Somewhere, a buzzer sounds.

Pressed into the warmth of Wheeler's firm and unshakable chest, Helena hardly registers the noise at first. But when it sounds again, and then a third time, by now a continuous shrill, Wheeler lets her go.

He doesn't want to, she knows. She can feel his reluctance to be apart from her in the taut lines of his body and the dark intensity of his eyes.

'I ordered pizza,' he tells her, his voice deep. She'd forgotten just what that voice could do to her, and she nods, momentarily unable to speak. 'I have to go and get it, pay the guy at least,' Wheeler carries on. Abruptly, unexpectedly, he runs the pad of his thumb over the soft flesh of her bottom lip. 'Just... just stay right here, okay?' There's a hesitance, an uncertainty to his plea. 'Don't go anywhere,' he asks her. 'Promise me you won't go anywhere.'

'Net,' she whispers, the Russian slipping from her tongue in her dazed and bewildered state. She immediately flushes, shaking her head. She hates it when her English isn't perfect. 'I mean...'

But Wheeler surprises her. He embraces her again, squeezing her against him.

'You can talk Russian all you want here, Babe. It's not like I'm grading your English on a curve or anything.'

He lets her go again, looking at her one last time before he disappears into the hall.

She uses his absence to take a look at his living room. She's been in this apartment before, once, a long time ago, just after his father died, and just before Ma-Ti. It feels like a million years ago, even though she can still remember, with blinding clarity, the wet warmth of her shirt from his tears, and the feel of him against her in the night, gripping her fiercely as he made love to her, begging her to never leave him all the while.

She hardly recognises the place now though. Back then it had been damp and colourless, with dirty windows, a mouldy kitchen and the ever-present smell of booze in the air. But now? Now it's colourful and clean, with new windows, new carpets, and new furniture. He's torn down the wall that once stood between the kitchen and living room, and the open-plan space is pleasant and warm. She would never have thought of Wheeler as being the kind of man to make a good home, but here she is, standing in the very proof that he is.

When he returns, he's holding four pizza boxes that he immediately puts onto the coffee table. He stares at her, unmoving for a moment, and she swallows uneasily.

'You are staring at me,' she says timidly, and he nods, unapologetic.

'Just taking my fill,' he explains, with a wry grin. 'I still can't believe you're here. I thought I'd come back in here and find the room empty, like waking from a dream or something,' the smile suddenly dropped from his lips, and his eyes softened. 'Wouldn't be the first time.'

She blushes, but he doesn't look away from her. Abruptly awkward, she breaks their gaze, nodding to the pizza boxes on the table before her.

'This is a lot of food for one man.'

Now he does look embarrassed, running a hand along the back of his neck, uncertain and almost shy. 'Yeah, so I wasn't expecting company,' he confesses. 'So, I paid the delivery guy triple for every pizza he had on his bike.'

'You bought other people's food?' She asks in disbelief.

'It sounds really bad when you say it like that. But, in my defence, I didn't know what you wanted and... and...' he trailed off with a sigh. 'Look, I'm still a little in shock here. I haven't seen you in... what? A decade? And now you're here, in New York, in my apartment and I'm struggling to process that, okay?'

'I am sorry,' she says quickly, suddenly mortified. 'If I had anywhere else to go, I would not have intruded upon you, but...'

In a heartbeat, Wheeler is back by her side, and once again she's enveloped into the warm safety of his arms. 'Don't,' he says fiercely, 'don't do that. Don't apologise. For one thing, you aren't intruding upon me. You can drive me crazy, you can wind me up something awful and you can be a downright pain in my ass, but one thing you can never do is intrude upon me. You're always welcome in my home, Babe. I want to be the person you come to when things get rough. I want to be the man you rely on. I've always wanted to be that man.'

She nods against him, and he steps back, looking at her intently.

'Eat some pizza, okay?' He asks her. 'Please. You're really thin. Too thin. Why are you so thin, Babe?'

She sits on the edge of his sofa, uncomfortable and on edge, staring at the pizza boxes. She can feel Wheeler's eyes upon her, intense and searching.

'I work,' she shrugs, but Wheeler shakes his head at her, clearly unimpressed.

'No,' he says. 'No, I work. Whatever you've been doing... it ain't just work, sweetheart, if it's got you thin as a rake, in cuffs and on my doorstep. Not that I'm complainin', not even close,' he says, catching the sudden fire of argument in her eyes. 'Seeing you in cuffs always was a fantasy of mine.'

She laughs, abruptly and high, and he grins.

