she had him heaving, chest puffing in and out with want and anticipation. David stroked her cheek as she sat back, tossed her hair out of her eyes. She ran a hand up his body, fingers delving into his chest hair and palm pressing flat to one of his pecs. He reached down for the hem of her blouse, drew it up over her head. Julia unhooked her bra and tossed it aside. So that the next time she took him in her mouth, her breasts brushed against his thighs, making her nipples peak.

The recording is high quality. It picks up everything. Every hum and groan and rustle. He can hear the moment she moves back on the bed and lays down, the moment he unzips her trousers and pulls them off. He can hear her sigh as his hand slips between her legs, parting her lips and spreading her arousal. He can definitely hear the drawn out "Daaavviiiiddd…" she emits when he enters her. He used to love that. Her voice. How she said his name. How she'd moan it in unadulterated surrender and satisfaction. Her moan also marks the point at which the recording becomes truly incriminating. Because the words they exchange give very little away. Her mouth on his cock only resulted in some soft slurps and hums and swipes. But once he's inside her, they begin gasping in ecstatic unison. The bed can be heard, straining under every thrust.

Their pace increases until Julia is giving a throaty cry with each plunge. He hears himself mutter her name, a wet smack as he plants a sloppy kiss on her slick chest. David listens to her come, her cries rising in pitch and her hands slapping desperately at his flesh. There's a pause after she finishes. Some more laboured breaths. He thinks he might have withdrawn at this point, looked down into her flushed, post-orgasmic face. She smiled up at him maybe, eyelids drooping lazily. She stroked his face, something curious about her touch, her half-conscious consideration. Her other hand had flopped onto the mattress, lying loose above her head. And when he slid back into her, he slid his hand into her open palm, lacing his fingers with hers. Seated deep inside her, he leaned down to kiss her mouth, bite at her lips.

"Fuck me," she whispered into his kiss, her hand tightening on his. "Please, David. Fuck me…"

Since her death, he's tried half-heartedly to convince himself that fucking Julia was just that and only that. Fucking. Without her around, it's easier to believe, easier to dismiss. But the mystery recording makes it difficult to downgrade their affair. The sexual connection between them was undoubtedly strong – stronger than he'd ever experienced. He'd been hungry for attention, for tactile affection, for the sort of full-bodied acceptance that Julia so willingly offered. Breaking the carnal drought Vicky had imposed brought life back into his body – pleasure and excitement and release. But there had also been some kind of strange connection between him and Julia, an almost immediate intimacy and instinctual loyalty. An understanding of mind and soul. It's there, he can hear it. In every awed pant, delighted sigh and naked hum.

He pulls the earbuds from his ears just as Julia is about to climax for a second time and just as he's about to follow her. The recording continues for another minute or so but he's got the gist. David rises from his bed, paces the floor. He eyes the plain packaging the USB arrived in. It gives nothing away.

He jumps when his phone rings, his wife's face appearing on the screen. He answers as tinny post-coital giggles leak from his abandoned earbuds. He disconnects the USB before the recording concludes. He shoves it back in the manila envelope, stuffs the envelope in his sock drawer.

He looks at it lying there. Evidence. Confirmation. Of something.

Vicky's voice cuts in. "Dave? Are you listening to me, Dave?"

He starts, makes his voice sound deliberately cheery. "Yeah, love. I'm here. I'm listening..."

Vicky resumes relaying the details of Ella's sports carnival. David takes a last look at the half-concealed envelope containing the incriminating recording. Then he slides the drawer shut.

-x-

She used to fantasise about moving to Switzerland. Back in the initial stages of her recovery, back when she was committed to her escape plan. She'd wanted out. Of everything. Out of politics, out of the limelight. Away from David, away from the pain and humiliation of his betrayal. She was in so much pain that she couldn't distinguish the physical from the emotional. All she'd wanted was to feel nothing. She craved neutrality. And she thought Switzerland would be the perfect place to find it. She could live on a farm. Raise goats. Eat chocolate. Wear skirts. Even in the fantasy, she quickly grew bored.

