Rating: M
Disclaimer: See chapter 1
Spoilers: Everything
Pairing: David/Julia
Summary: Far more than just the muse in his pursuit for justice, Julia was his unrelenting, invisible rescuer. She was the force behind his strength and conviction and drive. She was his choice – now that he'd been given a second chance to make one.
He started making arrangements after their first night together. He asked around, got some names, paid extra for a rush job. A week later, he picks up his completed order before heading over to her flat. Her security team know him now, they admit him without argument. Julia is in the kitchen when he enters, making one of three meals in her less than extensive repertoire. She offers him a beer and, after taking a quick sip, David pulls out the brown paper package and slaps it on the kitchen counter.
"Happy birthday."
Julia stops grating cheese and looks at him. "It's not my birthday."
"It is now."
She eyes him as she wipes her hands on a tea towel then reaches for the package. Inside, she finds the passports of two brand new British citizens. She opens one, reads, "Catherine Walsh." She thumbs over to the first page of the next, reads, "Matthew Walsh."
David nods his head, takes a silent sip.
"So today's my birthday," she muses, examining the tiny typed details next to the photo of her face. "And apparently I'm two years younger." She looks up at him, eyes narrowing slightly. "Should I be offended by that?"
He blinks in innocence. "He shaved a couple of years off my age as well…" David shrugs and mumbles into the neck of his beer bottle, "This guy isn't great with details."
Her eyes widen in alarm. "Shouldn't that be the first thing you look for in a counterfeiter?"
He pauses to swallow, emits a soft ah. "I'm told this guy's the best."
Julia hums dubiously and leans her hip against the counter. She examines the booklets, flicks through their pages, already stamped with past travel exploits. "So how'd you come up with the names?" she asks, gaze lifting to examine him.
His lips purse a moment. "Best to pick something generic."
She hums again and waits for more.
One shoulder lifts. "Thought maybe they'd get tired of looking by the time they got to the Ws."
Her head tilts back, her eyes glint with concealed amusement.
"And," he adds, sucking in a breath, "they'll not be looking for a married couple." He tips his drink at the Walsh's IDs. "Will they?"
Julia is silent a moment. The teasing glint vanishes from her eyes as they lower back to the phoney papers. "I've been married once before, David." She places them on the counter, hands and voice wary. "It didn't much suit me."
David plucks up his new ID, rifles through it. "Well, I could pose as your baby brother if you'd prefer."
She straightens, casts him a look as she turns to the bubbling pot on the stove. "This is serious." Julia flicks off the knobs, leaving their dinner to cool and congeal. Then she faces him, arms folded and brow troubled. She keeps her gaze on the floor as she takes a breath, holds it then releases it in a reluctant sigh. "I've lived the life of a fugitive, David. You haven't."
"You lived that life alone, Julia." He puts down his beer and stands a little taller. "Not with someone."
Her head tilts sadly. "And what about your children?"
"They're out of the country," he tells her. "They're safe. Once everyone is safe…and after some time has passed, I'll get back in contact."
She shakes her head and looks away, eyes landing and fixing on the twin passports. "You can't want this for yourself…to leave everything behind…just like that…"
David steps closer, reaches for her elbow. He runs his hand up her arm to her shoulder then her neck. He draws her in, kisses her lightly on the lips. When he pulls back, she's looking at him, her eyes round with worry and doubt.
"I want you right beside me," he tells her, voice low, pointed, resolute. "That's what I want."
He kisses her again and feels her arms unfold and embrace him. She's still uncertain – he can feel it in her body, in her breath and her kiss. But once – a lifetime ago it all seems now – she chose him. Despite everything, all the risks. So he feels fairly certain that, given time enough to think, Julia will choose him again.
As for him, his choice is already made. Nothing holds him here. His ex-wife and kids are settled in Australia with Tom. The last contact he had with Vicky, she casually dropped into the conversation that the kids were enjoying their pizza. That was it. Then her number disappeared off the grid. Her mum received a blank postcard of a kangaroo two days ago. When she showed it to him, David turned it over in his hands before throwing it on her fire to burn.
