The Question

by J. Ferguson a.k.a. Timeless A-Peel

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

Timeline: Takes place from the end of the final season one episode, "Dirtier by the Dozen," all the way through the entirety of season 2.

Beta by rabidsamfan.

Author's Note: Fresh chapter. Everyone seemed to be terribly down after the last one, so hopefully this one won't make everyone even more depressed. Poor Gambit just has to deal with the aftermath as best he can. Thanks for the reviews thus far!

The first thing I did when I got home was crack open the Scotch. I know, I know. It doesn't solve a thing, and, as Purdey would be quick to point out, I always wake up with a headache and a hangover afterward. But right at that moment I didn't want to do the sensible thing. I wasn't even thinking straight. I didn't know what was best when the whole world had been torn out from under me. All I knew was I wanted to be numb, and that was my best way to get there.

Contrary to what some people like to say, I can hold my liquor. It's true, Purdey does even better with a fraction of the body weight, but I'm not exactly tipsy after two cocktails. But by the time the doorbell ran I'd had a lot of time alone with the Scotch. Eight, nine, something like that. I was drunk. Sloshed. Plastered. Fill in your own word for it. They all fit. I hadn't been that shit-faced in a very, very long time. I don't make a habit of it anymore, not the way I did in my navy days when it was almost as intoxicating to just be getting away with downing a few at the tender age of 14. I don't find I enjoy it as much as I used to. I'm getting to like remembering the night before more and more.

I must be getting old.

Anyway, this meant in spite of how much liquid courage I had sloshing around in me, I somehow managed to answer the door. It took a little longer for me to figure out who it was, though. Everything kept swinging back and forth with the alcohol in my stomach. I was lucky it wasn't an enemy agent, because I would have been dead before I knew what was happening. I was in no shape to defend myself, and I wasn't even sure at that point if it was worth the effort.

Luckily for me, it was Steed.

Unluckily for Steed, he got to deal with me.

"Gambit." I could focus enough to see his frown, and he winced when he smelt me. "I'd ask how you are, but I won't make you state the obvious."

"Good." I turned sloppily and staggered back inside. "Whaddaya want?"

"I was on my way to check on Purdey, but I thought I'd stop in on you first." Steed closed the door behind us and made his way over to the bar, where my almost-empty bottle was sitting, waiting for me to visit it again. "It seems it was a good thing I did. You smell as though you've been fermenting in a barrel."

"I know." I staggered over and collapsed on the couch. "But don't worry. Purdey wasn't drinking."

Steed arched his eyebrows in alarm. "You went to see her?"

"Yep." I nodded clumsily, but that made me dizzy, so I stopped. "She tol' me everything."

Steed looked even more concerned. "Everything?"

"Everythin'."

"And?"

I smiled up at him sloppily, but there were tears in my eyes. "She left me. Or I left her. Her flat. Y'know." I scrubbed at my face. "Said she can't be with me, after Larry."

"I see." Steed said quietly. "That's that then."

"Yes."

"I'm sorry."

I got angry then. Really angry. That was it? I'm sorry? After all I'd been through? After all Purdey had been through? And now it had all been torn apart, and Steed was sorry? The rage bubbled up in me, fuelled by hurt, and I directed it at the man who seemed easiest to blame.

"You should have told me."

Steed was obviously distracted, but he snapped back from whatever he was thinking to focus on me.

"Told you what?"

"About Larry. What Purdey told you."

"She hardly told me anything. I deduced. And I think she wanted to keep it under wraps. She knew how you'd react if you found out she had encountered an old lover. I knew. It didn't seem the best course of action. And there didn't seem to be any pertinent reason why you should be involved."

I sat up straight, fists clenched. Anger was overcoming alcohol, and I was having flashes of sobriety. "Of course I'd react! I'd be right to react! Purdey was facing him all on her own, and she should have had someone to support her. That's why you should have told me. We were together. I should have known about him. I should have been there for her, not stumbling around in the dark, trying to figure out what the hell I'd done wrong and how to fix it."

Steed shook his head. "She needed to face him without you getting in the way of things. She needed to do it on her own."

