A/N: Apologies for the delay, but I was bitten by the flu bug.
Disclaimer: I own nothing...except Dara. She's all mine.
Chapter Seven
By the time Dara made it to Will and Liz's, she could barely stand. It had been a long walk. Most of it had been underground, V having pointed out quite sensibly that walking the streets of London in broad daylight was likely not a good idea. He had accompanied her all the way to the tunnel opening nearest to Will and Liz's home, leaving her there with a curt goodbye and directions on how to find her way back to the Gallery.
She'd done a creditable job of hiding her mounting exhaustion from her companion, though she rather suspected that he'd been more aware of her flagging strength than he'd let on. At least, the bracing hand he'd placed beneath her elbow on more than one occasion had certainly seemed to imply that he'd known something was wrong.
To her relief, he hadn't pressed the issue. He had simply disappeared back the way they'd come.
The rest of the trip had been agony. The pain in her head and shoulder combined into a single throbbing ache that reverberated out to every corner of her body and left her stomach roiling and her vision blurry. She'd tripped several times, but had managed to keep herself upright…for the most part. One particularly bad stumble had sent her careening into a wall, her shoulder connecting solidly with uneven brick.
It had hurt. A lot.
It had also reopened the bullet wound in her shoulder—she'd felt the warm stickiness of the blood, and was very, very thankful that she had her coat to conceal the damage.
The sight of the Price's front door had been one of the most beautiful she'd ever seen. Dragging herself up the front steps, she abandoned the idea of digging for her keys, and simply leaned on the bell. When the door finally opened, it was to the sight of Rose Price's wide brown eyes.
"Oh my God, Dara," she breathed, "you're alive!"
"For the most part," she said, attempting a smile that fell quickly into a grimace. "A bit of help, please, luv?"
"Oh my God," Rose repeated, darting out to wrap an arm around Dara's waist, offering a shoulder to her injured friend. Once inside, she kicked the door closed behind her.
"Rose? Who was it?"
Liz's voice—tight with concern.
"It's Dara, Mum," Rose shouted back. "She's hurt."
Liz's graying head popped over the banister on the second floor, hazel eyes quickly assessing the situation. "First aid kit?"
Dara nodded weakly, regretting the instinctive movement as pain shot through her skull. "Yeah…I think the bandages need changing."
"Right," she replied, disappearing from view again.
"Come on, Dara," Rose urged, "let's get you to the couch."
It was barely a minute later that Liz came charging down the stairs, first aid kit and clean cloths in hand. Setting the supplies down on the coffee table, she leapt forward to help Rose get Dara's coat off. Once it was, and Dara had collapsed onto the couch, the Professor went to work.
"I'd say the bandages need changing," she grumbled, peeling away the old dressings from Dara's shoulder, "you've bled clear through two layers of gauze and three layers of cotton. It's a wonder you haven't passed out from blood loss."
Dara cracked a grin at the sharpness of her tone, the entire scene so familiar that it was somehow comforting. "Yeah, sorry 'bout that, but it was a long walk to get here. Bloody thing was fine till a few blocks back. Got a bit tired and took a bit of a tumble…the shoulder didn't like that very much at all."
"A long walk," Liz repeated, brow furrowed in a wince of empathy once she'd uncovered the wicked looking wound. "A long walk from where, may I ask? Just exactly where the hell have you been, Dara Turner? Last we heard of you was that call the other night, which you had to cut short—and then, not a word from you! We've been worried sick!"
Barking out a laugh—just as much from the blessed familiarity of Liz's scolding as from the enormous wave of relief that washed over her. They didn't know—which meant that Norsefire hadn't released her identity yet. And that meant that she would be able to tell Will and Liz about the situation herself, with as much or as little detail as she saw fit. "If it's any consolation, this," she gestured weakly at her head and shoulder, "has absolutely nothing to do with the other night in the cemetery."
