And onward we go. Something else I should have mentioned: I see this story taking place somewhere in the latter half of Season 7 to early part of Season 8, before Sarah works him over.
Thank you to those who are reading - and special thanks to Nietzsche for reaching out: I hope you continue to enjoy!
Chapter 2: Game Wine
Time was flying. The construction project was falling further and further behind schedule. The design had fundamental flaws and everybody was pointing fingers. Her boss, continually red-faced, had been short-tempered with her for weeks. It wasn't good, but it had become the daily norm.
She hit send on the email, turning to cross that item off her to-do list before glancing absently out the window. It had been tough—it was still tough—to completely put the MI-5 incident from her mind. Flashes of the handsome Mr. North's hospital bed-ridden form appeared in her mind and questions bounced off the walls of her brain without answers. Distantly, she wondered if she would ever see him again. Had he actually made a complete recovery from his injuries?
She had wasted so much time thinking about that night, and this afternoon had not been an exception. Her eyes drifted to the clock in the lower right of her computer screen, giving her head a quick shake. Her productivity was already dropping off at an exponential rate, so would leaving thirty minutes early really hurt anyone?
"You won't tell anyone if I leave, will you?" She called out, casting a sideways glance over the cubicle wall.
"Are you really popping off early?" Vicky didn't turn from her computer as she spoke, the light of her monitor bouncing off her thick-framed glasses and blonde hair.
"Thinking about it. What I have on my to-do list can wait until tomorrow. I have a lovely bottle of wine that's waiting for me." It wouldn't be the first night she spent in a bottle on account of this job.
"I'd rather have a lovely bloke at home waiting for me…."
"Same here," Celia agreed, "but that's the price we paid when we took these jobs. They only keep us alive to support the plant; anything else just gets in the way." She heard the sliding of a chair on carpet, the protest of the cubicle wall as Vicky leaned against it, overlooking Celia's desk.
"I thought things with Jeffery would actually work out," she shook her head wistfully, "he was the perfect package—perfect in everything except his understanding."
"Enh, Jeffery was kind of a snake. He was only after someone to show off. Except, that in order for him to brag about your job, you actually had to keep doing your job."
"Such a waste," Vicky shook her head, blowing a longing sigh, "he was so handsome and playful." Celia laughed softly, spinning back around to glance at her computer. No emails within a 15-minute window – it was a sign – maybe the universe would actually cooperate for her to leave early today.
"Well, I am going to get out of here before something blows up—before this project gives the plant manager another heart attack."
"It's just a matter of time. Your project is doomed and you know it. Your only saving grace is that you are not directly responsible, you're just playing the go-between."
"And it couldn't be worse." Celia logged off, reaching for her backpack and phone. "We still on for dinner and a movie tomorrow?"
"Oh, absolutely," Vicky gushed, "I need a major dose of pho and Ryan Gosling."
"Good," Celia agreed with a smile and a nod, "we'll talk times tomorrow, yeah?"
"Yeah," Vicky offered a small wave as she sat back down. "See ya tomorrow."
"Night." Celia turned and fled, pushing through the engineering building, exiting main security and moving for her car. Two nights away from work would be heaven. Despite the project woes, she was in a strange lull where her boss wasn't yet demanding that she work twelve-hour days. And she intended to enjoy every minute. A date with her wine tonight. Another date with her friend tomorrow night.
Work was stressful but it was nights like this one and tomorrow that made it bearable.
The hour-plus drive home was uneventful, stopping only to pick up a salad for dinner. Something quick, easy and reasonably healthy. Maybe she'd treat herself to a book, too, along with the bottle of wine to round out her so-called extravagant night. It wasn't often that she let herself start reading a book for fear of never having the time to finish.
She chewed through mouthfuls of salad, glancing around her kitchen. Same place, same furniture, same life for the last thirteen years. Coworkers, friends and boyfriends had all come and gone, yet she stayed status-quo. It had been ages since she last had a proper date and Eric hadn't been all that remarkable. He had a dead-end job and no drive to do anything different. As if her life wasn't boring enough already.
Her gaze strayed to the floor, her mind instantly recalling the wounded, bleeding MI-5 officer. It was probably creepy that she could still recall his attractive profile, his deep voice dulled with pain. What would he sound like normally? Just on the phone or in person. What about his smile? His laugh? It was just her luck that he was MI-5, though. Completely unattainable, completely busy, completely dangerous, completely unconcerned about her petty life.
Oh well. That's what wine was for. She made enough money, lived alone, and worked too much to own pets, so she spoiled herself accordingly. Good wine, clothes, purses, shoes, food. They were nice feminine treats to contrast the masculine world of her work.
The cork popped free of the bottle, releasing the closed-up aroma of dark, lush cherries. It had been a long time since she'd been able to enjoy a good bottle of wine at home, and this one promised to be stellar according to the label at the store. Distantly, the thought nagged at her that she shouldn't be so comfortable drinking alone, but as she turned to get a wine glass, she found she really didn't care.
