Two Hours

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

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: AU. Anytime during the series will do. Be free, little fanfic!

Author's Note: Nice long piece this time around. Happy Easter, everyone!


Time passed. Purdey sat crosslegged on the floor, leaning back against the wonderfully bracing concrete of the wall. She was starting to feel the affects of her injuries, the various aches and pains all clamouring for her attention. She closed her eyes and tried to shut them out, but they were too persistent, each making itself heard individually before adding to the general chorus. Her head was the worst offender, a pulsing, overwhelming throb emanating at the base of her neck and reaching up and around the back of her skull, over the crown, and into her forehead. She desperately wanted to take one of the painkillers, but she didn't dare do anything to slow her reflexes. She was the only one capable of responding to danger, and she needed to be able to think clearly for that. She gritted her teeth and willed the pain away, managed to dull it somewhat behind her eyes before opening them again. Injuries in the field were expected, but never very enjoyable. She hated having to wait for recovery, and yet she had never taken even a fraction of the abuse Gambit had, including this time around. She looked over at where he was lying, eyes closed, breathing labourious, and wondered if the pills were even putting a dent in his misery. Further investigation into his wounds had revealed that her initial hypothesis was right—he'd broken three ribs, and one was perilously close to his lung. Gambit had confided to her not long after they met that he'd had a punctured lung before, but she didn't imagine experience made that sort of injury easier to take. And yet here he was, back in the field, close to doing it all over again.

"Why do you do it?"

She said it without realising it, and it was only when Gambit opened his eyes and turned his head her way that she realised she'd broken the silence in their little shelter. Until now it had only been the sounds of static from the bowler as Steed fiddled with it and the running feet outside which had provided a soundtrack. Gambit was looking at her in bemusement, having no idea what she was talking about. For all he knew, she'd just broken up his nap. Purdey bit her lip. She didn't really want to get into this now, with him so vulnerable and so much else on their plate. But she had said it, and now it was impossible for it to be unsaid. And part of her was aching for a distraction, of any kind, and she didn't want to bother Steed.

"Why do I do what?" Gambit wanted to know, and Purdey smiled.

"This job," she explained. "You hate hospitals, you hate people fussing over you. You never listen when people tell you to rest up and take care of yourself. You're terrible about sticking to medications. You never take as much leave as you should. And yet you go off to work every day and pull darnfool stunts knowing you'll only have to do it all over again in a matter of weeks or months. Run back out for more as soon as the stitches are in. Look at you now." She shook her head in mild disbelief. "If I didn't know you any better, Mike Gambit, I'd say you were a masochist."

Gambit smirked at that, licked dry lips before they cracked. "Maybe I am," he quipped, voice rough and hoarse, but the humour was there. Purdey grinned at him and he returned it. It was very hard to strip all of Gambit's spark away, even in a situation like this.

"Well, at the very least you do a very good impression of one," Purdey murmured, and her smile faded. "Really, Mike. I'm serious. Why do you do this to yourself? You're in great shape, but you're always banging yourself up until it's difficult for you to even exercise." She pictured his torso the few times she'd seen him with his shirt off. Gambit healed surprisingly well, both quickly and seamlessly. From a distance one wouldn't know he'd taken damage at all. It was only when one got up close, and knew where to look, that his past started to come out, unravelling itself over his stomach, up his chest, around his waist, across his back. Some of the scars she knew the story behind, remembered the injuries, saw the blood. But others were older, fainter, with stories that were unknown to her or any of the Ministry men she knew. Battlescars from past lives. To Purdey, they spoke of pain. Fear. Vulnerability. They spoke of the sum of experiences Mike Gambit had endured, the events that had built him, strengthened him, made him the man he was today. She longed to understand them, and yet, on the few occasions she'd asked, passed it off as a teasing remark, he'd almost always deflected her. Sometimes it was with a smile and a wicked gleam in his eye, teasing her about some juicy anecdote in his past. But other times he'd gone deathly quiet, and his eyes had grown dark and distant, and Purdey knew she hadn't prodded a scar, but an unhealed wound, one that could be laid bare with the slightest provocation. Inevitably, he would snap back to the present and smile, and make some smart remark, but Purdey knew she'd inadvertently caused him pain, and she always regretted it. Sometimes he wouldn't be right for the rest of the day after it, distant and ill-at-ease. On occasion it would catch up to him in the night, and he'd crawl into the Ministry looking haunted. It always faded over the course of the day, and he never admitted to anything being wrong, but Purdey always felt the urge to mother him to make up for her earlier transgression. And yet, she still longed to know the stories, to be able to name the scars as she could the ones he'd earned in the relatively short time she'd known him. There were over thirty years of Mike Gambit that were more or less a mystery to her. Who was Mike Gambit? What had he done to himself? She rubbed her arms self-consciously, suddenly feeling cold. She could smell the death, now, hovering over the base like an all-consuming black cloud. All the people who were trapped and couldn't get out. Just like them. She looked at Gambit, half-expecting to see some wraithlike spectre hovering over his broken body. "Why do you do it when you know you could end up here?" she wanted to know, eyes fixed on the place just above his head, willing whatever was there to go away.