"Really?" Liz eyed the shoulder wound warily. "Because this looks very much like a bullet wound. If you didn't get it the other night, I would very much like to know what the hell you've been up to since then."
"You wouldn't believe me if I told you."
"Try me."
Dara winced as the antiseptic made contact with her skin. "Would you accept 'my own stupidity' as an answer?"
"Only if you'll accept my foot up your ass in reply."
Dara snorted out a laugh, then winced again, even as she cast about for some sort of distraction from one of the many topics she did not want to delve into quite yet—she only wanted to tell the whole story once, and Will wouldn't be home from work for another few hours. "Not to change the subject, but I need to apologize to you for something, Professor."
"And what would that be?"
A sigh. "My sword," she said quietly, guilt thick in her tone. "The other night in the cemetery, a cop got hold of it. He jabbed, I ducked, and it went straight into the wall of a crypt behind me—snapped the blade in two."
Not caring in the least about the loss of the weapon—weapons, unlike people, were easily replaced—Liz's eyes narrowed at the more important implications of that statement. "How exactly did a cop get that sword away from you? I haven't seen you disarmed in years."
Oh Christ, I've taken myself out of the frying pan and into the bloody fire. "It wasn't my fault," she said quickly.
A blonde brow arched. "Not your fault?"
"No," Dara insisted petulantly. "I was distracted."
"Distracted?"
Dara's eyes glared daggers at her elder. "What're you—a bloody parrot?"
"I'm sorry," Liz said, sounding anything but. She continued to wipe at the shoulder wound with an antiseptic soaked cloth, "but you're just not making any sense. I've seen you fight three cops while arguing with Will about the relative merits of punk versus new wave—so forgive me if I find the explanation that this all happened because you were distracted a little hard to believe."
Sighing, Dara closed her eyes, exhaustion beginning to take a firm grip on her. "If you knew what the distraction was, you'd understand."
Something in her voice must have been telling, because Liz and Rose exchanged glances over her head.
"Hey, Dara," Rose said, reaching out to collect the discarded bandage from the table. She held it up, eyeing the length of gauze purposefully. "Your distraction…did he happen to be the one to doctor you up?"
Dara's stomach tightened into knots at Rose knowing tone. Opening her eyes and schooling her features carefully, Dara quickly scanned the faces of both mother and daughter. Did they know after all?
She eyed both of them speculatively for a moment, and then dismissed the idea outright. There was no way they knew the whole truth—Liz would have ripped her to shreds already if they did. They may well suspect that she had been in the company of a man that night…but they certainly had no idea who that man might be.
"That's none of your business," she replied, keeping her tone as light as possible.
Mother and daughter exchanged another look.
"Ah, I see," Liz said, smiling easier now as she began to redress the wound, "So come on, then," she prodded gently, "details, my girl! Did this distraction take you back to his place for a little…" she waggled her eyebrows suggestively, "TLC?"
Oh, professor, if you only knew…
"A lady," Dara said, feigning affront, "doesn't speak of such things."
Snorting, Rose walked toward the kitchen to throw away the soiled bandages. "Then you should have no problem telling us all the juicy details," she quipped, "because there's not a single lady in this house."
"Sad to say," Liz shook her head, "but she has a point."
"Yeah," Dara agreed, "but I'm still not saying a word." She leaned further into the cushions, allowing her eyes to slip closed. "God, I'm tired."
Concern creased Liz's forehead. "After I finish dressing this," she said resolutely, "you're going straight upstairs and lying down. You look terrible."
"Thanks ever so," Dara grumbled. She knew time was of the essence, but right now, she needed sleep more than anything else. "But yeah…a nap sounds bloody fantastic."
Liz pinned Dara with a sharp look. "And after you've had that nap, I'll be expecting the details you've worked so hard to keep from me," she said with a smirk. "Don't think you're going to escape telling me all about this new distraction of yours, my girl."
