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.

The Eagle's Nest

"Stannard?" Purdey repeated, surprised in spite of herself. She temporarily forgot any self-consciousness she had about her sheet-shrouded nude form as she rolled over to face Gambit. She knew that things were serious when she was confronted with his grim expression, a sharp contrast from the playful grin he'd been sporting just a few moments earlier. "What about Stannard?"

"I'll fill you in while you get ready," he told her, springing upright with the agile grace and elegance of a cat. Not for the first time, the dancer in Purdey couldn't help but admire his effortless physicality, but she was careful to prevent any of that admiration from translating to her face. Heaven knew the man's ego didn't need encouragement from her, especially after the cheeky way he'd woken her up that morning-by tipping her out of bed of all things! He definitely didn't need it when she was lying at his feet with nothing but a sheet concealing her modesty. "Unless you need my help choosing an outfit."

"I have managed very well on my own up 'til now," Purdey said tartly, but much to her annoyance that only earned another grin from Gambit, this one on the wicked side.

"I've noticed," he purred, voice dropping an octave, and in her vulnerable, newly-woken state, it caused a delicious shiver to roll down her spine. "I'll be in the next room if you, uh, need me for anything."

"I'm sure you will," Purdey replied with mock-sweetness, directing the comment at Gambit's retreating back as he exited in a swish of beaded curtains. She waited until he disappeared from view before she rose, taking great care to hold the two halves of the sheet together at the back. "What's happened to Stannard?" she inquired, half out of interest in the case, but also to hear where, exactly, Gambit's voice would come from so she could gauge whether or not she was going to leave herself…exposed.

"He's supposed to be working security for a Dr. von Claus," Gambit informed, voice drifting from beyond the righthand corner of the bedroom door. "Steed told George he'd be needed just before George went on a couple of days of leave. George said he'd be back in time. But Steed rang him this morning, and—"

"No sign of him?" Purdey predicted, locating her dressing gown under last night's clothes and hurriedly slipping it on. "That's not like George."

"No, it's not." There was a dramatic chord from the piano that gave Purdey a start halfway through tying the sash at the waist. "He's not at his flat, either," he went on, smoothly transitioning into what Purdey recognised as Beethoven. "That's why he wants you. He's hoping you might have some leads."

"I'll do my best," Purdey promised, opening her closet door and surveying her wardrobe for something that might be appropriate for tracking down the missing Stannard on an April day. "But I can't promise that I'll have any startling revelations as to his whereabouts. It's not as though he consulted me on his every decision."

"Maybe not," Gambit acknowledged, piano playing carrying on seamlessly. "But you've socialised, so you must know something."

"It might surprise you to learn that socialisation does not equal being joined at the hip," Purdey pointed out, pulling a matching tan-patterned pajama suit out by its hanger and studying it critically. "If that were the case, you and I wouldn't ever be more than a mile apart."

"I can think of worse fates," Gambit quipped, not missing a note. He sounded quite pleased, whether by the idea of being connected to her or her admission that she'd been less intimate with Stannard than he'd assumed, or both, she couldn't tell. None of those hypotheses provided much fodder for her ongoing attempts to paint Gambit as a serial womaniser to be dismissed as incapable of forming any kind of meaningful connection. It was a theory that, thus far, was not so much holding water as leaking like the proverbial sieve. Every time she thought she'd been able to peg him as made up of nothing more substantial than glib quips and suggestive comments, he said or did something that spoke to a deeper level of thought, affection, and heaven help her, intimacy. Even now, he was playing Beethoven. Did he know that was her favourite composer, or was it a simple coincidence? She wanted to believe the latter, but her gut reluctantly told her it was the former. After a few months of working together, it was entirely possible she might have mentioned it. That meant Gambit was, quite literally, playing her tune. She wasn't entirely certain how to interpret the gesture, but it made her stomach and heart flutter in equal measure.

"I'm going to have a shower," she called to Gambit, proud of how level her voice was. "Then we can work out what's happened to Stannard."

"I'll be here," Gambit replied, music still floating effortlessly out of the living room.

"I know you will," Purdey murmured to herself as she made for the bathroom, "but for how long?"