'Eat some pizza,' he says, opening the first box, before closing it just as quickly. 'Fuck, it's pineapple. Morons. Sorry, Babe. Maybe box number two will be more promising.'

But Helena shook her head.

'I do not mind pineapple. It is meat I do not eat.'

'Yeah, I remember,' he mutters, digging through the boxes. When he comes to the final box, he gives a shout of triumph. 'Vegetarian special,' he tells her with something like glee, handing her a slice. The pizza is already cool, the cheese congealing, and she looks at it sceptically.

'Babe,' she hears a pleading note to Wheeler's voice. 'Babe, please eat something. I promise that tomorrow I'll take you to the best restaurant in Brooklyn, or the nearest health-store for quinoa or organic bean curd or whatever, just, please, eat something tonight. If only to make me happy, okay?'

She sighs, giving the pizza an explorative nibble. Wheeler's face relaxes as he watches her eat, and he picks up a slice himself.

'Tomorrow,' he says abruptly, 'tomorrow you're gonna tell me why your passport has been cancelled by the Russian government, okay? Tomorrow, you and me are gonna talk. But tonight, I need you to relax a little, okay, Babe? No hard questions tonight. No hard talks. I'm your friend here, Linka, first and foremost. I know it's been awhile, but I want you to forget everything else and concentrate on that, okay?'

She nods.

For a few minutes, they eat in silence. She mainly keeps her eyes on the floor, but she knows Wheeler is watching her. She's always been able to tell when he's looking at her, and déjà vu, cold and clear, suddenly floods her body.

She's sixteen, lying on the beach at Hope Island, and she turns on her towel to see Wheeler by the shoreline, looking at her hotly. His gaze rests on the long length of her legs, and she adjusts them, suddenly aware that she wants to look her best for him while hating herself for feeling that way all at once.

She's seventeen, hot and sticky and working tirelessly to fill care packages for the victims of a hurricane in Honduras. Her curls are errant in the humidity and she stops for a moment to brush a straying lock behind her ear. But no sooner has her finger left her hair than she has a feeling of being watched, and she turns to see Wheeler across the room, staring at her. Momentarily, she allows herself to stare back, and he licks his lips, desire written all over his face. Looking at him looking at her, she feels a sudden flare of heat herself, and she turns away, back to the box before her, uncertain and confused.

She's eighteen, running from an explosion, the noise deafening and disorientating. She falls, catching her shirt on a sharp piece of glass, the garment ripping as she pulls herself up and continues to run. Later, she's holding the scraps of fabric up, one shoulder bare and her back exposed, when she feels his eyes upon her. She glances at him over her shoulder, and catches his gaze. She's not afraid to look at him these days, in fact, she almost desires his attention, and she doesn't look away, not even when he steps towards her, running a finger down the curve of her spine. Not even when he pulls his own shirt over his head, putting it over her own and covering her once more. Not even when he leans towards her, his breath warm on her ear, and tells her that her clothing should rip more often.

She's nineteen, and they've just helped extinguish a small forest fire in Canada. She's clean and showered, her hair freshly washed, and she's wearing a tea-dress Gi found in a local shop, paisley-printed, old-fashioned and awful. But at least it doesn't smell of smoke and ash, and she's glad of it when one of the local firemen- she can't remember his name- stops by their hotel to thank them personally for their help. He chats with her for longer than strictly necessary, and Gi stands behind them, smirking and making encouraging gestures. But it's Wheeler she's most concerned about, sensing him watching her from the doorway of the room. Later that night, when they meet outside, he drags her into the nearby woods and fucks her hard against a tree, pushing up the paisley dress and holding her hips with a bruising grip. It's the roughest he's ever been with her, and she knows he wants to leave marks on her body. A scratch here, a handprint there, a bite or two across her skin. Something, anything, to prove that he was there and she is his.

As if she could ever be anyone else's.

'You are staring at me again,' she says, and he shrugs.

'So, sue me,' he tells her. 'I haven't seen you in ten years. I'm gonna stare at you a lot over the next few days and you're just going to have to put up with it. I've got a signed document from the governor of New York saying that you legally have to stick by my side for the foreseeable future, and I'm gonna use it,' he grins at her. 'Makes me kinda sorry I didn't vote for the guy now.'

She smiles back, but puts down the remainder of her slice of pizza. Wheeler's eyes flash with disappointment, and she clears her throat.

'May I have a drink?' She asks, ultra polite, and Wheeler jumps up with a start.