Dara pushed herself up off the couch with a groan. "Never really thought I would," she said as she shuffled off toward the stairs. She paused and shot a grin at Liz. "Though I sort of hoped I might."
Moving to help her, Liz wrapped an arm around her protégé's waist to help her up the stairs. "Not on your life," she retorted, also grinning.
"Yeah…figured." Dara sobered a bit as they approached the top of the steps. "I am sorry that you and Will had to worry. I should've called."
"Yes, you should have," Liz said frostily. "But don't be sorry now, Dara. Save that for when Will gets home—because he won't be half as nice about it as I've been."
*
Dara woke several hours later to the sound of footsteps pounding up the stairs. Smiling, she counted down the seconds until her door was thrown open, completely unsurprised to see Will's unmistakable outline backlit by the hall light. Easing herself up, she smiled at him. "Hallo, warden."
He was across the room in a heartbeat, pulling her into a gentle hug. "You scared the absolute hell out of me," he breathed into her hair.
Leaning into the comfort of his embrace, Dara closed her eyes. "Sorry about that."
Will pulled back from her just enough to meet her eyes. "Promise me you'll never do anything so bloody stupid again."
"I didn't do anything stupid," she defended. "I did what needed doing. Didn't Liz tell you?"
"She told me," Will affirmed. "She told me your new bloke nearly got you killed. I hope the sorry bugger was thoroughly ashamed of himself for getting in the way."
The assessment was lacking, but given what information he had, she couldn't reproach him for it.
"That's not exactly how it happened," she said carefully, "but you're right about that last bit." She smiled again, ignoring the flutter of discomfort that rose up from allowing the misconception that V was 'her new bloke' to stand. "He was thoroughly penitent."
"Good." Releasing her, Will stood up. "When I meet the tosser, I'll have a few choice words to say on the subject though…so be warned."
There was no point in arguing, so Dara only shrugged. "If that ever happens," she mused, envisioning the scenario in her head, "I think you'd be surprised how well he could stand up to it. In fact, he'd probably give more than a few words right back. And his would likely be even choicer than yours."
"I see." Will watched her closely, noting the distant look in her eyes. "Good with words, is he?"
Dara's smile widened. "You could say that, yeah."
"I could say a lot of other things as well," he retorted. "Not least of which being 'Oi! Idiot…next time your woman's fighting to the death, stay the fuck outta the way or I'll rip your knackers off an' stuff 'em in your ears.'"
Dara laughed outright at that, imaging just how that mask would tilt in response to such a statement. "I think that might just be the most brilliant mental image I've ever had, Will."
"I live to please," Will said, grinning at her. "And now, before I forget…I'm to tell you that dinner is ready. Do you feel up to coming downstairs?"
Pushing the covers off, Dara slid her legs off the bed. "I'm starving," she admitted, only then realizing that it had been some time since she'd last eaten. "What's on the menu?"
Will grimaced. "Liz cooked," he reminded her, "which means, don't ask, don't tell, and just pray it's edible."
Swatting his arm playfully, Dara moved past him toward the door. "That's your wife you're talking about," she scolded. "The love of your utterly useless life."
"That she is," he grumbled, trailing after her, "but that doesn't make her cooking taste any better though, does it?"
*
Dinner, as it turned out, was a moderately edible concoction of meat and potatoes. Frankly, Dara doubted anyone could have done better; the rations they were allotted were barely fit for consumption much of the time.
She'd told them during a lull in the conversation.
At least, she'd told them all they needed to know—she'd gotten herself into a spot of trouble and felt that it would be best if she disappeared for a bit; lay low until the situation had blown over. She'd decided that there was no need to tell them all of the details, as she suspected they might do something drastic to keep her from following through on her plans to leave. Knowing them as she did—especially Will—she wouldn't put it past them to lock her in her room for the next year rather than let her go back to V.