"She shouldn't have done it at all! Look at the way things turned out. She was dragged through hell and back today."

"We had no way of knowing what Doomer was planning," Steed said levelly. "But Purdey needed a chance to get past him on her own terms. It's the only way to heal."

"No, it's the wrong way to heal," I snapped back. "It wasn't healing at all. Maybe you felt better going over the wall again, but there are times you should just leave the bloody wall alone, or at least take someone with you for back-up."

"She didn't need your help! She was doing just fine on her own. She didn't need you rushing in and making things worse."

"I have never made things worse. Do you honestly believe what Spelman said? That I'm so rash I'd rush in and get her killed? Do you have that low an opinion of me? Because I would do anything in the world to see to it that Purdey wasn't hurt—not by anyone, including Doomer."

"You may not have meant to hurt her, but you would have made things worse by interfering."

"Worse?! WORSE?! How?!"

"By keeping her from making peace with Doomer. To prove to herself she could do it, she needed to do it on her own."

"That's wrong!"

"Just because it's difficult doesn't make it wrong. You have to stop protecting Purdey when she doesn't need it."

"He hit her, you bastard!"

Steed's eyes were surprised, I don't know if because of what I called him, or because I'd screamed, or what I'd revealed. Probably all three, but I think the latter more. I was drunk and hurt, and I think he knew I wasn't thinking straight, that it was the Scotch and pain talking. But the last bit? No excuse there.

"What?"

"She was engaged to him," I choked, everything pouring out like a wave. "They were a few weeks away from getting married. She was going to settle down, build a dream house, have a couple of kids and a dog. Then his father was killed and he went off the handle, tried to kill the emir. Purdey stopped him, and he slapped her around for it." I wiped my nose with my sleeve. "I don't care what you say. Putting an abused woman with her abuser isn't a way to make her brave. It's torture."

Steed looked genuinely disturbed. "If I'd known…"

"Now you know how it feels. The reason Purdey needs protecting, the reason she can be so vulnerable, is because of Doomer. Do you know that's why she's been so reluctant to be with me? Because she was terrified of getting hurt?"

"I didn't." Steed actually looked sorry now, but I was too tired to care.

"Well, you do now, not that it matters. Like I said, she's broken things off. I was the first man she'd been with since Larry, and from the looks of things I'll be the last." I sniffled. "And that's the last you'll see of us."

"If that's true, I doubt it. There must be something more, something stronger than anything Doomer can destroy. Why would Purdey take a risk with you if you were someone she could leave so easily?"

"That," I said, "is the million pound question."

Steed must have got me to bed, because I woke up tangled in the sheets, with a splitting headache and a liver about to explode. I spent the rest of the morning in the loo being sick. Keith Richards, eat your heart out.

We spent a few days moping around in our flats, until Steed finally got sick of us and decided that, when there seemed to be a chance to catch the Unicorn, Steed's old French nemesis, Purdey and I were going to help him do it. He came by my flat and issued an ultimatum—buck up and work with Purdey, or take a desk job and resign from field duty, and he wasn't going to let either of us do the latter quietly, so we both agreed. All I asked was that, when Steed decided two of us should go to collect intel and one should stay behind to track the Unicorn if he fled, that Steed take Purdey with him and leave me at home, just so I could buck myself up again. He agreed.

It made things easier. I could work, get back in the swing of things without worrying about Purdey. And by the time I did see her, on the plane to France, we were deep into the assignment and making plans, and there wasn't much time for us to stare at each other awkwardly and make inane comments. Although the first time I saw her, how thin and tired she looked, and saw the way she looked at me, all wrung-out and weary, we both had a moment's pause, and sort of gaped at each other. What had we done? More importantly, what were we going to do? But Steed had us both at work pretty fast.