She stopped mid-step at the ring of the doorbell. Her brow furrowed as she glanced to the clock. 7:56 pm. It was too late for a delivery. Maybe it was a neighbor? She debated answering, finally deciding it was the neighborly thing to do. She cast a quick glance in the entryway mirror, confirming her chestnut hair was still in place, her makeup still presentable. She opened the door, her face falling slack with surprise, her mind blanking.
It was him. The MI-5 – Lucas North. She stared dumbly at his refined features, mesmerized by the intense blue eyes. His skin was still fair, but without the deathly pallor; it further added to his allure with the sharp contrast to his dark hair. A flash of a grin curled his lips as he looked back at her.
"Hello, again." His voice was soft; a rich enticing sound.
"Hello again, yourself," a smile formed around her words, "you look much better this time around." His dark jeans fit him criminally well, coupled with a sleek black coat that teased the collar of a dark blue dress shirt. He did, indeed, look much better than before.
"And I have you to thank for it," his eyes softened with gratitude, "that's why I stopped by." She breathed a silent laugh, her heart beating faster under his intense gaze.
"That's thoughtful of you; unnecessary, though."
"Not every woman who finds a man bleeding out in her kitchen would be so kind or remain so calm." She couldn't tell if he was fishing, but she had nothing to hide.
"I've been around enough construction accidents…blood doesn't bother me." She watched his head tilt forward, the interested question quirking his brow. She shifted against the front door awkwardly. "You're welcome to come inside…if you can stay for a bit, that is." She felt her cheeks flush under her awkward invitation. "Yeah, you should come inside. I've just opened a bottle of wine in the kitchen – it's breathing. So yeah, please." He paused for the briefest of seconds, as if startled that she had actually extended the invitation. But then he gave a quick nod, taking a step forward.
"Ok. Thank you." She pulled the front door back further to allow him to enter. "I didn't know wine could breathe."
"Oh, yes," she closed the door behind him, turning back around. "The flavor of a wine changes as it's exposed to air – opens up all the different flavors. So, letting wine breath is just exposing it to air." She hoped wasn't talking too much. But it was a nervous, excited reaction as she watched him shed his coat, her composure slowly catching up to the reality of the unexpected.
"Hard to argue with that, I suppose." His eyes quickly scanned the carpet and the unremarkable floor of her kitchen as he followed her, not detecting any hint of the mess he had left behind.
"I'm glad that you're better." She said with a warm friendliness as she reached for two wine glasses from the nearest cabinet. "I was rather worried that you were just going to stop answering my questions…" The rest of her thought went unspoken as she met his gaze, taken aback at the piercing gaze.
"It will take more than that to fully do me in." He reassured dismissively, watching her walk back to the counter where the open wine bottle rested. "I sincerely wanted to thank you for what you did…you had every reason to the call the police, or to just leave me on your kitchen floor."
"Well, you were right—you were in no position to hurt me. Besides, taking you to the hospital would have ensured you got your just desserts regardless of who you were." She reached for the bottle with a little smirk, pouring a healthy splash into each glass. "I assume you're off any of those meds that restrict alcohol."
"Finally," his voice was rich with relief, "out of bed, and returned to active duty just earlier this week." She bristled at the reminder of what he was and what he did. And the otherworldliness of the situation—entertaining a handsome, government spy in her kitchen over glasses of wine after saving his life over a month ago. Would anyone believe her?
"Well then, I'd say that calls for a celebratory drink." She picked up a glass, giving the liquid a gentle swirl. The juicy cherries were still present, now with hints of chocolate and cinnamon invading her nose before taking a drink. It was perfect. She caught his eye with a sly smile, proud of her selection. "Oh, this is a good one." He raised the glass to his nose, copying her earlier swirling motion.
"Can't say that I know much about wine." He gave his head a small, uncertain shake. "But it smells delicious." Her mind instantly flashed back to Eric and the first night she introduced him to wine. He had lied through his teeth about possessing a knowledge of wine and refused to ever admit it. She stared back at Lucas as he took a drink.
"Thank you for not feeling like you had to lie about it." His eyes met hers over the edge of his glass, an interested curiosity swirling in the clear depths.
"You have not given me a reason to not trust you." He simply said, watching her smile fill out before she took another drink, catching a stray drop of with her tongue.
"But with that being said, I suppose we still can't really talk about you." She ventured, watching a knowing smirk flash across his face.
"We can, if you ask the right questions."
"Oh." Her lips curled in surprised amusement around the glass, her eyes lighting up. "A challenge…I like those." She tipped her glass, indulging another taste. "So…what's your favorite color?" He started at the question though he didn't visibly show it, tilting his head to ascertain if she was indeed serious. Something determined and inviting in her olive-green eyes told him all he needed to know.
"Um, I—I don't think I've been asked that since primary school….Gray." He settled on an answer at last, not really caring if it was true or not.