'Fuck, I'm the worst host ever. Yes, of course, you can. You can have whatever you want. Water? Soda? Beer?'

'Do you have vodka?' She asks, and Wheeler grins. There are faint lines by his eyes that crease when he smiles these days, and she decides that she likes them.

'Vodka? Yeah, actually, I do. In need of a hard drink, are we Babe? Wouldn't surprise me, after the day you've had.'

She shakes her head. 'No, not really. I just want a small mouthful. In Russia we often drink vodka after a course to clear the palate.'

Wheeler must like that, because he nods enthusiastically. 'I knew I liked Russians for a reason. Got to say though, there isn't another course tonight after the pizza. I tend to order in most of the time and I'm still not a dessert man. You remember I never had a sweet tooth.'

'You used to like honey,' Helena says, before clapping a hand over her mouth, instantly blushing. 'I cannot believe I said that... James, I am sorry, I should not have mentioned...'

But Wheeler is looking at her strangely, those old embers of desire she remembers so well momentarily lighting his eyes.

'Yeah,' he says, his voice thick and loaded with promise. 'Yeah, I used to like honey. But only if you were naked and covered in it, Babe. Then I couldn't get enough.'

They stare at each other for a moment, the air suddenly heavy around them.

Helena looks away from him. 'Do you want to talk about this?' She asks, and Wheeler shakes his head.

'Nope. Do you?'

'No. Not really.'

'Fine. We won't. At least, not tonight,' he says, abruptly standing, brushing invisible crumbs from his lap. 'But we will talk about it, Babe. Not tonight, but soon, okay?'

She nods. She watches as he walks into the kitchen, opening a cabinet and pulling from it a bottle. He pulls down two glasses, and then, with a deftness she admires, balances the lot between the fingers of one hand, bringing it back to the table.

He pours two measures, handing her a glass.

'Cheers,' he says, before he downs the lot. He winces briefly, before pouring himself another measure.

'Yankee, you will get drunk-' she instantly protests, but at her words he only grins.

'Fuck,' he exhales. 'Say that again.'

'What?' She raises an eyebrow at him coyly. 'That you will get drunk?'

'No. You know what I want to hear.'

'Yankee,' she says again, and now he inhales sharply.

'Fuck, but I've missed you calling me that. You have no idea how much I've missed hearing you call me that. Actually, you have no idea how much I've missed you calling me at all. How much I've missed you.'

'I have some idea,' she says quietly, before knocking back her own vodka. He refills her glass without being asked, and she's glad for the numbing burn of alcohol.

'You'll get drunk,' he warns her, but she shrugs.

'No, I can drink vodka,' she assures him. 'I'm Russian... or at least, I was,' she feels fear and regret unfurl in her stomach. 'Up until this morning, I was Russian. Now I'm nothing.'

'You'll never be nothing,' he tells her easily. 'You're everything, and you don't need a passport from any government to define who you are.'

'I need one to get home though.'

But he mustn't like that thought, because he closes his eyes, rubbing at his forehead. 'We'll talk about all that tomorrow,' he says tiredly. 'Home can wait for now.'

But with a start, Helena sits up. 'Oh God, Kwame,' she moans, realisation hitting her hard. 'Help me, they took my phone off me and he will have been at the airport waiting... he will be frantic... please, where is your phone, Yankee?'

'What's this about Kwame, Babe?'

'He was going to get me from Heathrow. Oh, please Yankee, just give me your phone. I need to call him. He will be worried.'

Wheeler hands her his phone,. 'I don't have Kwame's number saved, Babe,' he says, quietly. 'But if you can wait a minute-'

'It is alright. I know it,' she tells him. An odd look crosses his face as he watches her key the numbers in, and abruptly he stands, taking the pizza boxes into the kitchen.

When Kwame answers the phone, he sounds tired and worn.

'Kwame, I am so sorry...' she starts, but as soon as she speaks, she hears him exhale with relief.

'Linka? It is you? Thank God, I thought... we thought something had happened to you. You weren't on your flight... I waited for hours but no one knew what had happened to you. And your phone has been ringing out, for hours now. Where are you? Are you okay?'

'I am in New York,' she says, conscious of Wheeler's eyes upon her.

'New York?' Kwame repeats, confused. 'But your flight home...'

'They took my passport from me,' she explains, and Kwame falls silent. 'And my phone. My bank accounts... they have been frozen.'

Kwame stays silent for a moment.

