Rating T: Language

Chapter 7: Sick Trouble

9.25 months

He felt like shit. But that was from the day of being in sub-freezing temperatures, tracking suspects through the back alleyways, rooftops and fire escapes. And probably his still-damp clothes. His skin stung, irritated from the whipping winter wind, and his joints were stiff from the cold. It had nothing to do with his raw throat or the congestion in his sinuses. Absolutely nothing.

He was a highly-trained operative, well-conditioned from eight years of living in squalor and pain. His body could adjust to anything, handle whatever was thrown at it. Yet here he was, lying to himself about a simple, fucking cold.

He sniffled miserably at his desk, his head pounding. His eyes drifted closed as he fought to focus his energy, to force himself to rise above the physical condition of his body. He had a lot of practice at that.

"You look like shit, Lucas." Ros' unsympathetic words told it like it was as he cracked his eyes to offer her a wry glare.

"Never one to spare a man's feelings, Ros."

"You should be used to it." A rare hint of kindness flashed across her strict countenance. "Go home, Lucas. Get some rest. I'm sure your engineer will do right by you." It was the first time anyone on the Grid had spoken to him about Celia, but he wasn't surprised she knew. Harry probably did, too. And if his relationship with her was unsanctioned, he would have known about it long before now.

"I'm sure she will." He couldn't think through the fog in his head to come up with any better response.

"Feel better. And stay away from the Grid tomorrow—if anyone falls ill, I'm holding you personally responsible."

Ok, so maybe the idea of a soft blanket and chicken noodle soup was more appealing than he would care to admit. A memory of Celia's smile and laughter floated through his muddled mind, cutting through his misery. But how could he be sick—his body had handled so much, there was no way he would be undone by a stupid cold. He just needed a distraction.

The trip to her place was soothing in its routine and familiarity, even in the softly falling snow. Surely, seeing her would snap him out of his tired, muddled mood.

Smoke curled from her chimney as he stopped in front of her place, his spirits already lifting. 9:02 pm. It would be just about right for her to be settling in with her nightcap of choice, perhaps with a book to enjoy, or her laptop to get a jumpstart on emails. A grin softened his face as the fresh snow crunched gently under his footfalls before he reached her awning, hefting his key.

"Here, take it," her smile was downright giddy as she pushed the metal key in his hand, "I hate thinking of you a visitor—you're welcome here any time. Please use it like it's yours."

It had been a long time since anyone had trusted him like that.

The interior heat hit him like a welcome wave of relief. Until that moment, he hadn't realized how cold he was. A fire crackled in the place, casting cozy shadows around her living room, reflecting off her face as she sat, curled up, on the couch. She seemed impossibly beautiful to his dry, tired eyes.

"Hey, you." Her voice was soft and welcoming, cutting through the gentle Christmas carols playing in the background. That's right…it was December…. Christmastime.

"Hello, yourself." His voice was an octave lower than normal, rough from a day of cold and coughing. Not that he was really sick, of course. He was just worn out from the exposure today. Though that didn't stop him from noticing the concerned wrinkle to her brow as she watched him shed his coat.

"Are you alright? You look like hell…." He chanced a glance in her entryway mirror, dismayed to find his physical appearance—the telltale pallor of his skin; the pronounced circles under his eyes; his nose and cheeks red from the cold weather—betrayed the surety of his mind.

"It was a long day. Chasing bad guys through the streets of London is an activity better suited for the warmer months." He sniffled on the end of his words, an unwanted cough rattling his throat in the aftermath. She rose from the couch as he fought to suppress his cough, hating his body for giving him away.

"I don't think that's the whole story." He couldn't escape her studying gaze, doing his best to ignore his body, but finding it unwilling to cooperate. His mind was starting to lose the fight, threatening to break in the inviting heat of her home, in the security of her presence. "I think you're sick." He sniffled again, offering a weak smile.

"I think you may be right." Her lips pursed in mock annoyance, shaking her head as though disappointed.