His own mum passed away shortly after that last fateful visit on the first of October. On that day, she'd barely been able to recognise him, let alone his children. A battle with Alzheimer's had turned her into a shadow of the woman she once was. Mixed in with so many other tragedies, he's yet to properly grieve her death, which was also part blessing. But with her, died his last connection to Scotland. It had once been home. England never was. All that remained for him here was a job that wasn't ever a true vocation. It paid his bills, enabled him to support his family. But it was a job that now would forever be haunted by Julia Montague. His relationships with his colleagues had soured following their affair and the conspiracy encircling it. His friendships with his army buddies had similarly soured with time.
He'd fully expected his relationship with Julia to do the same. He'd not expected their nights together to offer any sort of longevity. It was part of what gave them their unbridled urgency and excitement. All along, he figured the end was nigh. So after waking in terror to find his hands at her throat, he sinkingly resigned himself to his fate. The look she gave him the following morning was the same look his commanding officers used to give him on his last tour, intimating in patronising tones that he should consider retiring to a civilian lifestyle. It was the same look Vicky had given him for months before finally ejecting him from their bed, their home and their future. It would have been so easy for Julia to likewise wash her hands of him. One word from her and he could be disappeared, losing his position and their fledging relationship in one swift diplomatic move. He'd primed himself for the blow all day. He'd anticipated demotion – not devotion.
When Julia doubled down on their relationship, David had been stunned speechless. He'd been scared out of skin and confused out of his mind. He hadn't been ready to reciprocate, despite the undeniable swell of emotion in his chest. So he'd said nothing. Not a word in response. Everything he'd done after that moment had in part been a futile attempt to reclaim that last quiet moment with her, to belatedly show Julia the sort of honesty and bravery and devotion she'd shown him. Starting off as his sworn enemy, she'd become his secret ally, then his beneficent saviour. With a gun pressed to his head, her memory tormented him. But with a bomb belted to his chest, the memory of her drove him up and out and onward.
He remembers coming to in that dank basement, his head pounding, vision blurred and body lethargic with concussion. He glanced up at the grate above then down at the device that ensnared him. And for a split second he considered letting it win, letting it take him out for good. He'd already attempted suicide once in the name of Julia Montague. He should've known her spirit wouldn't allow him to give in to an act of terror though, one that could take the lives of so many innocents as well as his own. Cutting through the rush of blood and adrenaline, he heard her voice in his head as though she was, if not right there with him, then somewhere close by, watching on.
Get up, David. Get up.
His other hand curled around the trigger and, with weak knees and swimming vision, he rose slowly to his feet. Far more than just the muse in his pursuit for justice, Julia was his unrelenting, invisible rescuer. She was the force behind his strength and conviction and drive. She was his choice – now that he'd been given a second chance to make one. David hugs her closer, kisses her head and tells her that everything will be alright.
-x-
David doesn't show the next night. He doesn't pick up when she calls his phone. And she knows deep in her gut that something is wrong. Somewhere, something has gone very, very wrong. All the plans they didn't make are suddenly derailed. And all of his appeals regarding their safety come back to haunt her.
Julia enlists the help of her security service, takes on extra personnel, pays them all overtime. Women and men crowd her living room, spreading maps and making phone calls and chatting in hushed, ominous tones. She stands on the margins, eavesdropping and providing coffee. She feels fairly redundant, powerless for the second time in her adult life.
Desperate for something to do, she insists on riding along when they go to check out his flat. It seems like the logical first step, though they all seem fairly certain about what they're going to find. Her Pole drives. Stuart or Peter sits beside him. In the backseat, she is crammed between two stout ladies with weapons attached to their hips. They check the area first, pick the lock with frightening efficiency. Then usher her quickly inside.
She's never been to David's home. It's kind of like him and kind of not. It's straightforward yet enigmatic. Spare yet solid. But not warm. Not assuring. As her security staff move purposefully through the space, each on their own private mission, Julia wanders aimlessly from room to room. She spies some drawings pinned to a wall, signed with big Es and wobbly Cs. She opens the fridge door on a half consumed six-pack of his favourite beer, some desiccated pizza and a lone, rotten orange. Her steps slow as she enters his bedroom. She surveys the space a moment then opens the wardrobe, his scent wafting up into her nostrils.
