In 26
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.
To Catch a Rat
Gambit carefully turned Cromwell's body over, mindful of the possibility that the man could be playing possum. By all accounts, the White Rat was a wily one, and had to have been to last as long as he had without anyone discovering his identity. It would be completely in character for him to play dead and bide his time until some poor, unsuspecting sod came to check on him, whom he could take then take hostage. Gambit didn't relish being in that position, and he suspected Steed and Purdey wouldn't be too pleased with the idea, either.
His caution, it turned out, was admirable, but ultimately unnecessary. Gambit knew Cromwell was dead by the limp, loose flopping of his limbs as he him turned over, and the unnerving, wide-open, staring eyes. The fingers he pressed to the man's neck in search of a pulse were a mere formality. He sat back on his haunches and regarded the corpse with the grim, evaluative gaze of a professional. He'd never been particularly keen on Cromwell, but he'd got on with him in the suitably civil way one did with senior people from other departments. Cromwell was the sort who always wanted things done his own way and clashed with those who opposed him, but he'd never done anything too egregious to get up Gambit's nose. Other than putting the moves on Purdey of late, of course, but Purdey was even better at putting people in their place than Gambit was. None of them had cottoned on to the darkness lurking beneath the slightly smarmy charm. Not even Gunner had made the connection until the last moment, and he'd been looking for the White Rat for nigh on two decades. The thought made Gambit feel vaguely sick, for reasons that had nothing to do with his close proximity to a dead body. There were lots of distasteful aspects in their line of work, but nothing stuck in Gambit's craw quite like the revelation that a person you'd worked with, chatted to in the breakroom over bad coffee, reported to, laughed with, or just generally trusted in the way one had to if you were going to get any work done without driving yourself mad, had been actively plotting to undermine you, your colleagues, your whole department, and the entire country they'd sworn to protect. Gambit didn't like games and deception at the best of times, but when they were played on such a grand scale, he liked them even less. How anyone could justify betraying the people who were loyal to him was something he was glad he would never understand.
It had caught up with Cromwell in the end, though. Gunner's second bullet had finally found its mark, seventeen years after the first.
Speaking of the Ratcatcher… "How's Gunner?" Gambit inquired, moving smoothly from Cromwell's prone form to where Steed and Purdey were huddled around the fallen man codenamed "the Flyer."
"Surviving," Steed pronounced distractedly, busy peeling away the hem of Gunner's blood-soaked shirt to reveal the bullet wound just below his ribs. "I'm not certain if anything vital's been hit, but he is losing rather a lot of blood." He glanced up at Purdey, who was cradling the injured man's head. "Go to my car and radio for help. Gambit, you stay here and help me. You're extensive, uh, medical experience will stand us in good stead."
"Experience earned as the patient, you mean," Purdey observed wryly, shifting over so Gambit could take her place at Gunner's head. "But I suppose after being shot so many times, one must pick up something. Other than scars."
"My scars heal up quite well, thank you very much," Gambit said smugly, taking off his jacket and bunching it into a makeshift pillow for Gunner's head.
"I suppose there must be some benefit to being a bullet magnet," Purdey teased, straightening up and hurrying toward the door. "I'll be back soon."
Steed was already pressing his handkerchief to Gunner's wound, but smiled with paternal pride, bloodties and genetics be damned, as Gambit automatically undid his tie, wrapped it around the injured man's waist, and tightened it, creating a makeshift bandage without having to be asked.
It was an example of Gambit's easy practicality and effortless ability to anticipate what needed to be done and do it without being asked, or even hinted at. It was one of the many things Steed valued in Gambit, as both an agent and a person, and he nodded in silent praise at the younger man, who ducked his head in embarrassed acceptance at the compliment. "I'll, uh, just find something to elevate his feet. Help with the blood loss until the ambulance comes."
"Good idea," Steed concurred. Gambit set off into the dark depths of the Old Picture Palace in search of a box that was still strong enough to bear the man's weight, but didn't have any rusty nails just waiting to pierce unsuspecting human flesh.
"Steed…?" Gunner's voice was tremulous and weak, but still there, which meant that the man was still conscious, a fact that wasn't to be taken for granted at this stage of the game.
"It's all right, Gunner," Steed soothed, gifting the man a reassuring smile. "Help is on the way. We'll have you fixed up in no time at all. And then you can have a well-deserved rest from seventeen years of rat-catching."
Gunner frowned slightly at the mention of his old nemesis. "I did get him?" he asked uncertainly, the line between fantasy and reality clearly not so much blurred as non-existent in the man's fractured and pain-filled mind. "Did I get my White Rat?" he wanted to know, echoing the question he'd asked Purdey only a few minutes earlier.
"Oh, you got him all night," Gambit assured, reappearing with a crate in hand. "I checked the body myself. He's dead." He set the crate at Gunner's feet and lifted the appendages to prop them up onto the surface. "And if you keep your feet up here and hang on for a little longer, then you won't join him."
Gunner was regarding Gambit with a mixture of interest and confusion. "Steed?" he repeated, peering back up into the senior agent's face seeking a positive identification.
Steed nodded in confirmation. "I'm here, Gunner."
Gunner was thinking slowly, trying to put the pieces together. "Steed. I made some inquiries. Talked to old sources. Didn't know who to trust. Needed to know where you were in 1960…You were working with…working with…" His voice faded, and Steed and Gambit exchanged concerned glances at the man's obvious perturbance. "Steed and a…doctor," he murmured, then brightened as he seemed to reach a conclusion that made sense to his own fevered brain. "Are you Dr. Keel?" he asked Gambit, quite earnestly.
Gambit let out a pleased bark of laughter. "Sorry to disappoint you, Gunner, but my doctoring skills all come courtesy of the doctors who were unlucky enough to be stuck with the task of stitching me up."
"Oh." Gunner took a moment to process this information. "So you are…his…his successor?"
Steed exchanged looks with Gambit over Gunner's body. "Yes, I suppose he is, after a fashion," Steed confirmed. "I normally prefer to work with women, but when someone's very, very good, I make an exception. And Gambit's very good. So I made an exception."
"Lucky for me," Gambit put in, returning the compliment in kind.
"Lucky for us both," Steed concurred.
Gambit chuckled. "Better not let Purdey hear us carrying on. She'll accuse us of forming a mutual appreciation society and burnishing each other's egos." He grinned at Gunner. "What do you think, Flyer? Now that we've found the White Rat, can you keep another secret?"
Gunner's broad smile was childlike in its enthusiasm. "That's a good secret," he told Gambit and Steed, looking from one to the other. "I like it. I like it. And I like that there is no more White Rat."
"We all like that," Steed opined, as the wail of an ambulance siren reached his ears. "I only hope that you'll like your hospital food as much!"