We were a little cruel to each other at first, I think, mainly because we were both hurt, and we knew the other was hurt, and we sort of blamed ourselves for it, and when we're angry at ourselves, we tend to lash out at others. Which was probably why Purdey needled me when she knocked the Unicorn out, and when I protested that I had him, she told me sarcastically to finish my "brilliant victory." Also why she called me a "cheat" when she caught me with an extra gun. Why I teased her about the merits of French girls. But at the same time, I couldn't be totally angry with her. I still loved her. I knew it, and she knew it. And when the Unicorn, even chained up, started to work his charm, reached out to touch her, I walked between them, to keep him from laying a hand on her. Jealous? Protective? Probably all that and more. Because in my head, she was still…mine. It wasn't logical, but that was how I felt. He was a slimy git, anyway. I wouldn't have wanted him near her no matter what was going on. It was a pain he ended up dead, though, because then we got to spend much, much more time together guarding the body. I'll tell you this—dead bodies don't make for pleasant-smelling roommates, and it was amplified by the fact that none of us had a change of clothes. We couldn't trust someone to bring us any, because there might have been some sort of bugging device sewn in, and we couldn't risk that. We didn't want to go outside if we didn't have to, either, just in case one of us was grabbed. We sent Purdey on one grocery trip, in the end, but she had to keep it quick. There was a shower, so we could keep clean at least, but still, anyone's trousers would get a bit ripe after spending three days and nights in them. But the smell seemed tolerable compared to being locked up with the woman with whom you've just broken things off. We did try to keep our minds off things with the assignment, but there was still downtime, and that meant we had to find ways to avoid each other, hard in a cramped space. There were only two bedrooms. Steed and I took one, Purdey the other, and we traded off guard duty, watching the body to make certain no one found out our precious cargo was dead. I had night watch the last evening we were there. I still remember sitting there looking at the Unicorn under that rug, and hearing footsteps, bare feet, on the floor behind me, turning to see Purdey, looking waiflike in her tights and t-shirt, having gotten rid of that awful vest. Not one of her best sartorial statements. I always think Purdey herself is gorgeous, but her clothes this time, less so. Couldn't see them as well in the dark, thankfully—colour combo was enough to blind me. Now I was only focussing on how thin and small she seemed.

"Can I join you?"

"If you like. Company's not up to par, though." I pointed my chin at our late lamented Unicorn.

"The living company is," Purdey said quietly, settling down on the floor beside me. "Gambit, we can't go on like this. I don't want you to hate me."

"I don't hate you," I said simply, eyes straight ahead. "Might be easier if I did. But I—well, you know how I feel."

"Yes. Mike, I'm so sorry. I never meant to hurt you."

I sighed. "I know. But it does hurt. Still, it's not your fault. Larry wasn't your fault. But I still miss you."

"Do you?"

"Every minute."

We sat in silence for a moment. Purdey fidgeted. I stewed.

"Maybe, someday, I'll be able to let you in again."

I turned to look at her for the first time. "What?"

"Maybe someday I'll be able to come back," Purdey explained. "To you. I miss you, too. I miss….I miss turning over at night and feeling you beside me." She looked down. "I miss you in the morning."

I was shaking, full of hope. "Are you saying…? Do you want to…?"

"I don't know," she said quickly. "Not now, anyway. Don't get your hopes up. In fact, I want you to carry on as if I'm never coming back. Go out with girls. Lots of girls. Have a life. Try to find someone. Enjoy yourself."

I laughed, but it sounded more like a sob. "Never thought I'd hear you say that."

"Neither did I, but I have to. I can't let you wait any longer. You were right. It's not fair of me to hold you back just because I don't want anyone else to have you, even though I won't have you either. Forget about me, Mike. I won't interfere, I promise. Not unless I'm truly ready to come back to you."

"And that could happen?" Her mouth was inches from mine. I wanted to kiss her, hold her, carry her off to bed, make love to her, remind her what she was missing, urge her to come back, beg her. But I wouldn't, I couldn't. Because Purdey is her own girl, and no matter what I did, she could never come to me except on her own terms. I think that's part of the reason why I love her. So I settled for hopeful eyes.

"Maybe. Someday." She was holding my gaze, and I swore she could read my mind, all the things I wanted to do. I think she may have wanted to do them, too, but she got up and left before our discipline could break down. I was left with our dead friend.