As V had pointed out, Norsefire already knew who she was and where she worked. It wouldn't be hard for them to find out about her connection to Will and Liz—and she wasn't about to put them in any more danger.
It had gone over about as well as she'd expected, which of course meant, not at all. Will, as anticipated, had voiced the loudest objections.
A sharp reminder that she was an adult now and more than capable of taking care of herself silenced the majority of the opposition. Silenced it, but did not eliminate it.
She could still feel it simmering just beneath the surface.
After dinner, the four of them settled in their habitual places in the living room—Will and Liz on the couch, Dara in the chair beside it, and Rose stretched out on the floor in front of the television. Dara had spent more evenings than she count in just this way. Generally, they watched old movies—banned and highly illegal remnants of pre-Norsefire culture—simply because the state-sponsored programming was so awful.
"So what movie are we watching tonight?"
Will, remote in hand, shook his head. "Sorry, luv—no movie tonight," he corrected, "there's too much going on, and even if it is complete crap most of the time, the BTN's the only news source we've got."
Stomach tying itself into knots, Dara swallowed hard against the lump of fear that had settled just at the back of her throat. "You're actually gonna watch the evening news?"
Liz nodded. "Not like us, I know. But after what happened…"
"Christ, I didn't even think," Will interrupted, leaning forward to nudge Dara's good arm. "Did you hear about what happened before you went out of service, luv?"
She would have laughed, but thought that it might sound odd in light of the circumstances. "If you're talking about what happened to the Old Bailey, then yeah…I heard. Bit of a shock, wasn't it?"
Liz snorted indelicately. "You make it sound like a strong wind came by and blew it down," she shook her head. "The bloody thing was blasted sky high by about five tons of fertilizer bombs while the 1812 Overture blared in the background. I think that qualifies as more than just a bit of a shock, don't you?"
Cocking her head back toward them, Rose grinned. "The fireworks were brilliant, though."
Dara suppressed another grin, offering silent agreement—if the world were a different place, V could have made a fortune as a pyrotechnician.
"And then," Liz continued, "after what happened at Jordan Tower…we just really don't think we can afford to not watch the news anymore."
Feigning ignorance, Dara gave them her best, most innocent look. "What happened at Jordan Tower?"
Three heads turned toward her, the same silent disbelief reflected in each of their faces. "What? What'd I miss?"
"What did you…?" Will echoed. "Bloody hell, Dara, you really were out of it, weren't you?" He reached for the remote. "Didn't you see his speech?"
Still pretending to have no idea what they were talking about, Dara gave them a wide-eyed look of confusion. "Speech? Did Sutler give another address?"
"No—not our great leader," the sarcasm was thick in Liz's voice, and the accompanying eye roll left absolutely no doubt as to her true opinion of the High Chancellor. "You mean you really don't know? You work at the BTN so I assumed you would have heard all about it."
"No," Dara gestured toward her bandaged head and shoulder, lying through her teeth in a way that was at once both alarmingly easy and distinctly uncomfortable. "I've been a bit distracted, y'see...what with the severe injuries and all."
"Bloody glad I was recording Storm Saxon, then," Will said, remote at the ready. "Got the whole thing on disc. Be interesting to hear your take on it."
"Hang on," Rose interjected, pointing at the screen. "They're talking about it now."
Dara turned to look at the television praying that she didn't see her face plastered across the screen—talk about an explanation she did not want to make. The picture in the left hand corner, just above the anchorwoman's shoulder, while not her, still caught her attention. "Turn it up."
"…authorities are still looking for anyone with any information regarding the terrorist known only as V, who is responsible not only for the destruction of the Old Bailey, but also for the hijacking of the BTN on the morning of November Fifth, and for the illegal and highly seditious broadcast that followed. If you have any information regarding the whereabouts of this most vicious and dangerous of criminals, you are asked to report it to the proper authorities immediately."
"Bloody hell," Dara said, trying to sound surprised. "Someone hijacked the BTN?"