"Too tough to take care of yourself, are we?" She softly scolded, stepping forward to rise on tip-toes, placing a kiss to his wind burned cheek. "Go lay on the couch. I'm going to make you some hot tea."

"Celia," he hated the near pleading edge to his voice, "I didn't come here to be mothered. I can—"

"No," she agreed with a knowing smile, not letting him finish "you came here to feel better. So, let me do that. Now go—the couch is still waiting." She reached for his hand, giving it a quick squeeze as she turned towards the kitchen, dropping it at the last second. He couldn't help but smile after her, his love for her plain across his sharp features. Why this woman had ever welcomed him into her life was beyond him, but for the life of him, he wasn't stupid enough to let her go.

He popped the top couple of buttons of his dress shirt open, toeing off his shoes before padding across the carpet. His fingers made swift work of his belt, dropping it with a gentle clink on the coffee table before pulling his shirttail free. The couch cushions were smooth and yielding as he stretched his long form out against them, settling his head against a velvet throw pillow, breathing in deep as he let his eyes drift closed. The pounding in his head was worse as air barely worked its way through his sinuses. Now that he let himself think about it, he wanted to rip his throat out; swallowing was just that uncomfortable.

Here he was—Lucas North: sick; taken down and out for the count by a simple, fucking cold.

"Don't pass out on me yet." He cracked an eye to watch her return, a travel mug complete with a straw in her hand. "You should drink this first. Raise your head, love." He rolled over onto a shoulder, raising his head as she lifted the throw pillow.

She dropped gingerly down beside him, resituating the pillow in her lap, coaxing his head back down.

"There," she smiled down at him, handing him the mug as he rested it against his chest, "that's much better." Her arm extended to pull the blanket off the back of the couch, clumsily draping it over him, trying not to disturb him.

"You're too good to me." He rumbled, his voice coarse. "This makes twice now you've helped me."

"I'm not sure you can count the first time," she dismissed casually, reaching to the end table for her snifter of bourbon, "I wouldn't let someone die in my kitchen. Too much mess." His lips curled in a weak smile, finding his body melting into the couch, into the surrounding heat. "You know, we're coming up close to a year of that night. The night we met."

"That's not the memory I want of our first meeting." He pursed his lips around the straw, drawing a tentative sip in fear of a scalding burn. The pleasant lemongrass, chamomile blend was perfect as he drew a deep drink, letting the warmth soak and soothe his raw throat. God, it was perfect; she was perfect.

"Afraid you don't have much choice on that one. But without that night, who's to say we would have ever met?" She took another sip, her gaze pensive. "The bullet that brought us together." Her free hand settled to his brow, gently carding through his raven hair as he took another sip of tea. "Not too hot, I hope?"

"No." He sleepily murmured, leaning into the caress of her fingers. "Thank you."

"I'm glad you came," she simply said, her voice soft as she continued her caressing touch, "I miss you more than I should when you're away." He swallowed another soothing mouthful of tea, letting his mind slip further away.

"We should fix that. Living together would be nice." She laughed softly, unable to stop the wide smile on her face.

"I think it would, too, but let's not make that decision tonight. When you're well - trust me, we will have this conversation again." Her heart swelled as she continued to look down at him, her man, her love, her future. "Go to sleep, love. I'm not going anywhere." It was easy to pull the mug from his loose grasp, watching him effortlessly drift off, peace softening the hard lines of his face.

She couldn't stop smiling – right here, right now, this was where she was supposed to be.

xxx

11 months

He couldn't make it tonight. The text had arrived before 9 am so whatever it was, it was big. She had tried not to linger on it too much. It was probably just another day to him. Foiling another terrorist plot. Stopping a bomber. Impersonating someone else to gain information. It all sounded exhausting and impossible.

