May Day
Disclaimer: I don't own The New Avengers, nor the characters of Mike Gambit, Purdey, and John Steed. They're the property of The Avengers (Film and TV) Enterprises. This story is written for entertainment purposes only. No copyright infringement intended.
Author's note: A little something to celebrate Joanna Lumley's 75th birthday.
It would have to be a field.
And it would have to be raining.
The forecast had predicted a bright, sunny day. Clear blue skies. Unseasonably warm temperatures for an early May day in England. They'd lulled Gambit into a false sense of security, verging on optimism. He'd made plans. He'd bought provisions. He'd gone so far as to contemplate something as foolhardy as a picnic, which was just asking for trouble. It was said that man made plans and God laughed, but Gambit's many, many years of experience had taught him that there was often a nifty right hook to the jaw in the offing as well. And yet, in spite of that hard-earned wisdom, he'd made arrangements. Special ones. For a very special woman.
First there had been the phone call. Could they deal with a little bit of trouble? Nothing strenuous, shouldn't take more than an hour or two, half a day at a stretch, be home in time for tea.
The first mistake was agreeing. No, the first mistake, Gambit mused morosely as his booted foot squelched deep into a waterlogged mess that was more mud than grass, was answering the bloody phone, instead of just letting it ring. No one called at ten o'clock on a Saturday morning except the Ministry, and it was never for something as innocuous as a friendly chat. He should have left the room and let the answerphone take it, then erased it, unheard, and feigned ignorance on Monday morning when they asked him about it.
The next error, he decided as he flicked away a raindrop trickling down the bridge of his nose, was taking them at their word about how long the whole thing would take. The Ministry was many things, but an accurate estimator of time was not one of them—or at least, that was what they would have you believe. Gambit suspected that, in reality, they were very accurate indeed, but they chose not to forward those accurate estimates to their operatives, opting instead for ones that were more agreeable to an agent's ear. Gambit should have known from experience that half a day meant the whole day, that he wouldn't be back in time to salvage his plans, and that it wasn't worth leaving his good suit on in the hopes that he'd save himself having to change when he finished. The suit had paid the price for his self-delusion and, between being totally sodden and splattered with mud, was probably ruined. More money wasted, more plans scuppered.
The last mistake, and the most fatal one, was agreeing to the foreign agent's requested rendezvous location. Even though the man had insisted that a field in the countryside was the safest place to meet because you could see the enemy coming a mile away, Gambit knew from experience that seeing your attacker was usually the least of your problems. You could see a tank from a mile away, too, but that didn't mean it wouldn't use you for target practice no matter how fast you ran. But Gambit had been in a hurry and the man had insisted, and in the end he'd given in to save time. Gambit laughed wryly to himself, checked the water-dappled face of the—thankfully waterproof—watch on the inside of his wrist. He'd been slogging his way through this field in a downpour for an hour now. That didn't take into account the time spent driving out to the rendezvous and dealing with the complications that had inevitably arisen, which had, amongst other things, included a manhole that had led to a bunker that the Ministry would definitely be excited to learn about—or accuse him of making up-when he put it in his report. Gambit wondered if he may as well throw in some mole people just for the hell of it while he was at it.
The upshot of all of this was that the day was pretty much shot. The few hours that were left were going to be spent driving home, drying off, drinking something hot, and waiting for pneumonia to set in. What had begun as a pleasant, promising May day had become more of a mayday, one which provided no hope of salvation. Gambit was depressed just thinking about the futility of it all.
And then he saw her, the sheets of rain parting like curtains to reveal her standing by the Rover, dressed sensibly in a mac and wellies, waiting. For him.
It might have not been the most glamourous outfit or setting, but as her fresh, rain-washed face came into view, Gambit thought she'd never looked so beautiful, her smile never so welcome.
She saw him and darted forward, somehow gliding over the rain-slicked grass and puddles rather than sinking into them like he was. She caught his arm, and despite how miserable he'd been mere seconds earlier, Gambit felt himself smile.
"Happy birthday, Purdey-girl," he croaked, rainwater half-drowning him the second he opened his mouth. He dug into his sodden jacket pocket and extracted a plastic tube that, mercifully, was keeping the contents safe and dry. "I got you some microfilm and the location of a secret enemy base."
Purdey grinned broadly, threw her arms around his neck, and kissed him so hard that he swore steam rose from his body as he went from freezing to boiling in no time at all.
"Mike Gambit, how did you know?" she breathed when she came up for air. "That's just what I've always wanted."
"I aim to please." He felt better now, he really did. He didn't know how Purdey did it.
"And you never disappoint." Purdey looped her arm through his and guided him back to the Range Rover. "Which is why, despite what you might think, I'm going to enjoy spending my birthday with you, even—especially—if it means warming you up."
Much better. "Purdey, anything you want, today and everyday, I'm yours."
End