"It's what they just said, isn't it? Having hearing problems over there?"
Dara narrowed her eyes at him, hoping she looked more offended than she actually was. "I'm sorry it's taking me a bit longer than normal to twig onto everything, warden, but I'm doing my best and I'd really appreciate it if you'd lay off, yeah?"
Will was staring at her askance, his look calculating. She'd seen that look before and went back over her words in her head, trying and failing to figure out what she'd said to incite his suspicions.
After a long moment during which the living room was far too silent, Dara blew out a breath of frustration. "Were you gonna show me what you're talking about or not?"
Will arched a dark brow at her. "I dunno…you may not be up for it," he snarked, "it's a bit deep, y'see. Not easily twigged, if y'know what I mean."
Oh yes, he definitely suspected something—she knew that tone of voice. She gave him a look that was supposed to be bland, but ended up more challenging. "Just play the bloody thing, Will."
If he knew there was more going on than she was saying, he made no comment about it, though he did mash the play button a bit harder than strictly necessary, she noted.
Dara sat perched on the edge of her seat, eyes on the screen, eager to see and hear the broadcast again. V had said a lot during those few minutes of stolen air time, and she hadn't been able to fully appreciate it, distracted as she'd been. Now though, she could turn her full attention to it.
When the recording ended and the image of V was swallowed by the hiss and pop of static, Dara sighed. It was such an enormous undertaking, this path he'd set for himself. She couldn't help but wonder just how much planning had gone into it so far…and how much more was left to be done in preparation for its final stages. She was suddenly excited about the prospect of returning to the Shadow Gallery—he may well be able to use her help, and she was more than willing to give it.
"Dara? You all right over there?"
Rousing herself from her thoughts, she turned her head toward Will. "What?"
"I asked if you were ok." He hit the stop button on the disc player. "You seem a little upset."
"Upset?" Dara's eyes widened at the suggestion, genuinely surprised that she had given that impression. "Why would I be upset? Didn't you hear him? Didn't you listen? He's planning to take down Norsefire."
"Yeah," Liz sat up straighter, "we caught that. Problem is—what exactly does that mean? I mean, it's exactly what we've been fighting for all these years…but I don't see how blowing up buildings is going to accomplish anything."
"Not by itself, obviously," Dara turned fully toward them, unable to hide her enthusiasm. "But I'm willing to bet that he's got a lot more up his sleeve than fertilizer bombs," she stopped, considered, then grinned, "though I wouldn't be surprised if we haven't seen the last of those either. Point is, he's actually gonna do this thing, y'know? He's actually gonna give them a real fight—and with as complacent as the bastards have gotten over the past twenty years, I think he might actually be able to win!"
"Don't get me wrong," Rose spoke up for the first time. "I mean, I hate living like this as much as anyone, and hey—a little revolution? Sign me up and I'll put on my little black beret and make with the rebelling. I'd be out working with you lot every night if mum and dad would let me. But honestly, Dara…this bloke seems a bit of a nutter to me."
Dara's head whipped around, frowning at the teenager. "He's not insane," she snapped. "He's brilliant! And when he does it—when he brings down Norsefire—then you'll be singing a different tune."
As soon as the words were out of her mouth, she wanted to yank them right back in. She'd been far too overzealous in her defense of V, and now Will was looking at her as if she'd suddenly sprouted wings and a tail.
Subtle, Turner, she berated herself. Real fucking subtle.
"Tell me, luv…did that shot to the head rattle your brain?" Will was almost glaring at her. "Because you're acting mental, Dara—absolutely bloody mental."
Dara caught her lower lip between her teeth, worrying at it nervously. She was doing a lousy job of keeping her secrets secret so far. She offered the room at large a tentative smile, trying desperately to save face. "Sorry," she murmured. "It's just...freedom," she breathed. "Real, Gods-honest freedom…we've been fighting for it for so long now, and we're nowhere near close to making it happen. But this V…he sounds like he might actually be able to do it."