She adjusted the bag with her few groceries on her shoulder as she crossed the street. If she had to do without him tonight, then she was going to make the best of it. Making macaroni and cheese, and watching Netflix on the couch all night seemed like the best way. Plus, a bottle of wine. An absent smile came to her face as she rounded the corner to her block. It made her almost wish he was going to be around tonight – she wondered how he would handle a marathon Netflix night.

The hairs on the back of her neck suddenly stood up. Footsteps were approaching all too rapidly.

"Don't scream." She tensed in startled, wide-eyed fear as something sharp and round pressed against her back, held by a taller man who flanked her left side, wrapping his free hand around her arm. She didn't dare make a sound, her breath racing as the man pulled her over closer to the kerb and a black SUV pulled up. "Get in." He pushed the gun farther into her spine as she numbly reached for the backseat door, fighting the well of panic as he all but pushed her in and climbed in after her.

There were two other men in the car, including the driver. The second man sat in the passenger seat, turning ever so slightly to cast her a snide glance. She fought to control her breathing, wrenching a hard swallow as her eyes fixed to the gun still trained on her, struggling to keep her wits. The SUV pulled away from the kerb as the man in the passenger seat held up a photo, handing it off to the man in the backseat with the gun.

"You know this man?" The man in the front seat asked with a thick Eastern European – Russian? Ukrainian? Moldovan? – accent as the picture was held up. Her heart broke as Lucas with his impassive eyes and stony face stared back at her.

"Yes." She answered softly, feeling tears well in her eyes as she bit her lip nervously.

"You fuck this man?" The man with the gun waved the picture in her face accusingly, as if already knowing her answer.

"Yes." She refused to let her tears fall as her voice cracked, her heart racing. The man turned the picture to glance at it, scowling before looking quizzically back at her.

"You're not stupid enough to love this man?" She looked away, her eyes falling closed, swallowing the lump in her throat, willing her eyes to dry.

"What do you want?" She mustered her best all-business voice, turning back to him with determination sparking in her eyes. "If you know who he is, then you know who I am." A sudden, cold chill shuddered down her spine as she realized it. They must want what she has. They wanted Windark. The man in the front seat turned back with a knowing glance.

"You have nuclear security clearance, yes?" Her face hardened, doing her best to muster a confident stare despite the nausea starting to rot in her stomach.

"You know I do." That was something she learned in training – never admit the truth of anything. Play to their knowledge, get them to admit their information. She had just always hoped she would need to use the active shooter event training. But as she wrung her hands nervously in her lap, she kept trying to recall the various pointers.

"Then you can help us," the man up front turned back casually towards the front, "we want the safeguards from the vaults. The site fence layouts, camera locations, observation posts. You can get these for me, no?"

"Not likely," she started, struggling to keep her voice even over the surging adrenaline, "there are an awful lot of guns between the main gate and the vault. If they knew what you were trying to do, no one would make it."

"Then they don't have to know." The man sighed a content, almost relaxed sound as the car rounded yet another corner. She had completely lost track of where they were. "Then we have a deal?"

"A deal?" She shook her head, unable to believe it. "No…no, I couldn't possibly—it would be impossible."

"Difficult, I grant. But if you say impossible…. Illya, зробити дзвінок." The man with the gun let the photo fall to seat between them and fished a phone from his pocket. Her face fell, drawing a gasped breath.

"What? What did you just say?" She forced the words out, looking panicked between Illya and the man upfront.

"You won't help us, so we have to kill your man. Silly of you not to think we wouldn't."

"But you can't…he's not done anything!"

"You know what he is, what he's done." It was stated so simply, such a matter of fact. Was that all this was? Some revenge plot against him using her? Anger reared its head through the fear and uncertainty.

"And I know what your people did to him." The man in the front seat chuckled, clearly amused.

"If you think that was us, then you really don't know anything." He laughed again and she wanted to slap the smile she can hear off his face. "But fortunately for you, we don't want you for what you know. We want you to get us the plans for Windark from the vaults." She sighed a deep breath, looking down to her lap with a shake of her head.