The next day I was so distracted by our little conversation I kept getting Purdey's lift instructions backward, doing the opposite of what she wanted. I had hope with Purdey now. She said 'maybe.' 'Maybe' meant there was a chance we could salvage things. And that meant it was easier to work together in the meantime. Hope works all kinds of miracles. I took Purdey's advice and joined Steed in the red light district to celebrate. She went on to the ballet without us. But she was smiling when she left. She was all right. I was all right. We were all right.

By the time we got back to London, things were approaching "normal," a new sort of normal where Purdey and I could actually talk to each other, joke and flirt, without worrying about hurt feelings and old wounds. It was almost as though we'd hit the reset button and gone back a year, before things had gotten complicated. It was a relief. I think I was little giddy with it, making the odd quip about her legs and so on. I mean, there was always the possibility Purdey would decide to pick things up where we left off, but until then, we could still have a good time together, could still work well with Steed and each other, still get the job done and go out for a celebratory dinner afterwards. And I remembered what Purdey had said, about me carrying on without her, having a life. We found ourselves back in France soon enough, and there was always the promise of French girls. It was a strange assignment—cold storage Russian soldiers, suddenly popping up all over, shooting up old targets, and then keeling over from old age, almost instantaneously. We started to accumulate these quick-aging bodies, and that meant we got a whole morgue to ourselves, and I was the one who got to visit the coroner about his findings. Her findings, as it turned out. Dr. Jeanine LeParge was very French and very attractive, and very interested, so I thought, why not? Nothing like a little Anglo-Franco relations to keep diplomacy running smoothly. We should collaborate more often, if you catch my meaning. And Purdey had given me free rein, so…

All the same, when Purdey and Jeanine crossed paths, I winced a little. "Hello Mike!" Jeanine said, oh so perky and in her lovely accent, and I jerked my head toward Purdey, who was looking a little pinched. Jeanine must have noticed, too, because she quieted down, and started sizing Purdey up. Watching two women compete over you can be fun, but not when one's Purdey, because inevitably I end up getting the worst of it. "Total degeneration," Jeanine explained, indicating the dead soldiers. "Gambit's speciality," Purdey quipped. Thanks for that, Purdey-girl.

It didn't stop me taking Jeanine out once she got off-duty, though. I wasn't going to let Purdey go back on her word and push me around. She had promised after all. We had a whole afternoon planned…well, afternoon that reached into evening. We planned ahead. Jeanine was an organized girl.

We'd just finished lunch and were on our way to the cinema, but I thought we'd drop by the café where I knew Steed and Purdey were having lunch. Just to be friendly. All right, maybe I wanted to see how Purdey would react to seeing me with another woman, too. I know, I know. It sounds petty. But I still had hope that maybe Purdey wasn't as convinced we couldn't work out as she thought. I hoped I could get a rise out of her.

Well, it worked. Sort of. No sooner had we stopped by the table, but Purdey had gotten up, plopped Jeanine down in her seat, and grabbed my arm to drag me off.

"She's with me," I protested, as Purdey led us past the cafes toward the street.

"Steed's a gentleman," she declared.

"That's debatable." Steed was too much of a gentleman--that was the problem. He could gentleman himself right into Jeanine's flat, where I was supposed to be. Still, Purdey had clearly dragged me off. She'd gotten rid of Jeanine, and was holding my arm very possessively. And she had said she wouldn't interfere with me and other women unless she wanted me back. It seemed like all my wishes were coming true.

I said something about Paris finally having got to her head, put my arm around her, and gave her a quick once-over. "You're finally going to let me…"

"Work." I froze. I was going to say "back in," but from Purdey's expression, this wasn't just some new euphemism for what we could do in the bedroom.

"Work?" I was scowling and I knew it, voice gruff.