The tension in the room immediately eased off a few notches. Liz leaned back against the couch and Rose turned her eyes back to the telly. Dara tried to do the same, but could feel Will's eyes on her still, his suspicion palpable.
Stupid, sodding cow, she snarked to herself, trying desperately to ignore the weight of Will's penetrating gaze. Why don't you just draw them a bloody map, with a big, red V marking the spot?
It was ridiculous and completely out of character for her emotions to get the better of her, and she was fairly certain that V was fully to blame for the change. She'd trained herself not to feel too deeply anymore—partly because of the state of the world she lived in and partly because of the work she did once the sun went down—but she could feel the mortar used in the construction of those self-erected barriers beginning to crumble.
And she wasn't sure how she felt about that yet.
But now was hardly the time to contemplate the intricacies of her psyche. It was getting late, Will was looking at her as if she was a stranger and her shoulder was beginning to ache again. All in all, Dara thought it was time to take her leave before anything else could go wrong.
"It's time I was going." Dara rose from her seat and moved toward the stairs. "I don't fancy being caught out after curfew tonight."
Will snorted. "Oh, now you're worried about curfew! Why? It's never stopped you before."
She paused on the first step, looking back at him with a small shrug. "Yeah well, this isn't before, is it?" she said quietly. "This is now. And things have changed."
She was up the stairs then, ignoring any further comments leveled at her on the subject. She needed to go. The longer she spent in their company, the more questions they were going to ask, and the more dangerous things could become. Because truth, in this case, was the enemy—an enemy that she would protect them from at all costs.
Eventually, once whatever was to come had come, she would tell them everything. But for now, they had gotten all she was willing to give. Five minutes later, she was back down the stairs, the duffel slung over her good shoulder packed full to bursting with the extra clothes she always kept at their place in case of emergencies or late nights spent training.
Will eyed the bag dubiously. "I thought you said you'd only be gone a couple of days. And just where exactly are you swanning off to anyway?"
"Oh, I won't be far," she replied vaguely. "And I just figured I'd bring all I could, yeah? Being prepared, and all that."
"Look, Dara, if this is just some excuse to run off and spend a bit of quality time with your new someone, tell us. All this overdramatic, cloak and dagger nonsense is making me nervous."
"You can call me overdramatic all you like," Dara pushed up on her toes, placing a light peck on Will's cheek. "But the fact of the matter is that I'm going, and I've a lot of very good reasons why." She paused, smiling up at him. "Do me a favor though, warden…take care of yourself while I'm away. Don't know what I'd do if anything happened to you."
She stepped away from him, turning to Liz and Rose. "Or to either of you." She hugged each one in turn. "I'll miss you all."
The door had closed behind her before any of them had a chance to respond, to reciprocate—to even fully process the fact that she was leaving.
"I've got a terrible feeling," Will said, half-angry, half-sad, "that she won't be back through that door for a very long time, despite what she says."
Liz sidled up next to him, arms going about his waist, head leaning into his shoulder. "So I'm not the only one who thinks the whole, 'laying low for a few days' bit was absolute bollocks then?"
Rose, whose attention had been grabbed by the television, made a strangled sound of shock, drawing looks from both her mother and father. "She wasn't lying about laying low," Rose said, "but you're right that it's gonna be for a lot longer than a few days. Look."
Liz and Will turned to see what she was talking about and both felt their hearts drop into their stomachs at the sight that greeted their eyes. For there, staring back at them from the screen was Dara's unmistakable image—clearly taken from one of the CCTV cameras that surrounded the city—walking swiftly down the street beside another, also unmistakable image.
The anchor's words echoed through the silent room.
"…If you have any information as to the whereabouts of this woman, the suspected accomplice of the terrorist known only as V and identified by authorities as one Dara Turner, you are urged to contact your local constabulatory immediately."