Now, so many monotonous months later, all she fantasises about is returning to her old life, her old job, her old wardrobe, her old nemeses. She misses high heels and that first morning coffee. She misses feeling like her life had purpose. But she can't conceive of any way to re-enter the world that isn't utterly ridiculous. How does one stage a triumphant return from the dead? It was a question for Hollywood, not for real life. None of her PR consultants had ever covered such an extreme possibility. But it's all she thinks about as she wanders the streets of London.

She can't wander far. She's out of her wheelchair but she still walks with a limp and requires the assistance of a cane. Her doctor tells her she probably always will. Even with the cane, it doesn't take long for her bones to start aching and her system to start craving another hit of pain relief. The first time she ventured outside, she expected to be recognised immediately. But, after ten years in the public eye, it's almost funny how anonymous she's become. Death will do that. It's the perfect cover. No one's expecting to see her. And even if they did, they probably wouldn't recognise her. Not with all the changes to her face and frame. She wears a dark hat and glasses just to be sure. That, coupled with the cane and her beige trench coat, allows her to stroll the city undisturbed.

One of her favourite haunts is the park where they quarantined David. It's mere blocks from her building. She watched the whole ordeal unfold on television, switching between channels as she tried to work out from a few meagre, mediated facts whether he was a goodie or a baddie, a terrorist or a victim, the man she thought he was or the man Roger painted him as. She tried to access higher intelligence but her avenues of influence and information were cut off the moment she decided to be dead. It was the price – one of many – she'd paid for her safety. All she could do was watch helplessly as he stalked through the city, a deadly device strapped to his body and his wife pacing gravely at his side.

It was the first time she'd seen David's wife, and her stomach sunk at how pretty she was, how light and young. They looked right together. Her small frame and blonde hair complemented his dark, contained intensity. As they marched determinedly down the evacuated streets of the city, she couldn't help imagining them marching jubilantly up the aisle of a church after saying their vows. She wasn't sure if they even married in a church. She couldn't even recall Mrs Budd's first name. The other woman had never been particularly real to her. But suddenly and rather uncomfortably, she'd seen herself as a usurper, a reckless intruder meddling in someone else's most sacred affairs.

Even so, as she walks in circles around the spot where he stood – alone and abandoned, bloody and desperate – she can't help feeling that she should've been there. Her presence was required, her voice needed in his defence. And she let him down. She'd been stuck by the telly in her wheelchair, unable to speak or move or act. Her deadness weighed her down, made her powerless for the first time in her adult life. She hadn't known what to do with that dead weight, how to break out of her ineffective bubble. Eventually, she saw his wife join him, saw them start to move forward. Mr and Mrs Budd had practically walked past her door on their resolute pilgrimage. A fact she cannot afford to view any other way but ironically.

After all, she'd spent years courting the media, heightening her visibility and cultivating her image. Then, overnight, she was a non-entity. She was mute. Irrelevant. Invisible. It was her worst nightmare. Although for David, it was probably for the best. He had that lovely, loyal wife at his side. No doubt she was who he'd wanted and needed all along. Mrs Budd was a nurse, she remembered that much. She would make sure he got help, that he moved on with his life. Mrs Budd could be of use to him. Unlike her. She couldn't. Not anymore. She could pull no strings for him, offer no perks to him. She couldn't even offer the same face and body he had at one time taken such pleasure in. Faint lines around her eyes and a few extra pounds on her ripening frame were the least of her worries now. Not with scars and burns and broken bones and a physique that was gradually wasting away.

Julia takes a seat on a wooden bench, her hip joints burning and her breath huffing with pain. She'd tried to help out with his son but in all probability she'd been a disruptive force in David Budd's life. Selfish and seductive, taking what she wanted of him with little regard for what he truly needed. If she looks back, she can see that she was the one who initiated all of their physical encounters. She reached for him in the aftermath of the Thornton Circus attack. She opened the door to continue what they both had every reason to regret. She unzipped her trousers and slipped a hand inside, lolling against her bedroom door in an utterly transparent act of enticement.

She pauses, slipping off her glasses and folding them in her lap. David Budd was, however, not a man to be manipulated. He might have followed her lead but he did so willingly, avidly and repeatedly. Nothing about his participation had ever seemed feigned or forced. That night, when she'd moved away from her bedroom door, beckoning him with a look, he had other choices. But he chose to follow her. He chose to continue what she started. Stepping out of her heels, she heard him swiftly secure his weapon then stride unerringly from his bedroom to hers. Appearing at the door, his eyes had leaked dark desire. But when she moved to reach for him rather than herself, David gave a tight shake of his head.