Reaching inside, she slides a shirt from its hanger and lifts it to her nose. Her eyes drift shut as she clutches it and inhales. She remembers that first thrilling yet utterly inconvenient pang of attraction when he stripped off and handed her the shirt off his back. As soon as she slipped it on, the warmth of his skin began to seep into hers. The smell of him stayed with her, on her clothes and on her body for the rest of the day. The next time she wore that suit, it was still there. Even after a trip to the dry-cleaners, it clung to the material. Wearing it was like walking around with a dirty little secret.
Initially, she put her reaction down to the fact that she was so perennially starved of sex. Of affection and intimacy and normal human contact. The contact of his shirt against her skin had not just felt illicit – it felt enveloping, sheltering, soothing. And the transfer of his scent onto her skin seemed to instantly instate a bond, binding them together with invisible, intractable thread.
The first time he touched her was shortly after. The runner had entered to take her into the studio, striding ahead while she and David lagged behind, semi-entranced. As they moved silently down the dark, blue-lit corridor, her new PPO had placed a hand on her back. Almost as if sealing the imprint he'd made on her body and psyche. It was only light – there then gone. A gentlemanly instinct rather than a professional performance of duty. She felt ridiculous when the fleeting touch made her heart pound and her cheeks flush. The runner glanced over his shoulder and smiled reassuringly at her, as if she was merely suffering from an understandable case of stagefright. Then he left them alone to deliver her aides to a position from which they could watch.
Julia adjusted his shirt, smoothing a hand down her front. She hadn't even had time to glance in a mirror. "You were right," she murmured as she watched Marr, "about the chest to waist ratio."
David glanced at her from the corner of his eye. His gaze cut briefly down to his shirt on her body. "Aye, Ma'am. Looks fine on you."
She licked her lips, met his gaze sidelong. "Well, I appreciate the last minute loan."
He almost smiled, but directed his eyes front instead. "Happy to help, Ma'am."
Rob and Chanel appeared, Andrew Marr mentioned her name and the runner whisked her away. She took her seat during her introduction, lifted her chin as a sound tech tampered with her mike. And every breath she took for every perfectly prepared answer she gave, she was aware of inhaling the warm zesty scent of David Budd.
Julia drops the shirt from her nose, turns and looks around his barren bedroom. One of the stout female officers appears and stands solidly on the threshold as she reports that, as expected, they've found nothing. If Budd was snatched, she says, it wasn't from here. Julia nods and thanks her. The woman adds that the team back her flat have uncovered some more promising avenues of investigation. Julia nods again and dismisses her.
She turns back to the wardrobe, runs her eyes over its ordered contents. There's a black tote sitting at the bottom, an old airline tag attached to one handle. As she draws a new breath, she feels something rise within her – some old sense of conviction, of determination, of resolve. She grabs the tote, rips the old tag off. She stuffs David's shirt inside, adds another one. Adds some jeans and socks and underwear and a woollen jumper. She grabs some shoes and leaves the wardrobe doors hanging open as she exits. In the living room, she tugs the treasured childhood drawings off the wall. She folds them, tucks them inside the tote then marches out the door.
Back at her flat, she informs the bustling men and women that she wants to know everything they're doing to locate David. They all pause to listen. Heads bob obediently as she tells them she wants to hear progress reports from team leaders every hour, on the hour. She leaves one woman with the task of transferring all her remaining assets into the names of Matthew and Catherine Walsh. Then, in the hush of her bedroom, she adds the Walsh's passports to David's tote. She packs her own bag with the few things she plans on taking with her before calling her Pole in to update her on those promising new leads. He tells her in blunt, broken English that David was slowly ridding his enemies of targets. He'd spirited his family away and now planned to run himself, with her. Aitkens' organisation must have figured they'd better exact their revenge while they still had the opportunity.
"So they grab him," he states, "from gym, after swim."
She nods and gulps. "Any footage? Or witnesses? Anything to indicate where they might have taken him?"
"We work on it," he assures her tersely.
Her momentum falters, her eyes drop to the carpet. She mutters a thank you but it's barely audible. She wanders to a window, gazes out at the grey street.
Her Pole shuffles to the door then turns back. "Don't worry, Ms Montague. We find him. Is promise."
Julia meets his eyes then smiles with more certainty. "Thank you, Mikolaj. I'm sure we will."
TBC...