"You don't understand. I can't just walk out the main gate with those plans, even if I wanted to."

"Then Illya goes in with you. He'll get the plans out." Her head darted up, eyes wide with shock.

"He couldn't make it past the main gate." The man in the front seat exhaled an annoyed breath.

"If you thought this was a negotiation, you thought wrong. Illya only has to make the call if you refuse to cooperate." The man turned around with a stern glance. "Illya will get through the gate. You will take him to the vault and get him what he needs. Then, we leave you and your MI5 boy toy alone." A throbbing pain grew in the left side of her head as she listened. If there was a way out, she couldn't see it. Maybe Windark security forces will just shoot them both. More than likely she'll just be arrested for even trying to get him into the plant. But wouldn't that work just as well? She knew there was really no way for him to smuggle the plans and information out. So what would it hurt to let them try? If it was one less threat against Lucas, who risked his life everyday…wasn't it about time that someone did the same in return?

"Fine." She spoke at length, surprised at the firm tone in her voice as she glanced between the unknown man up front and Illya. "I can arrange escorted access. But if you want this to work, you had better deliver on his background because they will check before allowing him through the main gate. I want your assurance that if we fail before reaching the vault from poor planning on your part that Lucas will not be harmed." The man upfront sneered with something of an impressed air.

"You will find everything on our end ready to back your escorted access. Your man will not be harmed if you deliver. That is only assurance I will give."

"Fine." She screwed her eyes shut as she spoke, drawing a deep breath, hoping beyond hope. "Then, we have a deal."

"чудовий!...or how is you say….Cheers! Yes, that's it. A deal. Very good, very good." The man spoke more in his native language, Illya and the driver responding in short, obedient phases. It…it almost sounded like the Russian that she'd heard Luca speak, though, not quite. But she couldn't be sure. She needed to get out…she needed to…

"We'll contact you when we need you." Illya suddenly said in English, his voice not carrying a heavy Slavic accent. He pushed the phone in his hand towards her, dropping it in her lap. "Take this and keep it close." She felt the car gliding to a stop but couldn't take her eyes off Illya as he moved the gun. "And if you tell your man anything, or he interferes…just remember." He pointed the gun at the photo on the seat, pulling the trigger. She cried out in a startled scream as the seat jumped and the photo deformed, shot clean through. Her heart hammered and her head pounded in sheer terror. "Get out. Now." Illya nodded at the door next to her and she scrambled on panicked instinct, fumbling for her fingers to work the door handle.

She spilled out onto the street, her grocery bag clumsily getting in the way as she clambered out of the SUV. The door was barely closed before they went speeding off. She struggled to breathe, to process what just happened. She barely made it two steps before her knees gave out and she dropped ungracefully down to the sidewalk. Tears were streaming freely down her cheeks as she fought to reign in the sobs threatening to undo her. She wasn't even sure where she was…but then, she recognized the street, the buildings. Her place was just around the corner.

Her hands trembled as she held the offending black phone in her hand. What had she just agreed to? She couldn't get him in there. Could she? It was all too much. She just…she needed…god, she needed to see him. To dissolve into him. She had never been so frightened before. Choking back a sniffle, she dropped the phone and reached for her phone. Maybe things had changed. At least, just to hear his voice…

"Yes?" His voice is clipped, distracted.

"Do you…do you think I could see you tonight?" She tried to keep the catch out of her voice, forcing some semblance of normalcy as she fought the impulse to sob.

"Don't think so." She nodded even though he couldn't see, fighting her trembling lip. "Can it wait?"

"Yes." She nearly choked on the lie, hoping that she sounded convincing enough. She didn't want him to worry about her now. He needed to focus. "Love you."

"You too." The line went dead and she looked at her phone longingly. With nothing else to do, she shakingly found her feet, wiping tears from her face as she reshuffled the grocery bag.

What was she going to do now? And how long were they going to make her wait?

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Translations:

зробити дзвінок: Make the call

чудовий: Excellent