Author's Note: I am SO sorry! I've been trying to finish this chapter for ages but I found temporary employment last month and I've been so knackered since then I've barely any energy t get upstairs and fall into bed, never mind work on this.

Being a wage-slave sucks, quite honestly.

Theresa: I don't mind. Gives me time to focus on revising for my exams.

Kevin: you're not serious?

Theresa: I do have a life without your presence; it's just not as interesting

Author: (raises an eyebrow) How long've you two been married now?

Both: (blush and protest)

Author: (ignores them both in favour of posting this chapter)

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It'd been three weeks since Kevin last saw Theresa, three weeks since her grandfather picked her up from the hospital in that seaside town and thanked him for taking care of his granddaughter, three weeks with a gnawing in his gut that's making it hard to sleep or train as fully as usual.

Undoubtedly he was still the IWF's top wrestler, winning every match no matter how big, ugly or combination thereof his opponent may be, but it was as if he'd doing it on automatic, he doesn't stick around long enough to collect his prizes. He goes in, he fights, he wins then he leaves and goes back to whatever hotel or hostel he's staying at, showers then trains until he's exhausted, but doesn't sleep for longer than a catnap.

He wouldn't admit it, but he missed Theresa and her non-fangirl attitude, missed the conversations about things besides wrestling and the relaxed atmosphere her home has…and he really missed her hugs and kisses.

Three weeks…and he had withdrawal symptoms pretty badly.

It'll pass.

He's Kevin Mask!

A lone wolf!

He doesn't need anyone!

He doesn't need to be distracted by sheltered orphans with a hippie outlook on life who treat him like a friend and look after him when he's completely inebriated and…

This wasn't really helping him forget all about her

Another week and she'd be just a memory, if even that.

Another week was he needed and he'd forget all about her. The last few months won't have happened, he'd make himself believe that he's forgotten.

The mind is an interesting place that way.

He ran through London, along the streets. It was raining and the rain was cold even though it was getting on towards summer.

The streets were quiet, as days like this in the city tend to be, people ducking into cafes or shops to hide from the weather and street merchants are selling cheap umbrellas, any shade of tartan you want! Only £1 each!

He wondered what she was doing…

No, no he didn't!

She was probably getting on with her life and not sparing him a thought, like he was doing with her.

He shouldn't be sparing her any thought; he had to train for tomorrow. He needed to focus on that.

Very vaguely, he wondered if she even knew about it…

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…Wherein hope is not merely quenched, but completely destroyed as the 'establishment' knowingly turns an individual into another mindless cog of their vast power-hungry empire. Orwell gives us the anti-hero of Winston Smith, a forty-something information worker whose job it is to change history and this just might be the fight of the century, sportsfans!

…

Wait, what? That wasn't right! Where had THAT come from?

Delete…Delete…Delete!

Theresa looked up from her English essay, rudely dragged away from her train of thought as her mind realised and relayed the fact that the television was on in the living room downstairs, which was a little odd since it was just her and Banksy until Gramp's finished work.

With a sigh she saved her work, closed the lid of her laptop computer and headed downstairs to find the cause and to switch the television off.

It took her less than a minute to find out what'd happened: Banksy was lying on the sofa, the control wedged trapped firmly under one paw as he chewed at his claws, occasionally hitting the volume buttons, which explained why it was so loud.

"Banksy, bad dog," she scolded gently, taking the controls away, ignoring the television and the sports broadcast that was on, but remembering to turn it down before her ears began to bleed, "you know you're not allowed on the sofa. Come on, get down"

The dog just yawned, blinked at her and settled comfortably into the cushions.

"Daft canine," she tutted. Well, there really wasn't any harm in letting him stay there; she'd just have to hoover up later.

"…let's take a look at his last few fights!"

Oh yeah…turn the television off and get back to her essay, her final grade for A-Level English was depending on this one.

"So Doc, what do you think Kevin Mask's chances are for this home-ground match here in merry old London?"

Kevin? Kevin was still in London? Theresa blinked in surprise, she hadn't seen him since the day she'd broken her arm; she'd assumed he'd gone back to Japan for one fight or another…still in London though and he hadn't been to visit her in that time?

"Well Mac, looking back at how his other matches have gone, I'd say he's got a pretty good chance. He's been training non-stop though he's been acting kind of strange these last few weeks compared to how he normally acts after fight"

"Well, let's take a look at the tapes, Doc"

The television showed clips of Kevin during matches. Outwardly he looked all right, but despite the mask there were…signs that he wasn't quite himself, he moved almost mechanically as if he wasn't really thinking about his actions or how he fought and he didn't even stop to collect any of the prizes he won for it or to play to the crowd (not that he usually played to the crowd but she had no way of knowing that)

Theresa could only think one thing: 'He looks SO tired…I hope he's OK'

…which was swiftly followed by the thought: 'Why hasn't he been to see me if he's still in London?" and a feeling of hurt that she couldn't shake.

'So what' she thought as she boiled the kettle and made ginger and lemongrass tea to try and get rid of the hurt feeling 'Not like he's obligated to come and see me just because he's in London. I don't fancy him and he doesn't fancy me…right?

