Rolling on towards the end. Two chapters today. Thanks to all who are sticking with this!

Rating M: Language, Sexual situations

Chapter 8: Guilty Parties

The Grid had kept him away from her longer than he liked. But the concern was eating away at him.

The distress in her voice had been plain as day when she called. Yes, they'd traded texts since then, but nothing to indicate her mood. She was trying to shield him from it, whatever it was. But he couldn't place it. Surely, it hadn't just been a rough day at the office. He knew her better than that.

It was a fine line that he tread – keeping her and his feelings for her separate from the domain of his occupation. But this…that tremor in her voice, the barely contained edge of fear she had tried so hard to hide was undeniable. Something had happened. And if something had happened – God forbid anything in his world should bleed over into what they shared. It was something he had always feared. And 48 hours later, it was time to do something about it.

Officially, he was off the clock. If something came up, he would have to stay and respond, but that wasn't the plan. Instead, he was searching phone records and history. He had never done this before – not with Elizabeta or anyone personal – but he needed to know.

He correlated her phone record to the log on his phone for when the call came through. 6:21 pm. The GPS location that accompanied it was easy enough to pull up on the map and with the right filter applied, he could see the location of all security cameras on the block. There was one, maybe, that looked like it could be in range. And, strange for his luck, it wasn't a closed circuit. The feed was all too easy to access, even for his paltry, dated skills.

It took a few minutes to locate the correct day and timeframe. But when he got there, his heart dropped to his stomach at what he saw. The angle wasn't good – he couldn't see her get out of the SUV, but he saw her once the SUV pulled away, watching her slump to the sidewalk. She was so visibly shaken and distraught. He couldn't even believe it was the same woman. Something burned and raged within him as he watched her hand visibly shaking while the holding the phone to her ear. What the hell had happened?

Had someone worked out what was between them? And what would be the endgame of that? Was someone planning to use her against him? Yes, she had nuclear secrets in her own right, but were they really that powerful? Maybe it wasn't too farfetched either way. But either way, the thought was sickening – they could both be used against each other for the benefit of the unknown third party in the SUV. The camera didn't pick up all of the vehicle's registration number, but he could make out most of it. Maybe the digits in question were 8's or B's? Could be a P or an R? Maybe a K? He would have to run some iterative checks to see if anything was a hit. It was all he could do.

It took him longer than he would like to find something of even remote interest. In the meantime, Ros had given him a passing glance; Jo had left with a kind farewell; and Harry was still warily watching over the world. No one asked what he was doing and that suited him fine. Questions would just slow him down. That was when his search turned up something that made him stop cold.

A Ukrainian syndicate connection with ties to the cell that Ros shut down two weeks ago.

He reached for his phone without thinking as his blood ran cold.

xxx

Two days. It had been two days of abject, consuming worry.

She'd been less than efficient and productive at work. Had anyone noticed? Maybe it didn't matter if she was indeed going to sneak a terrorist into the plant. The thought twisted her stomach in a knot. She had received a text with a name and a driver's license number. That was all she needed to file the escorted visitor paperwork with plant security. It was too easy. Was it possible that she – they – could pull this off? It seemed so unlikely, but everything was falling into place right now.

And that last text this afternoon. It was the most ominous text she had ever received.

Tomorrow. 7 am. Michael will pick you up. You talk, your man dies.

She hadn't sent any confirmatory response, her stomach still an upset tangle of knots. Tomorrow was it. The day she destroyed her career, and probably her life. It was subversion in every sense of the word and there was no way she would be allowed to keep her clearance in the wake of tomorrow. She struggled to watch her speed as she drove home. With her luck, a speeding ticket would be the perfect icing on the cake for today. But at least she wouldn't have to pay for the ticket if she was in jail…or dead.

The thought unsettled her stomach further. She just kept thinking about it over and over. That there wasn't any way for this plan to succeed. Sneaking documents out of the vault was impossible. Vault access was only granted with a security escort and every move would be closely watched. At any point in the yard, there would be a minimum of four lines of sight on them from guards with assault rifles. Assuming, of course, they could even clear the building before security took them out.