"Work to do," Purdey confirmed, and explained how we had to stop Steed worrying. I suppose she had a point. I mean, there were some strange things going on with that assignment, and Steed did seem exceptionally concerned, so Purdey's motives were honourable, I suppose. But I can't deny I felt cheated. Misled. Manipulated. Annoyed. Of course, things got busy and I couldn't sit around and sulk—Purdey held at gunpoint, Steed nearly killed, the French president almost assassinated, and I managed to pick up two bullet grazes, one for each hand. Steed took one in the arm in the end, making it one of the worst assignments we've ever had for damage, and I was so giddy at having everyone make it through alive that all I could do was drink champagne and laugh when it went up my nose. And anyway, Purdey had hugged my arm again when we were walking home from the girly shows. Things weren't that bad.

It was three weeks later that the doctor phoned, and after I managed to pick up the receiver, he told me I could come in and have the bandages taken off. I told him I could take care of them myself, but it took me forever just to get the kitchen drawer open and take out the scissors, let alone try to cut them off. I could only get two fingers in the handle, and all I managed to do then was jab the other hand. I was cursing under my breath when I heard a snicker, and looked up to discover that Purdey had let herself in while I was preoccupied.

"Mike Gambit, I've seen you try some things, but this…" She indicated my current position, one hand flat on the counter, the trying to grip the scissors and twist them sideways. "Is this some new form of training I haven't heard about, or are you thinking of becoming a contortionist?"

"I'm thinking about committing murder with the scissors," I retorted, a little embarrassed. "The bandages are ready to come off, but, well, I'm long on persistence but short on manoeuvrability."

Purdey chuckled. "So I see. You shouldn't be allowed near sharp pointy objects when you're in one of your moods. Here, I'll cut you free."

"Thanks," I muttered, handing the scissors over as best I could. I knew I was going to stab myself if I kept up like that, and Purdey was my best hope.

I sat down on one side of the kitchen table, and Purdey sat across from me, took my left hand in hers and started to cut away at the layers of bandages.

"You could have gone to the doctor's," she pointed out. "Would have been much easier."

"You go to a doctor for one reason, and you end up staying for six. I've got better things to do with my time, especially when I've got a nurse on hand."

Purdey chuckled. "Well, I don't have the uniform—"

"Which may be your only flaw…"

"—but I do have experience with the patient, so maybe it's just as well." Purdey set my left hand down and moved to my right. "You and Steed had quite the time in France, didn't you?"

"Picking up bullets, not girls, sadly. But look at it this way—Steed will be needing your healing touch next."

"I thought you were the one with the healing hands?"

"They need to heal themselves before they can start spreading their gift. And these are stiff." Purdey had cut all the bandages away and she put the scissors to the side. "Hope I'll be able to shoot again soon."

"You'll be fine," Purdey said knowingly, taking each of my hands in one of hers and massaging the stiff joints. "Or you had better be. I'm not transcribing any more of your reports. I'm not your secretary."

"And here I thought we were having fun roleplaying."

"We've already played that game," Purdey reminded, looking down at my hands, not me. "I shouldn't be so cruel, though. This one did save my life." She took my right in both of hers and started rubbing harder. "That was still the stupidest, most ridiculous, most beautiful thing I've ever seen, you deflecting that bullet with the handle of your gun. How did you manage it?"

"No idea. I'd been taught it could be done, but not often. I was lucky."

"I'm grateful all the same. Poor, clever little fist," she cooed, and kissed it, once on the knuckles, then the back, then farther down on to my fingers. Gently. Carefully. The way she had the day I'd dented the cybernaut. The gesture I was certain was meant to convey more than simple admiration of my technique. Well, that technique, anyway. Was Purdey trying to signal her interest? She certainly seemed to be enjoying herself. I felt encouraged. Take it slow, see what happened.

"What about something for the fist's clever little owner? After all, it was only obeying orders."

"I've done plenty for him," Purdey said pointedly, smiling against my knuckles.

"All right. Then what can he do for you?" I reached my left hand, the one she wasn't holding, up, and ran it along her jaw. She stopped massaging, and her eyes followed my hand.

"I thought it was stiff."

"I'm exercising it. Carefully. Starting with gentle curves."

"Mike…" The blue eyes were bright with regret, and awkwardness. I froze.

"I've gotten it wrong again, haven't I?" I murmured, feeling both humiliated and hurt. I was so sure. It just showed I still had hope.

"I think we may have gotten our wires crossed," Purdey agreed, cheeks heating.