'OK,' minutes later, seated at her desk with her laptop once moreshe mused on it a bit longer, ' so maybe I don't give out kisses…a LOT of kisses… to every bloke but that's not exactly a claim marker that means I have all the rights to his person and time. After all, a man said to the universe: "Sir I exist!" and the universe replied: "However, that fact has not created in me a sense of obligation.' In other words he's not obligated to come and see me just because we're both in London right now'

In the end, she saved her essay. It was, in her opinion, complete and utter rubbish but at least it was rubbish that sounded vaguely like she knew what she was talking about. At some point, she found that Banksy had taken up residence on her bed once more, so she flopped down next to him, as was her habit, and lightly scratched him behind one floppy black ear.

"I think I have serious mental problems, Banks."

She found it easy to talk to Banksy since the dog would just listen (though if it made any sense to him was anyone's guess) and wouldn't judge her on anything; she may as well have been Jack the Ripper and Banksy wouldn't care as long as she kept on providing food, warmth and tummy rubs in abundance.

In response to her statement, Banksy moved and laid his head on her stomach, tilting it slightly to get her to scratch in the right place, and huffed a little before closing his eyes in bliss as his owner poured out some doubts and confusions, there weren't many but getting them off her chest drained her out.

She must've fallen asleep at some point because she jolted awake when the phone rang, loudly, in the hall. She noted the sun was starting to set briefly as she hurried down to answer it. fallen asleep at some point because she jolted awake when the phone rang, loudly, in the hall. She noted the sun was starting to set briefly as she hurried down to answer it.

"Hello?"

"Good evening, I'm sorry to bother you so late but could I please speak to…Theresa Chappen?"

"Speaking…"

Who was this? It didn't sound like anyone she or Gramps knew.

"I'm calling on behalf of Blackheath hospital. You're listed as a contact for a patient…"

She gasped audibly, all kinds of horrors going through her head, mainly: 'OH MY GOD! Has something happened to Gramps?!'

"A Mr…Kevin Mask?" the voice continued, oblivious to her thoughts

…Kevin? In the hospital? How? When? His match…had he lost that badly? Holy hell!

"…Miss Chappen?"

"Yes…I'm…I'm here…"

"If you wouldn't mind, is it possible for you to come down to the hospital now?"

"Um…do you have directions? And I just need to leave my grandfather a note so he won't worry if I'm not here when he comes home but yes, certainly, I'll…I'll be there as soon as I can"

Kevin, what kind of trouble did you get yourself into…?

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He felt like crap.

No, he felt worse than crap. He felt HUMILITATED.

Collapsed after he left the ring…exhaustion finally catching up with him…three weeks of almost constant training and little sleep taking their toll.

Now here he was, maskless and forced to stay in a damned hospital bed. Easy tabloid fodder, he could just imagine the headlines.

"No interviews," he growled (or tried to) at a figure he suddenly noticed out of the corner of his eye.

"Well then it's a good thing I left my notebook at home on my desk with my books and my essay, isn't it?"

"Theresa…?"

"Oh you DO remember me then," she came in, wearing a smile that didn't reach her eyes and a shirt proclaiming 'This Is My Clone', and yes, her arm in plaster (though it was slightly grubby and covered in 'get well' messages from her friends now) and sat on the bottom of his bed without preamble, her keys jangled in her bag as she did so, "was beginning to wonder if you'd forgotten me."

"Why…? How did you know I was here?"

"Apparently you put me down as your contact on that 'in case of emergency' card in your wallet. This was an emergency so here I am. Had to show three different types of ID to get in here."

"…Oh…"

They sat in awkward silence which he quickly came to realise he neither liked nor wanted.

"…you should leave" he said finally, when the silence became deafening.

"Excuse me?"

"Leave. Before you get hurt…"

"Which one of us in the hospital bed?" she gestured from herself to him and back again.

"Just go" He suddenly felt the exhaustion tugging at him and lay back, half hoping she'd leave him alone, though the other half was sort of wishing she'd stay. He nearly jumped when he felt fingers suddenly run through his hair, he hadn't heard her move at all, it was oddly soothing and he sighed as he relaxed despite himself.

"Idiot," Theresa muttered, sounding miffed and affectionate at the same time, though she kept running her fingers through his hair, "you make it SO hard to be angry at you. Besides, I can't go anywhere until the traffic dies down, it was murder getting here in the first place."

"THAT'S why you're not leaving?" Kevin mumbled sleepily…good god that hand through his hair felt nice… "to avoid traffic?"

"Yes. That and you're my friend and I care about you. Might even be a little in love with you," her hand suddenly stilled, "did I just say that out loud?"

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Author: way to blurt out your feelings Theresa. You're progressing well past your bad psyche.

Theresa: (blushing furiously) I didn't mean to! I really didn't! I'm not…I can't be in love with him!

Author: uh huh…want me to work on the next chapter?

Theresa: do we resolve this issue?

Author: yup. You will…probably in the next three chapters or so. Promise. Anyway, back to the readers: I'm sorry but I am HORRIBLE at writing fight scenes, s'why I omitted them. Besides, there's bigger things going on than fights (points at Kevin and Theresa cough cough)

Musical References: just keep getting sacrificed for plot. (shakes head) but the title's from The Beatles and Peter Seller's who recites it like Laurence Olivier as Richard III