AN: So I've been neglecting my stories lately. School has been crazy-hectic, and fanfiction regretably had to take a backseat. From now on, though, I'm going to make an effort to update at least one story a week (not counting Collection, where I'm aiming for once-a-day updates), starting with the ones that haven't been updated in the longest. No promises on which ones will go when, though. Thank you all for reading! I hope you enjoy!

Time flew by startlingly quickly. It felt to John as if he blinked and Saturday was staring him in the face. Every move he made threatened to bring meals back up. Helen, never good at coping, had taken to changing the subject whenever John tried to talk to her about his mission.

Neither of them spoke as they fell into bed on Friday night, tired from a day of painting their spare room. John still had spatters of the beige colour on his hands. The lights were off, but neither of the two was sleeping.

Finally, Helen sighed. It was a sad sound; it was a breath of wind in the still night. She shifted in the bed to face John. "I love you," she whispered.

John reached over and ran his thumb down her cheek. She was beautiful. "I love you too. And I'm sorry."

Helen smiled, but it was tinged with worry and sadness and some other inscrutable emotion. She took his hand and kissed his fingers. "It will painful, I think, and difficult, to pretend that I'm disgusted by you."

John brought her closer to him under the covers, relishing in her warmth. It struck him suddenly that he would not share a bed with Helen again until this was all over.

Their foreheads touched, their limbs intertwined. Helen's eyelashes tickled his. "You've always been a good actress," he whispered. "And that's all this is. Acting. Pretending. All I do on the job is play pretend."

Helen sighed, letting out a breath that smelled of toothpaste. Her eyes screwed shut, and she gripped John's hands tightly underneath the covers. He watched, feeling something sharp bubble in his chest and throat, as a tear escaped her eye. Helen took a deep and shuddering breath. More tears—silent and quick—ran down her face and toward the mattress.

Instead of speaking, he held Helen close. Still lying on his side, he wrapped his arms around her, pulling her to him. She gripped the front of his shirt and started to cry. Her tears dripped slowly onto his shoulder. They stung him as if they were acid. John kissed whatever he could reach. Her hair, her cheek, her ear, her neck. It only took a few minutes for her to cry herself out.

As she relaxed, John loosened his grip until they were once again face-to-face. "I'm afraid that I'll start to forget you," she whispered, like it was a confession. "I'm afraid that I'll start to believe my own story." She paused, her chocolate brown eyes drilling into his. "I'm afraid of being alone."

John's heart broke a little. "It won't be that long," he tried to convince her—and himself. "Just a few months, and I'll be back and safe at home. We can go to the French shore. A vacation, just the two of us. You've always wanted to visit Côte d'Azur, right?" he asked, his voice gaining confidence. He didn't wait for an answer. "We'll go. Nice, or Toulon. Ian's been to Toulon—he says there's a little place right on the beach where we could stay. There'll be museums and sailing and grand architecture. It will be sunny and everything will be perfect. I promise." He planted a light kiss on her nose.

Helen's sigh was soft but resigned. "Paint all the pretty pictures of the end that you want, John. But before that can happen, you'll be gone."

John nodded. It wasn't long after that that they both fell asleep.

-:-

All day Saturday, John couldn't bring himself to think about what was to come. Dread settled like a physical weight in his stomach as he stewed around the house, trying to distract himself. Helen had taken another shift at work. His cover would look better if people assumed that they were fighting.

John found himself jittery as the sun began to set. Soon, he would leave, seeking out a bar to soothe his troubles. He would get offended by a man speaking poorly of the military. And then he would change the course of his world.

The telephone was in his hands before John knew what it was doing there. He stared at it blankly. And then he dialled Ian's number.

It only rang a few times before his brother picked up. "Hello?"

John had to clear his throat. "Hi Ian."

There was a slight pause. "John. What's wrong?"

John felt a ghost of a grin slid across his face. His brother was astute, as always. But the smile was gone before it had a chance to really exist at all. He took a deep breath. "I mentioned a big assignment to you last week." A pause. "Just…don't believe everything you read tomorrow."