'Where are you? No passport... no phone... no money... Tell me where you are, Linka. They did not imprison you, did they? Wait... I will be one minute... do not hang up...' she hears Kwame shuffle papers and shout out to someone in the distance. When he returns, he sounds somewhat out of breath. 'Sam is looking into the legalities of all this,' he tells her. 'You know they cannot just render you stateless? Sam is going to call you back once we have some solid information and ideas. And if US immigration have a problem...'

'I am at Wheeler's,' she abruptly announces, and Kwame falls silent once more. 'This is his phone.'

He is quiet for a full minute, and she chews on her lip nervously. Wheeler returns from the kitchen, sitting on the opposing sofa, and, with his elbows resting on his knees, watches her carefully.

'Kwame?' She finally says, and she hears her friend clear his throat.

'I'm sorry,' Kwame apologises. 'I was... not expecting that.'

'I know. Neither was I,' she admits.

'You are really with Wheeler?'

'Yes.'

'Hmm,' Kwame muses. 'Well... the world moves in mysterious ways, I suppose.'

'It is not a big deal,' she retorts, and she sees Wheeler's eyes flash with annoyance. 'I have an appointment with the UK consulate on Monday. They should be able to issue me with an emergency travel document. I will be home in just a few days.'

'Hmm,' Kwame says again, and she feels a flare of irritation. 'Hmm. Look, Sam wants to talk with you. My better half is the immigration lawyer, after all.'

'Alright. Put Sam on,' Helena agrees.

'Be careful, old friend,' Kwame says. 'I do not want you getting hurt.'

'I am always careful,' she replies. 'Besides, the Russians and Volkov will do nothing to me while I am here.'

Kwame pauses. 'I am not worried about you and Russia. I am worried about you and Wheeler. At this point, I would give you and Russia better odds.'

Kwame hands the phone to Sam, and Helena runs through the circumstances of her detainment at JFK and the eventual removal of her passport.

'Look,' Sam says, as they wind up their conversation. 'You should have a lawyer with you. I'll fly into JFK tomorrow... talk to the consulate on your behalf-'

'What? And let you leave Haya? And Kwame?' Helena protests. 'It will all be fine. The UK embassy will help me, I am certain of it. There will be a... a democratic struggle otherwise.'

'Diplomatic,' Sam corrects her. 'Okay. Okay then. Kwame won't like it, but okay. But if you need me in any way you just have to call. We all love you, Linka. We're here for you.'

'I love you too,' she says softly, and now Wheeler's eyes harden. She frowns at him, but he simply stands, leaving the room.

When she's done with her call she sits for a moment. The apartment is quiet, and she finishes another shot of vodka before standing. She doesn't want to pry around Wheeler's home, but she remembers the way to his bedroom, and decides to head there.

But as she walks down the hall, she finds him in what used to be his parent's room, making up the bed with a fierce determination that makes her lean back against the door. Even after ten years, even after all this time, she knows when her Yankee is angry.

'Take it out on me, not on the bed,' she says, and his eyes snap up to hers.

'It's not a big deal,' he bites back, 'that's what you said, right?'

'You are mad at me.'

'No, I'm not mad at you. I just don't understand you. I mean, fucking hell, but Kwame?'

She sucks in a deep breath, staring at him. 'What are you implying?'

'Oh, not that,' he says, swearing again as he struggles with the corners of a fitted sheet. 'Although if that did happen, just tell me now and get it out there-'

'Do not be ridiculous, Yankee,' she snaps back. 'I am not his type.'

'Yeah, exactly,' he says, stopping dead and staring at her. 'You're not his type. So the why the fuck have you spent the last ten years being friends with him, while ignoring me?'

Anger, hot and sharp, fills her. 'Maybe because he did not let me go to... how did you put it? Oh yes, to try new things before immediately running back to his ex-girlfriend. Or was she the girlfriend still? I can never decide, you know. But then, it is hard enough to know what I was to you, let alone her.'

The look he gives her is indignant. 'You wanna talk about Trish?'

'No,' she says. 'No. There's nothing to say. I already know everything. You ended it with me to go back to her. There's nothing else to add.'

Wheeler swears, his fists clenching. 'You know fuck all,' he tells her.

She looks down, tears suddenly stinging her eyes. It's been a long, tiring day and exhaustion is making her weepy, clouding her thoughts and judgment. When she looks up again, Wheeler is watching her. His face is pale, and the sheets are clenched within his hands.

'I'm jealous of Kwame,' he says bluntly. 'I'm jealous that he's been there for you all these years.'

'Kwame and I...' Helena sighed. 'We helped each other through heartbreak, Wheeler. Our friendship has its origins in sadness. Do not be jealous of that.'