She gripped the steering wall tighter, biting her lip, her head falling as tears threatened. Her heart was breaking for—over—Lucas. She wasn't sure if she would get to see him tonight, his texts had been vague. But if not…he would never know and she would likely never see him again. Would it be worth it? If she sacrificed her life for him, couldn't some other terrorist or nationalist threat just kill him the next day? But how many times had he laid his life on the line for his job? What about the eight years he sacrificed for his countrymen? Did he have anyone willing to do the same for him?

That thought took her by surprise. Would anyone sacrifice for him? Did anyone else think his life was valuable enough to save? He probably didn't even think it was.

"I'm too fucked up for anything…normal."

Wasn't that just as much an acceptance of a life not worth saving, as well as a warning for her? She swallowed the bile rising in her throat, a steely determination seeping through her body. Yes, he would never know, and she would prove him wrong. His life was worth a damn and it was worth risking—losing, sacrificing—everything to save. After all that he had given and done for this country, it was about time that someone returned the favor.

She turned the car off at the kerb in front of her place, closing her eyes and tilting her head back against the headrest. Tomorrow was for him—because of him—she loved him and he deserved someone who was willing to sacrifice just as must as he was. It was just that simple. And most certainly, her companion, Illya-cum-Michael Bard would be taken down in the process.

The knots in her stomach had somewhat relaxed by the time she reached her front door, already planning to find her most expensive bottle of wine and drink until she passed out. She figured she might as well enjoy the last night of her current lifestyle.

Her eyes landed on his instantly as she closed the door behind her. He sat stiffly in a living room chair, all sharp angles of light and dark, his eyes icy, gaze molten. The picture of a man on a mission – the MI-5 operative.

"Who picked you up two days ago? Just before you last called me." His voice was pointed, leaving no room for question. She swallowed thickly, debating the wisdom of a lie, dying to ask just how he knew.

"A casual friend," she started, dropping her bag to the floor, stooping to remove her shoes, "she couldn't stay in the neighborhood for long, so we took a drive."

"A casual friend," he echoed, less than amused, "you called me not minutes after you returned. You tried to hide how distraught you were, but don't think I didn't know." A hint of softness laced his words despite his serious countenance.

"She's going through a divorce," she could credit her job for her ability to make up bullshit on the spot, "it upset me and I wanted to see you." She cast him a quick glance, trying to discern if she was convincing enough.

"Why are you lying to me?" His voice was cold, hurt seeping through his measured tones. "Celia…why can't you just tell me?" He rose, holding out a hand in pleading, in comfort as he approached. She forced herself to turn from him, finding her resolve weakening under his intensity.

"I did just tell you." She tried again, moving towards the kitchen, her determination weakening as he caught up to her, his hand circling her wrist. He drew her back to him, gently boxing her in against the wall, reading the conflict in her eyes, the truth threatening to break.

"What did they do to turn you against me?" His voice rumbled low in the space between them, brushing the tip of his nose against hers, his eyes imploring. "I know it was Ukrainian syndicate. I know they picked you up and dropped you off – and you…god, you could barely walk after. You know all the rest." She bit her lip, nodding slowly, reluctantly against him, wanting only to curl up in his body and disappear from the world. But she forced herself to raise her head and meet his gaze head on, her heart threatening to burst from her chest.

"I won't tell you." She forced her best confident, authoritative voice, watching the confusion, possibly even hurt crack his façade.

"I thought you trusted me."

"I do – I love you," the words rushed out on an imploring breath, "but they're watching me. And I don't trust them." A crack in her voice caught the last word as she continued to look up at him. Why did he have to look so good?

"What have they threatened you with….," his eyes searched hers, seeking the answer. She shook her head in a weak gesture as realization finally dawned across his face. "Me. They threatened you with my life." She couldn't bring herself to voice the response, watching him pull the answer out of her expression. "God, Celia, don't…let me help you. Please." His hold on her wrist tightened, his other hand raising to grip arm pleadingly.

"There's nothing. It—you sacrifice so much for so many, can someone not do the same for you?" Anger blazed in his eyes, his body stiffening with the tense emotion as he forced a hard shake of his head.

"No, someone cannot—you—should not." He commanded, rough and unforgiving. "It's not worth it. I'm not worth it. You have—"

"So much to live for?" She finished wryly, mockingly. He pushed her arms back against the wall, his mounting anger and frustration threatening to break to the surface. A bolt of heat sparked in her core at the expression of dominance. It probably shouldn't turn her on, now of all times, but there was nothing for it. All too well, she remembered the night she found him wearing a suit and wire-framed glasses and how he'd taken her hard and fast against the wall, his voice pitched deep in a Russian accent, filthy and commanding.