"Unlikely – you scrambled for an answer and my kitchen walls are gray." She mock scolded with a small laugh. "My favorite color is blue. Let's try this instead – less open ended – fruits or vegetables?" He didn't care to stop the inadvertent smile curling his lips.
"Fruits."
"Fruits, too. A far superior—if obvious—choice," she nodded, rounding the counter to walk around him towards the living room, "top hat or fedora?"
"Fedora." He followed her into the living room, hearing her scoff at his answer.
"Too predictable," she smiled up at him, shaking her head disparagingly as she lowered to the couch, "you're already the clandestine spy…I thought you would say top hat."
"What makes you think that?" He settled back against the couch cushions, meeting her eyes over her wine glass.
"You certainly look posh enough…I would have wagered you'd worn one before." He shook his head, a quick, succinct motion.
"Never a top hat…or a fedora for that matter." She laughed softly, relaxing under his gaze and mellifluous voice. "You never gave your answer."
"Fedora, too." He laughed, low and rumbling in his throat. "Seashore or mountains?"
"Mountains."
"Such a shame; seashore all the way. Swimming, seafood, the beach."
"Too crowded," he countered with distaste, "a cabin high in the mountains, hiking and hunting during the days, nights around a warm fire…" She leaned more into the cushions, eyeing him with warm affection.
"Are you the voice of experience or a good imagination?"
"Imagination." It was easier to adopt the cliché than admit the truth about his issues with water. He took a drink of wine, watching her watch him, an enticing mix of attraction and amusement evident in her eyes.
"Coffee or tea?" He furrowed his brow in disbelief, offering her a pointed glare.
"That's a dirty question…can you really choose one over the other?" As an Englishman, he felt obliged to choose tea—which he did drink with regularity; but as a security officer, coffee was his lifeblood.
"That's how this game works. My answer is tea. Vile coffee has no place in this world." The little chuckles she drew out of him were so intriguing. She couldn't help but wonder what would draw him into a full-out laugh.
"I'm sorry, but I have to defend coffee. Long days and long nights on a job; there is little else that keeps you going."
"Do you have those a lot?" She asked, hoping she wasn't asking too much.
"Depends on the situation and what's required to resolve it. Some resolve themselves naturally; others require a waiting game."
"That sounds….," she shook her head, not wanting to press her luck, "like something I shouldn't ask you about. Therefore, not part of this game. So, cats or dogs?"
She lost complete track of time. At one point, she got up for the wine bottle, bringing it into the living room for refills. But it had been so easy to get lost with him and the conversation.
"Batman or Superman?" She couldn't help but laugh as she asked the question. The look of confusion growing on his face was priceless as he shook his head.
"You're going first on this one." She laughed softly again, taking a sip of wine.
"I'd have to say Batman. Flying aliens with x-ray vision don't do it for me." He quirked a mischievous brow, his eyes alight.
"And billionaire, playboy orphans do? Is that how you're playing this question – which one are you more attracted to?" Her cheeks burned instant red on his comment, and the impulse to reach out to him, to smack his arm, was so strong.
"You don't have to answer it that way."
"I'm not one to be outdone at your own game." The challenge sparked in his eyes. "While neither are in my wheelhouse, there's something to be said for Superman's raven locks and spit-curl." She near snorted a laugh into her wine glass.
"I am not dying my hair for you."
"So long as you don't expect me to show up wearing a cape and cowl."
"Deal."
But eventually the wine ran out and that was a natural, if unwelcome, stopping place. She took the glasses to the kitchen and he donned his coat, as though everything about tonight had been routine. Turning back to him, walking him to the front door, she really wished that it was. Did she have anything to lose by telling him? She swallowed a fortifying breath, gazing up to meet those eyes.
"You should drop by again sometime. I'd really like that." A flash of hopeful interest sparked in his gaze as he nodded slowly.
"I'll do that. Thank you, again, Celia. Goodnight."
"Goodnight, Lucas." She closed the door in his wake, sliding the deadbolt in place.
Was she certifiably mental? Casually, flirtatiously sipping wine in her flat with a stranger – a bloody MI-5 spook – who broke into her home and was probably the target of several other spy organizations? She shook her head, pushing away from the door, wondering just what would come from tonight. Did he really want to see her again? And, if so, how could she tell anyone that she was seeing a spook?
As she trudged back to the kitchen, she scolded herself for getting ahead of herself. He probably couldn't even do the dating and relationship thing with the nature of his work. But he was so handsome, though…it would be too much of a shame if he really was off-limits. She fetched a glass of water, her eyes darting to her neglected phone. Taking a drink, she reached for it, watching the flashing notification light. Probably just a work email that would effectively ruin her good mood. Her brow furrowed to realize it was a text message.
Thanks again for the wine.
She stared dumfounded at the text, suddenly glancing around, puzzled. How did he…? She hadn't given him her number. Was it written down somewhere visible? She continued to glance around, but eventually looking back to the text, a small, excited smile started to grow on her face.
An MI-5 spook, indeed.