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.

Obsession

Shot.

Stabbed.

Beaten.

Broken bones.

Torture.

Mike Gambit had endured them all, but, to date, he had never felt pain the likes of which was currently engulfing his heart.

The bruise was livid in the harsh light of the bathroom. It had undoubtedly darkened considerably during his walk from the missile site back to his Range Rover to radio for the clean-up crew, and then during the interminable wait while he sat with Kilner and Morgan until they could be handed over for processing. By the time he'd made his way back to the missile site, Purdey and Commander East were gone, whisked away for a debriefing, no doubt, and Steed was supervising the goings-on, including the collection of Doomer's body. Steed had immediately tapped Gambit for transport, his own Range Rover having gone up in smoke while stopping the missile, which meant Gambit had had no choice but to stay on and help with the clean-up. Then there was the drive back to the stud farm, during which Steed, as the shadows lengthened, had commented casually that Purdey was probably resting, which was his way of telling Gambit not to bother her. It was further confirmation of what Gambit already knew, that all of the tasks Steed had assigned him since he'd killed Doomer had been Steed's way of keeping him occupied so he wouldn't go mad, while at the same time ensuring that Purdey would have the time she needed to process events. The drive back to London had eaten up even more of Gambit's evening, something Steed had undoubtedly factored into his calculations, but even so, there still seemed to be entirely too much time left over when he arrived back at his flat. He couldn't be bothered to look at his mail. He tried working out, but even his karate ritual failed to clear his mind the way it normally did, as evidenced by the way he wept and shook in the shower afterward, the sheer enormity and intensity of his emotions overwhelming him under the spray. Now, here he was, towel wrapped around his middle, looking in the mirror at the bruise on his ribs with red-rimmed eyes.

Purdey hadn't meant to inflict it, or at least that was what he was telling himself, what he was hoping. Her fists had been flying everywhere, arms flailing like a wild thing, before he'd grabbed her and held her tight to keep her from running to Larry and right into the path of the rocket. He hadn't had Purdey in his arms nearly as often as he would have liked over the years. Usually it was a pleasure, one mostly indulged in when they were dancing. Those moments on the dancefloor were ones he savoured and treasured and fervently hoped to repeat. There was the occasional need to pose as lovers, as well, when he would hold her for just long enough to evade detection during a tail or surveillance and tease her by seeing how friendly he could get under the pretence of 'making it look good'. They would exchange wry quips under their breath while they waited for the danger to pass, and even when she slipped from his grasp their smiles would linger. There had also been the time when she had curare poisoning, which had been horrific. Having his arms around her then meant he could feel the decline of her vitals as the life slowly ebbed out of her. And there had been the moments when he had grabbed her out of necessity, to pull her out of the line of fire or another kind of peril, when he hadn't time to savour the contact, too worried about her well-being and addressing the threat. But he'd never held Purdey the way he had that day, as she screamed and struggled and cried, determined to get away from him, fighting him, hating him. It had taken every ounce of Gambit's strength to keep her from thrashing free and running straight into the missile and getting herself killed. Gambit's arms still ached from the exertion, but that paled in comparison to the pain in his heart…

He'd hurt Purdey. There was no getting around it. It didn't matter that that hadn't been his intention, that he'd been trying to protect her. There was no doubt in Gambit's mind that Doomer would have killed her if Gambit hadn't shot first. From a distance, as he made his way toward them, he'd seen Doomer lower his gun and give Purdey a clear shot. And Purdey, gun drawn and aimed, hadn't taken it. She didn't have the heart to kill him. Doomer knew it, too. Knew he could have walked away without Purdey shooting him. Knew he didn't need a gun to protect himself. But he did need it to kill her. Gambit had hardly had time to draw his own gun when Doomer swung his arm up and pointed his gun straight at Purdey. Gambit knew a firing stance when he saw one, saw Doomer's finger tighten on the trigger, and fired a millisecond before Doomer could follow through with his murderous intentions.

Purdey didn't believe that Doomer was about to fire, of course. She was convinced that Doomer would never hurt her, let alone gun her down in cold blood. Gambit had tried to make her see reason. If he'd seen the ruthless way that Doomer's jaw had tightened and eyes had narrowed-sure signs that a man had nothing left to lose and wasn't going to let anyone stop him, no matter what they meant, or had meant, to him-then surely Purdey, who had been much closer to the man, had too? But no, all she'd seen was someone she had loved—maybe still did love. Doomer was more than a random ex-boyfriend from her youth, Gambit was sure of that now. She was too invested in Doomer's well-being for their relationship to have been anything but serious. Very serious. Leading to marriage, maybe. And if they were that serious, something equally serious had to have happened to break them up. Gambit didn't want to think about what that might be, but his imagination was treacherous, throwing up all sorts of unpleasant possibilities that added nausea to his heartache, and he lunged forward to retch over the sink, though there was little to bring up, the canapes at Steed's party a distant memory.

He'd known Doomer was bad news as soon as he'd walked in, had felt in his bones. His riled gut had driven him to intervene when he saw Doomer follow Purdey onto the terrace during the party. He didn't know what, exactly, he had interrupted with his arrival, but from Purdey's expression he could tell it was nothing good. He had been right to intervene then, just as he had been right to kill Doomer before he killed Purdey. Of that, he had no doubt.

But he'd also hurt Purdey, and that was wrong, so wrong, the last thing he ever wanted to do. More than hurt her, he'd made her hate him. He and Purdey were famous for their debates, which regularly descended into bickering or petty squabbling, but there was never any real ire there, let alone hatred. But today, there was real anger in Purdey's screamed words—"You shot him! You shot him!". Raw and real and so loud he thought she might burst his eardrum, and spoken from the depths of her wounded soul. Even worse was when she'd calmed down and he'd tried to reason with her, but all she could do was say that Doomer wouldn't have hurt her, that she didn't know what she would have done if their positions were reversed. Steed was certain that she would, in his words, "see sense" eventually, would realise that Gambit had made the right call, that Doomer couldn't be saved, and, worse than that, was the enemy. He'd said as much on the drive back to the stud farm. Gambit wasn't so sure. He knew all too well that there were certain actions that could cause you to break faith with a person so drastically, so horribly, so completely that there was no way back. It wasn't a matter of forgiveness. Forgiveness didn't matter if there was no relationship left to benefit from it. Even if Purdey did, inevitably, recognise that what Gambit had done was necessary to save not only her life, but the lives of the people who would have died in the missile attack, he knew that she still might not want anything to do with him, that the wound he'd inflicted could be too deep to ever heal. It would be bitterly, gut-wrenchingly, devastatingly ironic if the act of saving Purdey, an act that he did not, could not, regret, was the one that ultimately meant she was lost to him in every other way, a fate he feared more than death itself. But there was nothing he could do about it. Steed was right about one thing, at least, and that was that Gambit falling on his knees and begging Purdey for forgiveness and her friendship would get him nowhere. Purdey would decide to forgive him or not, if she wanted him in her life or not, but those decisions would be hers and hers alone. Gambit wouldn't have had it any other way. He only wished that those decisions, whatever they were, would come soon. The torture of waiting for the axe to fall was almost as unbearable as the look of anguish on Purdey's face that was burned into his brain for all eternity.

He turned away from his haggard visage, which seemed to have aged a hundred years in a matter of hours. Steed had advised him to get some sleep, and Gambit had promised to try. Like all of his promises, it was one he intended to keep, but he had only promised to try, not to succeed. Until he knew whether Purdey was planning on cutting him out of her life forever and breaking a heart that was already pulverised, there would be very little sleep to be had.