Gambit exhaled slowly and turned away, licked dry lips. "Something to do, I suppose."

Purdey snorted, but it hurt her head. "Macrame is 'something to do,' not risking your neck on a regular basis. You'll have to do better than that if you're going to fob me off."

"Thought it was worth a try," Gambit managed, a small smile stretching his lips. "Started off when I was a kid, I guess. Every boy wants a thrill, and you get it any way you can. You know, schoolboy mischief, that sort of thing." The smiled faded. "And things weren't brilliant at home, so anything that distracted me from that was appealing, even if you ended up bleeding at the end of it."

Purdey felt her heart go out to him. Gambit didn't talk about his family much, save an auntie who cared enough to send him pajamas every birthday, and a grandmother who had passed away years ago. He steadfastly refused to talk about his parents, and Purdey honestly couldn't say if they were dead or alive. Regardless, Gambit seemingly hadn't had a very happy home life.

"Eventually it wasn't enough. I wanted out, new thrills, something beyond the mess the war left behind. So I joined the Navy. Decided to see the world."

"Did you like it?" Purdey inquired, propping her chin in her hand. Steed was still working intrepidly way with the bowler, lips moving soundlessly. She expected he was oblivious to the world, their conversation included, and she needed to distract herself somehow. She suspected that Gambit needed one as well. He looked a little better, but he was clearly still in pain, the pills only putting a dent in his considerable discomfort, but as long as he kept talking he couldn't focus on how miserable he felt.

"No," he replied, much to her surprise, before turning gleaming eyes on her. "I loved it."

Purdey chuckled at the way she'd let herself be drawn in. "Well, if it was so good, why did you leave?"

Gambit frowned. "Sometimes I wonder that myself," he murmured. "I think in the end I decided I was sick of having almost my whole damned life regulated. No real freedom, no flexibility. But I think deep down I was tired of waking up to a different view out the window every morning. Don't get me wrong. It was great. I loved the adventure, learned a lot. But in the end you want to put down roots, at least for a little while."

"And did you?"

Gambit laughed, but it turned into a cough and he stopped. "For all of six months. Couldn't stand it."

"Needed another adrenaline fix, did we?"

"Motor-racing."

Purdey smiled knowingly. "Ah, yes, your stint as a crash test dummy."

"I didn't do too badly in the smaller races," Gambit defended. "It was the Daytonas of the world that were my undoing. They play rough out there."

"Rougher than in here?" Purdey pointed her chin at the barricaded doorway. "Your sense of perspective is very warped, Mike Gambit."

"Coming from you, I'll take that as a compliment."

"Oh, hush. You still haven't answered my question."

"I'm getting there. Look, after I left the racing circuit, I went back into the service. Army this time around."

"And?"

"Well, I was in one place most of the time. Got my kicks out of the parachute regiment." He paused, and Purdey could see he was choosing his next words carefully. "But I was…getting older. Empty thrills don't cut it after awhile. I wanted to do something that…meant something."

"And did you?"

Gambit bit his lip. "I tried," he said finally. "I really did. But it didn't work out quite the way I planned."

Purdey found herself leaning forward, definitely interested. She could feel the weight of things unsaid hovering over her. She desperately wanted to know what it was she was missing, the piece that she felt was integral to Mike Gambit as he was today. "What happened?" she breathed, hoping, praying, that here, of all places, on the edge, he'd confide in her.

But Gambit simply looked away, turned his eyes up to the ceiling. "Just what I said," he murmured. "It didn't work out. So I tried again. Turned up at the Ministry. Worked out well enough so far. Bit of action, flexibility, and worthiness. Ticks all the boxes, really."

"Oh," Purdey said, unable to conceal her disappointment. Her head was hurting again, more than ever, and she closed her eyes against the bright stabs of pain at the back of her skull.

Gambit looked at her, clearly aware he'd disappointed her at some level. "What about you?" he croaked, desperate to reconnect. He was feeling poorly now that he'd talked, though he didn't blame Purdey for it. He needed someone to keep him this side of conscious, and Purdey's voice was always incredibly good at that.

Purdey's eyes cracked open. "What about me?" she murmured, and Gambit could tell her own injuries were catching up to her.

"You know. Why do you stay? I know the ballet threw you out, but you're a bright girl. I thought…I mean, you could come up with something other than patching up someone who should know better." He smiled sheepishly.

Purdey shook her head gently, so as not exacerbate her headache. "It has it's compensations," she said quietly.

"Such as?"

Purdey's face split into a smile, and Gambit thought she'd never looked lovelier. "Well, I'm never out a squash partner, and I have someone to keep me fed."

Gambit smirked back. "Something tells me you could find those no matter where you ended up."

"I don't think it'd be quite the same," Purdey contradicted, looking fondly from Gambit to Steed and back again. "I don't think we'd have quite the same bond."

Gambit didn't say a word, just smiled back, eyes shining despite the pain. Purdey held his gaze for a long moment, then broke away before it became too much. She looked to Steed instead.

"Why do you do it, Steed?"

Steed looked up from his work briefly, gifted Purdey with one of those understated those little looks. "I thought it'd be obvious," he said simply. "The company."

Purdey nodded. "Yes," she agreed. "That sounds about right."