"No," he grunted. "Keep going."

He sipped his beer as he watched. She faced him fully, let her trousers sag about her hips. His eyes drifted downwards as she slid her fingers back into her folds. She watched his mouth as he drank, watched his lips purse and his Adam's apple bob with each swallow. She watched him advance, a few slow steps at a time, his free hand lifting to loosen his tie, unbutton his collar. He drew closer, until he was standing in front of her, looking down at her face as she pleasured herself for him. His clothes brushed hers, his mouth lifted in one corner. When he reached around her to place his beer on the nightstand, she could feel his heat, his hunger. She could smell his skin, his sweat, his aftershave. Her eyes slipped shut, her lips parted with want. Straightening, he stopped in at her ear to deliver his next order.

"On the bed," he murmured. "Lie back."

She obeyed, sitting on the edge before easing back. David dropped to his knees, making quick work of her trousers then inserting himself between her open thighs. She peeled her top off, flung away her bra. He tugged her closer, ran both hands up the outsides of her legs, from ankle to hip then back again. Hands on her knees, he looked up at her.

"Don't stop," he reminded her, lowering his mouth to her skin. "Keep going…"

His fingers stroked her calves as he bit and kissed and licked her spread thighs. And in between each bite and kiss and lick, he kept a close eye on what was occurring beneath her underwear. He let her work, watched her middle finger circle her clit, her other fingers stroke and separate her folds. He kissed the back of her hand, nipped at her knuckles through the satin. He nudged at her with his nose, inhaled deeply. He glanced up at her face, flushed from her ministrations and his intense observation. Then he curled his fingers into the waistband of her underwear and peeled them down and off. He hadn't told her to stop, so she didn't. She just sighed, closed her eyes and felt his mouth join her hand.

He licked her fingers, sucked her thumb. He lifted her legs to his shoulders, sliding his hot mouth up the inside of one thigh. She whimpered when he tongued her wrist, slurped at her lips, drank her arousal off her own flesh. For a while they worked together, competing for control of her cunt. Then she acquiesced and allowed his hunger to take over, cupping his face and drawing him in. His tongue slithered up and down, thrust inside then swirled around. She arched and squirmed on the mattress, keeping him close with her hands on his head and her thighs round his neck. He slid both hands under her arse, parting her with his thumbs and lifting her off the bed in order to gain better access. He ate her with relish and she came so hard, her eyes clamped shut and her toes curled and entire body racked and quivering.

She probably groaned his name, probably too much, probably too loud. Because he reached a hand up and muffled her mouth. She'd still been coming so she just pushed into his palm with her open lips, sucked his fingers, bit the flesh of his palm. As she was coming down, she heard his zipper. Then his arms were pulling her floppy body off the bed, onto the floor and into his lap. She was dripping wet so he put her straight on his cock, holding her up as he started to fuck her. She leaned back against the edge of the bed, head and shoulders resting on the mattress. David took the opportunity offered to him, leaning in to suck on her nipples.

A dog nudges her foot and Julia opens her eyes. Her hands are grasping her sunglasses tight in her lap. She leans down, fumbles for a stick then throws it across the brown grass. The mutt takes off and the far-off owner gives her a wave of thanks. Julia nods in response then takes shaky breath. She thinks about sex far too frequently for a recluse without romantic prospects. For an invalid whose shattered hipbone would probably never withstand the sort of fucking David had liked to give her. And he had liked it, she was sure of that much. Whatever other plans he had for her, his participation in their sexual relationship had been full-bodied, if not wholehearted. Of course, there's little point in going over it now, trying retrospectively to separate actions from intentions, truth from fiction, possibility from actuality.

It's starting to give her a headache. Or maybe that's just the pain kicking in again. Julia rises, tests her legs. She needs to get back before it escalates. She slips on her sunglasses, glances at her watch. Time for lunch – a scrumptious collection of pills accompanied by a tall glass of red. And a lecture from her nurse about combining the two.

TBC...