'You love him,' Wheeler remarks. 'That's more than I ever got from you.'

Helena shakes her head. 'Do not be so jaded. I loved you, once,' she says sadly. 'You know I did. Please tell me you know that. Please tell me you remember that, at least.'

He looks at her with anguished eyes. 'Yeah,' he says, and she can hear the lump in his throat. 'Yeah. I remember. I guess that's what makes it so hard. Knowing that you loved me, and yet having you cut me from your life.'

'You didn't want me-' she begins to argue, but Wheeler holds up a hand.

'No,' he stops her. 'I couldn't keep you. There's a difference.'

She stares at him, open-mouthed.

'Yankee, what are you saying...?'

He drops the sheet from his hands, sinking to the bed, the mattress sagging under his weight.

'I just wanted the scraps,' he tells her, his voice quiet and almost pained. 'I couldn't keep you, I knew that. I couldn't hold you back. I didn't want to be that man.'

'What man?' She whispers.

'The one you regretted,' he admits. 'The one you'd look back on and blame, with enough time. So I told myself, okay, she isn't yours. Not really. Not for keeps. But if you can't have her in the way you want, maybe you can have just enough to stay in her orbit. Like I said, I didn't want much, just the scraps of your friendship. But you cut me out completely and gave those scraps to another man instead.'

'I don't understand,' Helena sank to the floor, wrapping her arms tight around her body.

Wheeler gave her a bitter smile. 'I didn't end it with you because I wanted to, Lin. I ended it with you because it was the only way to help you.'

'Help me?'

'Ma-Ti had died, Lin. He'd died, and it was all my fault.'

Helena immediately went to protest, but Wheeler stood, coming to the doorway and dropping to the ground next to her.

'It was my fault, Linka. We all know it. And we went back to Hope Island and Gi and Kwame could hardly look at me...but you... you were so loyal- so fucking loyal. And you spent the next six weeks drying my tears and loving me and fucking the pain away and talking about moving to New York to be with me and I remember one night just watching you sleep and thinking, this girl is going to end up a shadow of who she could be if she stays with me. And I loved you too much to do that to you. I still love you too much. I always will, Babe. That's just the way it is.'

Linka feels a tear traverse slowly down her cheek. With his thumb, Wheeler brushes it from her skin.

'I let you go because I wanted you to go on out there and do all the amazing things I knew you would. And I'm so proud of you, Babe. I've followed your career and I'm so fucking proud of you. You did it all. Everything. I'm just gutted I wasn't there to congratulate you on your journey.'

'You broke my heart,' Linka says, her voice a pained whisper. 'You broke it into a thousand pieces. And why? For what?'

'Babe-'

'Because of a misplaced sense of acting the saviour?' She asks, incredulous even through her pain. 'You arrogant, selfish, stupid man. Why did you get to decide? Why didn't you ask me? I loved you. I was stupidly in love with you. You were my world. You were my only thought on waking and going to sleep. You were everything-'

'Exactly,' Wheeler interrupts. 'I didn't want that, Babe. I didn't want to be your world, I wanted you to have the world. I didn't want to be your everything, I wanted you to have everything.'

'You should've told me,' Linka cries. 'You should've asked me.'

'You wouldn't have gone, Babe,' he says simply, pain in his eyes. 'One of us had to be the grown-up, and it was never going to be you. What? You were going to turn down Cambridge to live in a rented hovel with a broke-ass guy with no education, no skills and no future? Really?'

'You turned out fine. I could have been there... I could have helped.'

'My success is down to nothing more than dumb luck and selling the Planeteer name, you know that. Trish too,' he adds. Linka winces, but he shakes his head. 'I'm not proud of my marriage to Trish. I got with her for all the wrong reasons. But think what you like of her, she gave me a good kick up the backside and pushed me and my career forwards. And I'm grateful to her for that.'

He falls silent, and Linka brushes another tear from her cheek. He goes to take her hand, but at the first brush of his fingers against hers she bolts upright, shaking her head at him.

'You got with her for all the wrong reasons,' she laments. 'And you ended things with me for all the wrong reasons too.'

'Babe, please-'

But she's too tired and heart sore to listen further. 'This was a mistake,' she says. 'Everything about us has always been a mistake.'

'Babe, no...'

She looks down at him, at the hair she once loved, at the lips she once kissed, at the eyes she once wept for. She looks down and resolution seeps through her.

'All mistakes,' she says, with quiet determination. 'And it is time I started learning from them.'