"Don't be so stupid. I won't let you." His voice held the barest thread of control, his eyes desperate, scrambling to find some way to reason with her. Did she not realize what he was? How did she possibly think that was worth sacrificing for? How could the restless nights of nightmares, the water induced episodes, the countless nights alone possibly be worth anything? "After all the things I've put you through…you should hate me." But all he saw in her eyes was acceptance and love and heartbreak. And, fuck, there was desire. He breathed a curse as his body recognized it, responding to her close presence, to the smoldering in her eyes.

"I'm sorry." She simply said, drowning in the heat of his body, her legs twitching together.

"No, you're not." He crashed into her lips, nothing gentle in the kiss as her teeth scraped against his. She fought to push back against his control, struggling to free an arm from his grip, wanting to touch him. He held her fast against the wall, sliding his hand down her arm to grip her other wrist, bending both arms up and surging the rest of his body solidly against her. His attack of raw passion was overwhelming, her mind yielding to the needs of her body to have him, if only one more time.

His frustration, his love, his anger, his want consumed him as he marked her skin, drawing the sounds from her that he knew so well. Fuck, he had to have her. Now. He dropped one of her wrists, sliding down to her thigh, moving her leg around his waist, grinding against her. She cried out at the rough drag of denim on denim, the heat and friction increasing her want tenfold. She hitched the other leg around him, adjusting to let him support her fully, crushed between her man and the wall.

With a growl, he pushed off, turning towards the couch, forcing her back against the cushions as he pinned her with his weight. She welcomed him, impatiently clawing at his back through his shirt. His eyes blazed, dark and raw, as he drew away just long enough to tear her jeans down her hips, to rip open his belt and the catch of his jeans.

She cried out into his mouth as he drove himself inside her, her fingers clenched in a tight grip on his shoulders. He thrust into her repeatedly, mercilessly driven to feel her drawing him in deep to meet his end. Her teeth scraped his neck as she voiced her pleasure against his skin, urging him on, abandoning herself to him.

xxx

Guilt gnawed at him as he rose from her bed several hours later. Maybe he shouldn't have taken advantage of the situation and let himself indulge like that. No matter how much she had enjoyed it. He knew there were scrapes and half-moon cuts on his back from her nails, but they were inconsequential. He had bigger problems to deal with, his jaw setting in a tense line of frustration.

Frustration that she loved him; that he loved her. His work, his past would always get in the way of any future he ever dared to think about. And she hadn't helped tonight. She had still refused to talk to him, to tell him the truth of anything that he didn't already know. He glanced back at her one last time as he silently dressed. He didn't like that she was forcing his hand, but then again, there were a lot of things in his life that he didn't like.

He stepped silently through her apartment, seeking out her backpack. It was the obvious place to start. He found it by the door where she had left it in her haste to get out from under his scrutiny.

The contents were predictable—wallet, flash-drives, sunglasses, calculator, chapstick— until his fingers finally grazed the cold plastic of a cell phone. He smirked, finding it adorable. She really did make it all too easy for him. It was sweet in a way, knowing that she either didn't care or didn't know how to hide her secrets from him.

He stared down at the phone in victory. It certainly wasn't the white and blue phone he saw her with all the time. This one was slim and black, a cheap throwaway. Whoever gave this to her didn't intend for her to use it long.

There were only two texts and no calls.

Michael Bard. BARD9708236MT9IJ 32

Tomorrow. 7 am. Michael will pick you up. You talk, your man dies.

He suspected as much. They were after her for what she knew, what she had access to. Of course, the number was blocked via the conventional phone interface, but he knew if he could get it to the Grid and wake up Tariq, he could learn a whole lot more. But did he have the time for that? 4:47 am. Hardly.

He turned off the phone display, returning it and the other contents back to her bag, effortlessly slouching it back against the wall just as she had done. Shrugging into his coat, he left the warmth of her place behind, silently slipping out into the pitch black of early morning.

If she wasn't willing to work with him to help him help her, then he had no choice. He would have to do things his way.