I looked at her hands around mine. "I just…I thought…I mean, the way you were carrying on…"

"I wanted to thank you," she cut in, not unkindly, "for saving my life. You were my hero that time. I wanted you to know that, know I appreciate everything you do for me."

"So you don't want to…to go conventional again," I said bitterly, chastising myself.

"Mike, I told you—"

"You did. It's just me being stupid." I pulled my hand away from her face, extracted the other from her grasp. "I've got to go. Thanks for cutting me loose."

"Mike." Purdey rose as I did, eyes searching my face worriedly. "I'm sorry. I didn't think you'd put so much stock in it."

I put on my best devil-may-care smile and winked at her. "No harm done. You know me. Always looking for an opening."

She put her hands on her hips impatiently. "Mike Gambit, I'm not stupid. I could see what you were doing. You were—"

"I was doing what I always do. Flirting. That's how it goes, Purdey-girl. I set it up and you knock it down. Just like old times. I'm used to the rejection." In more ways than one.

She looked really worried now. "Mike." She reached out and caught my arm. "If you're really that upset about it, we should talk."

"Nothing to talk about. You're taking it all too seriously, Purdey-girl. Don't look at me like that. I'm fine. Everything's fine. But now I have to go." I grabbed the car keys and opened the door. "Lock up when you leave," I told her, and closed it before she could protest, hurrying toward the lift in case she gave chase, taking deep breaths all the way. I was never going to fall for that one again. Purdey, despite what she had said in France, was never coming back. I had to get used to that, had to get used to the old status quo where we flirted like there was no tomorrow, but never did anything about it. So no matter what she did, what she said, I promised myself I wouldn't let myself fall for it, even when Purdey seemed to be signalling. My heart couldn't take it, and neither could my pride. I would keep myself sane and never let her know the full extent of what she'd done to me. I nodded to myself. It was a plan.

To Canada. Our contact in England was murdered before he could tell us who top agent Scapina was, and Purdey was shot in the process. Thank goodness it was only a graze in the arm is all I can say. Not my favourite assignment in the world, probably because I spent a good chunk of it in a cell. I've had better times than being locked up and forced to listen to bad Bond jokes from some halfwit member of the OPP. I don't know what Canadian law enforcement has against me. Purdey says it's my face. I told her never to go into comedy.

She wasn't laughing when she figured out Scapina was actually the Canadian security building, which she just so happened to be in, less so when said building took it upon itself to try and dispose of her. That really was terrifying, for all of us, knowing she was sealed inside, and we were stuck out there, and there was no way to reach her in time. If Steed hadn't come up with the smoke idea to set off the fire system, she probably would have suffocated. As it was, she only got wet. And, her outfit being made of white floaty stuff, it turned see-through. I offered her my jacket, for cover if not warmth, and when we got back to the hotel, she tried to take it off and give it back.

"Keep it. You're not dry yet." I nodded pointedly at where her top clung to her torso. Purdey looked down and shrugged, laughed a little.

"Nothing you haven't seen before," she quipped.

"No," I agreed, quite seriously. "But it's not something I have the right to see now." I turned quickly, and opened the door. "You can return it before dinner."

I shut the door before she could answer, and let out a long breath. She just didn't understand. I couldn't see her like that, not casually, not now. I know I was always looking for an opportunity to see more of her before, but that was before. Now all I saw was a girl that I once had and lost. I was coping as best I could, pretty well I thought, but that meant I had to think of Purdey as a friend and only a friend. Her tempting me, even inadvertently, just made things worse. I needed to avoid it every chance I got. I had made myself a promise, and I was going to stick to it.

I did, too. That assignment with the car—Emily. Who names a car Emily?—I spent most of the time in the back seat with Purdey, and even with her incredible shrinking outfit, I didn't quaver once, not even when I admired her legs. Same went for driving her around when we investigated Sminsky's lot, not even when she reached in my back pocket to take out my ID and show it to the police. In fact, we were getting on pretty well, and I was starting to feel like my old self again. But if it's not one thing, it's another. Isn't that how it always goes?