A/N: A continuation of the last chapter. This idea has been nagging at me. In Tomb Raider II, Hillary and Bryce are taken from Bryce's trailer in the middle of the night, and Hillary is dressed to the nines; they land in Africa, and he is decidedly roughed-up.

The "gentleman" Hillary is remembering is Sean.

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Hillary had to admit, as he toed out of his shoes and pulled off his tie, that perhaps it had been a bit too long since he and Bryce had done this. Bryce certainly seemed to think so; he locked the door to the trailer, then jumped on his cot and watched impatiently as Hillary took off his jacket and vest, hanging them gingerly on the chair that stood next to the sink.

"Hurry up," Bryce said, lying on his back and staring at the ceiling, as Hillary removed his trousers and hung them on the back of the chair.

Hillary shook his head as he took off his socks. "You are the one whose state of dress is going to hold up this procedure..."

"Procedure!" Bryce snorted. He sat up, kicked off his shoes, and his T-shirt, jeans, and underpants went flying with astonishing speed, landing carelessly on the chest-of-drawers in the corner or on the ground. Hillary raised his eyebrows as he pulled off his own T-shirt and boxers. "Well," Bryce continued, "are ya ready for this procedure yet, doc?"

"Stop being a smartarse," Hillary replied, and those were the last words spoken for about half an hour. Communication became all moans and breathless laughs and a gasp or two, and Hillary admitted ruefully to himself that it had been too long, as he came with face-reddening rapidity. But he did his best to make up for that by pushing Bryce onto his back, licking him quite thoroughly, and pressing his hands to the small of the man's back firmly in just those spots that turned Bryce's giggles into strangled moans as he came.

Afterwards - well, it was warm in the trailer, and Bryce felt good in his arms, and with the post-coital lassitude over him, Hillary tried to slip into a contented doze. But the back of his mind kept prodding him with daily tasks undone, things that would only become more critical the more he ignored them in this tranquil state, and he shifted restlessly. Bryce stirred in response, and reached up languidly to stroke Hillary's cheek. He snorted as his hand grazed stubble. "Oi, I'm the only one who walks around like that!"

"I shaved this morning," Hillary muttered, looking up at the ceiling of the trailer. That morning felt like a week ago.

"Four this mornin'?" Bryce asked, rearranging himself to lie more comfortably. Not far off, Hillary thought, ruefully. "I don't think I seen you this scruffy since Africa," Bryce finished, sighing.

If anything could have made Hillary more at ease, if anything could have lulled him to sleep, Africa was not it. He sighed and rolled to the edge of the cot, pushing Bryce off gently. Bryce blinked up at him, sleepily, as Hillary stood and started to dress again. "Eh," Bryce muttered, "stay a bit."

"I have things to do," Hillary replied, pausing in his re-dressing to fish the blanket off of the floor and drape it over Bryce. "Sleep."

Bryce's face was creased by a small frown, but it smoothed out as he dozed off, snoring gently. Hillary tucked his tie into his vest, checked himself in the dingy mirror, and walked outside, taking a sharp breath of ice-cold air. He hurried to the manor, and started in on the evening's tasks. Africa. Many thanks to Bryce for bringing that up, he groused internally. Still - Bryce hadn't been there for all of it, had he? Had he just not noticed the signs?

It had all started in that blasted trailer, Hillary reflected, his mind wandering as he started on the first item of the evening's routine, cleaning the dishes from that day. Reiss's hirelings had been waiting; a gun was in Hillary's face the moment he stepped inside. Bryce had a guard over him, as well, and was wearing a rueful grimace instead of a welcoming smile. The hirelings had not spoken to them, merely handcuffed them and watched them, stonily, until Reiss walked in with that... man. His head of security, the one with the Scottish accent who deferred only to Reiss, and to him with near-reverence. Reiss had told Bryce what to say and do, and Hillary knew that Bryce would have tipped Lara off more obviously than he had done if that gentleman had not had a gun to Hillary's head and an evil grin on his face.

At least, Hillary liked to believe that. Bryce just did not love Lara as much as Hillary did.

But it was done, and they were shoved into a waiting Eurocopter, one of three that had made a mess of the manor's topiary. A guard, a pilot, and that gentleman all boarded with him and Bryce, shoving them into the back seats. Once they were airborne - that gentleman shouting belligerent instructions to the sullenly silent hirelings and talking to Reiss on a two-way the whole time - and the flight had evened out somewhat, the gentleman yelled a question to one of the hirelings. "Did you find anything when you frisked them?"