-:-

His journey to the pub a few blocks away was made almost in a trance. One moment, he was standing at his door, locking up behind him (for the last time, he thought to himself), and the next he was sitting at a barstool, ordering a whiskey from the bartender. It was a quiet place, yet. A couple—on a date, maybe—sat in a booth behind him. A single billiards table was set up on the other side of the bar, populated by a few men wielding pool cues and rough accents. It was here that John saw his man.

Ed Savitt—or, rather, the man pretending to be Ed Savitt—was young. Brown hair, cut short in the front, but that extended down the back of his neck, and hazel eyes. He was tall, and looked spindly, but John could see hints of muscle beneath his jacket, and calloused hands holding the pool cue. He bent to take his shot. His eyes met John's only for an instant, but in that instant John saw everything he needed to know. Savitt was ready.

John took a quick sip of his whiskey. He wasn't.

He only had one drink. The bartender, who was an MI6 contact, gave him water after that. The bar filled slowly, but was soon raucous. John thought he spotted two other agents: a lonely man dressed in an old suit, having a plate of fish and chips in a solitary booth, his eyes carefully watching the bar; and a waitress whose eyes were a tad more alert than normal, her fanny pack just a tad too full.

It was maybe 9:30 when John stood. This was it. For an instant, he was tempted to leave, to take Helen and run far away—to France, perhaps. But the moment passed quickly, and his feet led him toward the men playing pool.

"Mind if I join?" he asked, his voice deliberately gruff. A blonde man with a scruffy beard seemed to inspect him and then smiled, picking a pool cue from the wall and tossing it to John.

"Eight-ball rules," he said easily. "You're stripes."

It had been a long time since John played pool, but the rules were easy enough to remember. He sunk two balls in with relative ease, enamouring him to the group instantly—or at least to his teammate, a large man who looked as though he could play rugby, with a closely-shaven head, bulging muscles, and a tattoo on his shoulder. Savitt groaned when John played the shots, but was careful not to make too much eye contact. He mumbled something under his breath.

John stiffened. "What was that?"

Savitt looked up, his face defiant. "You better not have come over 'ere just to beat us. We like a good sport."

John gripped his cue more tightly, until his knuckles turned white. "What're you saying?"

"What I'm sayin'," Savitt grumbled, leaning across the table, "Is that I wouldn't be too far surprised if you turned out to be a cheatin', lyin' bastard. You are an army man, after all, aren't you?"

John thrust his cue into his teammate's hands. "Insult me all you want, but you'd better be prepared to defend yourself when you insult the service."

Savitt sneered. John found it startlingly easy to dislike him. "It shouldn't be 'ard," he said, handing his pool cue over to the blond man and slipping off his jacket. "After all, the Falklands showed what kind of cowards enlist in the—"

He didn't get a chance to finish. John threw his fist at the man's face, charging forward. Savitt let out a savage yell, and the two began to fight.

It was dirty. John kneed the man in the stomach only to receive a punch to the kidneys. He could hear the others cheering them on, and the bartender yelling at them to take it outside.

John lifted the man and shoved him into a table, hearing wood splinter. He punched Savitt in the gut again—holding back, he didn't really want to hurt the man—and saw the air leave his lungs. John took advantage of the opportunity and punched the man—hard—in the head. Savitt's head immediately lolled to the side, but John faked punches for a moment more, until one of the other men pulled him back, yanking roughly on his arms.

John strained against the hold, breathing heavily. His eyes were deadly.

MI6's well oiled machine started up.

"Someone call an ambulance!" the lonely man from the booth yelled. He pushed his way through the crowd, claiming that he was a doctor. The bartender obliged, his frantic voice cutting through the chaos. The waitress hurried to bring ice and paper towels, dabbing first at Savitt's wounds and then John's own.

"Good show," she whispered to him as she wiped blood from John's face. John didn't respond.

The police and ambulance—also engineered by MI6—arrived quickly. Savitt was still unconscious. His chest barely rose at all. His buddies glared at John. The blond one spat on the ground in front of him. John made a show of struggling against his captor's hold, and the man behind him tightened his grip.

A fat officer with a moustache like a walrus and a sweaty brow plodded heavily over to John. His expression was serious. "I hope you know what you've done."

John said nothing. It was going to be a long night.