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.

Dead Men are Dangerous

1967

Steed had only just managed to ascertain that the nurse had said, "You have a visitor," in heavily-accented English before said visitor swept in and sent his head spinning all over again, albeit for much more pleasurable reasons than the intellectual rigours of German to English translation. "Mrs. Peel!" he exclaimed, not bothering to disguise his delight as Emma's lopsided smile and mane of auburn hair swept through the doorframe. "What brings you here? I hadn't realised you were so fond of bratwurst that you'd make the trip all the way to Germany to satisfy your craving."

"I make a point of never opting for an imitation when the original is available." Emma draped her coat over the small hospital room's chair and elected to perch on the edge of Steed's bed instead. "But if I'd known you'd run into so much trouble whilst picking up a few sausages, I would have settled for some traditional English bangers." The smile faded and her head tilted sympathetically, auburn hair falling heavily onto her right shoulder. "Steed, what happened?"

Steed smiled as cheerily as possible in an effort to offset the gravity of his words. "In a nutshell? I was shot."

"I certainly didn't think you'd sprained something while playing cricket," Emma retorted wryly, one side of her mouth quirking up a little again in response to Steed's attempt at good humour. "But for once, I don't want the condensed version."

Steed's smile faded in the face of Emma's persistence, and with it some of the colour in his cheeks. Surveying his pale, pinched features with a certain amount of dismay, Emma hoped that her decision to force the issue wasn't going to cost Steed more than he'd gain from the emotional unburdening she intuitively knew he needed. "I was with Mark Crayford. He said he was meeting a contact on the border, but he was worried about being intercepted by the border patrol. He asked if I'd come along as back-up." He paused, and Emma could tell he was playing the conversation back in his mind, picking up on the significance of words and phrases that had seemed innocent at the time. "He was very insistent that it be me, said I was the only one he could trust. He was right about that." He plucked idly at the blankets with the arm on his uninjured side, telltale crease cutting a deep groove between his eyebrows. "Unfortunately, I was wrong about him. Very wrong."

"He betrayed you to the patrol," Emma surmised, mouth wrinkling angrily at the treachery and what it had cost Steed, both physically and emotionally.

"He betrayed me." The words were blunt and unadorned, free of emotion or accusation, a simple statement of fact. Steed wore an expression to match. Somehow, to Emma, it was worse than if he'd broken down in tears. "He betrayed us all, really. He decided to defect. But he wanted me to know about it, in particular." He looked up at Emma, grey eyes uncomprehending. "He wanted me to stop him. And when I didn't attempt to do so immediately, he gave me an incentive." He indicated his injured side. "At that point, I had no choice but to reciprocate."

"You exchanged fire," Emma concluded, before nodding at Steed's bandaged ribs. "What's the prognosis?"

"Mmm?" Steed roused himself from whatever unpleasant images he was reliving, the content of which Emma was fairly certain she could guess at, and blinked uncomprehendingly at her for a moment. "I hit him in the chest, but I can't be certain it was fatal. The border guards took him away, so I imagine he must have still been alive. Now that he's shown his hand, we'll have to continue to assume that he survived until we receive information to the contrary."

Emma sighed impatiently. "That's all well and good, but I meant you, not him."

Steed shifted uncomfortably. "Stitches. Grazed ribs. I foresee some unenviable nights spent in a chair in my future."

"I wish your powers of precognition had extended to foreseeing treachery," Emma lamented, assessing his bandages with an expert eye.

"One doesn't need a crystal ball to divine that things might take a turn for the worst on the East German border," Steed pointed out. "I count myself lucky that I came away with an injury that was unpleasant rather than fatal. I'll recover."

"Physically," Emma allowed, lips pressed into a thin line. "It's the psychological wounds that linger, particularly when one is a victim of friendly fire."

"How did you hear that I'd been shot?" Steed inquired, ignoring Emma's attempt to push him to open up about his emotional state. "Did Mother tell you?"

"Yes. After I asked. Several times." Emma allowed herself a rueful smile at Steed's boss' caginess. "I was very persistent."

"And stubborn," Steed chimed in, with remarkable cheek. If the drugs hadn't been singing through his system, chasing away the pain as well as his reticence, he doubted he would have chanced a quip at the expense of one of Emma's few weaknesses.

"I have a feeling that my persistence had nothing to do with it in the end," Emma said, narrowing her eyes but otherwise letting Steed's comment slide, which told him, rather gratifyingly, that she'd been extremely worried about his welfare. "The information didn't come for free. He made me promise to fly out and bring you home safely on the train, knowing full well that I would have done it anyway. But he made me work for the privilege."

"Mother is a very thrifty soul," Steed confirmed with a chuckle. "Not one to give things away for free. Although I'm surprised he was willing to spare anyone—even an unofficial operative—to accompany me home."

Emma crossed her arms sternly. "I'm not only here for the company, Steed. They might try to kill you again. After all, you're the only one who saw Crayford defect."

"Yes, but it's an open secret by now," Steed dismissed. "Half the intelligence services know about it, and the other half will just as soon as they wake up and check the morning bulletins. Killing me won't put the genie back in the bottle."

Emma didn't look convinced. "From the reports, it sounds as though Crayford has several reasons to kill you that go beyond the professional."

"I shouldn't worry about Mark," Steed soothed, shifting against the pillows to avoid Emma's eyes. "Even if he's alive, he won't be in any condition to sign death warrants for some time."

"Still, I'll feel better once you're out of the country." Emma leaned in, softening now. "Steed, I'm sorry about Mark. I know you were close."

"But not too sorry," Steed qualified, and registered the rueful purse of Emma's lips. "I know you never warmed to him."

Emma opened her mouth as if to protest, but then sighed resignedly. "At the risk of speaking ill of the possibly dead, something about him always rubbed me the wrong way," she confessed. "He was…abrasive. Every conversation he participated in devolved into a competition. He was desperate to prove his inherent superiority to anyone and everyone, especially you." She shook her head sadly. "I'd like to say I'm surprised that he's defected, but I can't. His transfer of loyalty is a triumph for the other side, and they'll treat him accordingly. He'll finally receive the accolades he feels he deserves."

Steed furrowed his brow. "If you had such strong reservations about him, why did you never say anything?"

Emma shrugged resignedly. "He was your friend. I only spent a few hours with him here and there. You'd known him for decades. I thought you would be a better judge of his character than me, so I deferred to you."

"I rather wish you hadn't," Steed muttered, sitting upright with a groan. "You know how much I value your opinion, my dear. And your instincts."

"Well, this is one instance where I wish I hadn't been proven right," Emma declared, winding an arm under Steed's uninjured one to help him to his feet. She searched his face with wide-spaced, kittenish eyes. "I am sorry, Steed. Even if I didn't like Crayford, I never suspected he'd do something quite this radical to prop up his ego."

"I know," Steed acknowledged, gratefully letting Emma take his weight. "Luckily for you, you can atone for your non-sins by buying me a rather large whiskey on the train. For medicinal purposes, of course."

Emma managed a grin, despite the not inconsequential strain supporting Steed's body was taking on her own. "Of course."