"I didn't," she replied - the only words Hillary had heard anyone but Reiss or that gentleman speak. Said gentleman cuffed her sharply over the head.

"Idiot!" he yelled. He tore off his safety belt and grabbed the handcuffed Bryce, patting him down quickly and efficiently. Hillary swore quietly to himself. He had taken the opportunity of the flight's distracting motions to start to work the knife out of his trousers. It was not easy to get under a buttoned jacket surreptitiously when handcuffed, and he only had it half-out, working from over the top of his jacket.

That gentleman discovered a packet of cigarettes and a lighter in Bryce's pockets, as well as a handful of loose change. He snarled and tossed them to the female hireling, then moved to Hillary. Given the choice between attacking half-arsed and trying to conceal the knife, Hillary chose the former, considering, wryly, that if he failed, at least Reiss would be short one hostage. As the gentleman clambered over to his seat, Hillary twisted and grabbed the knife awkwardly as it fell out from between his trousers and jacket. It was not a move Hillary had high hopes for, and Reiss had not hired that gentleman for his clerical skills, after all. He noted the movement and fell over Hillary, grabbing for his bound wrists, jamming his thumbs into the nerve clusters at the base of Hillary's wrists. Hillary dropped the knife before he even had a good grasp of it. He tried to kick, but the gentleman pulled Hillary up as he rose, then pushed back, sending Hillary crashing through the door to the cargo compartment, to lie panting on the floor.

"I've got this one. Keep your eyes on the other one, you feckups!" the gentleman yelled, then barged into the cargo hold, closing the door behind him. Almost no light came through, and Hillary blinked, blind, as he tried to stumble to his feet. That gentleman grabbed him just as blindly by the shoulder and side, then rearranged his grip, grabbing Hillary by the hair and ramming his head against the wall hard enough to make Hillary see stars. Standing upright took up all of Hillary's consciousness, and he swayed as the gentleman began to frisk him. He pulled out a knife of his own and used it to cut Hillary's jacket off, running the shreds through his hands before wadding them and tossing them in the corner. He put the knife away and leaned in, running his hands up and down Hillary's legs, then up his sides, reaching behind Hillary to feel his shirt-sleeves and back.

This brought him close, and he said in Hillary's ear, as he felt and re-felt and re-felt, "I've heard about you. You two. I hear what a goddam pair of fags you are." His hands kept running, running, and he pressed closer as Hillary tried to shake him off, bringing one hand to the front to yank Hillary's vest open and undo his shirt. "You're fuckin' disgusting," he hissed, running his hands down Hillary's sides and front, his lips close to Hillary's mouth, so that as the chopper swayed and bucked in the wind, they touched, and Hillary recoiled. The gentleman pressed closer yet, crushing Hillary slightly between himself and the wall of the cargo compartment, grabbing Hillary's buttocks hard. "What? You're disgusted, now? That's goddam rich, you ponce," he hissed, every word brushing his lips against Hillary's.

Someone banged on the door at that point. "Y'all right in there?" a male voice asked.

That gentleman seemed to come back to himself, pushing Hillary back against the wall. Hillary tripped over something lying in the darkness, and with his hands cuffed, could not brace himself as he caromed off of the wall and landed on his front with a breath-losing grunt. The gentleman made noises that sounded like suit-straightening. "I'm fine. This one was armed, you dumb saps," he yelled. He opened the cargo door, and Hillary blinked against the light. "Get this one," the gentleman ordered, and the female hireling came to her feet with a sigh. The gentleman walked into the cabinet as the woman came back and dragged Hillary into the passenger compartment once more, dropping him onto one of the seats and strapping him in.

Bryce must not have noticed, Hillary mused as he dried one last demitasse cup and put it in the china cabinet. He must not have noticed how disheveled Hillary was, or just chosen not to note the import, because not a word was said as they flew on, straight to the Kilimanjaro. Once that blackguard Sheridan rescued them - and oh, how that circumstance irked Hillary - Bryce had become his normal laconically optimistic self, and acted as if the kidnapping and the flight had never ocurred.

Hillary sighed and wiped the immaculately clean cabinet door again. Damn the man.