Lost Boys
By J. Ferguson a.k.a. Timeless A-Peel
Disclaimer: I don't own The New Avengers, nor the characters of Mike Gambit, John Steed, and Thomas McKay. Sadly. They're the property of The Avengers (Film and TV) Enterprises. Tara King and Emma Peel belong to Canal+Image. I suppose Peter Peel does, too, although is anyone really fighting for ownership of poor Peter? Anyway, this story is for entertainment purposes only. No copyright infringement intended.
Timeline: Zero in a series. Takes place in June, 1975, a full ten months before the start of the TV series. Those interested in the rest of the series are invited to read the subsequent stories in the arc, Aftermath, Dance With Me, The Anniversary, Merry Christmas, Mr. Gambit, and Brazil.
For more information about the series, please see my profile.
Author's Note: These chapters take ages for me to edit, and yet never seem to get any longer. Oh well. They're close together at least. That must be worth something. Steed's still reminscing. I promise that we'll start spending time in the present next time.
Steed stepped out of the shower, wrapped a towel around his middle, and faced the mirror so he could set about lathering up for shaving. He hadn't lied to Tara. He had been fine, at least at first. After all, he'd had several partners over the years, and he'd always been able to locate a replacement after the departure of the last. Only now the selection was limited. The Ministry had changed its regulations back in 1967 so as to no longer permit so-called "talented amateurs" to work on assignments, a bureaucratic decision Steed had argued forcefully against at the time. After all, all of his partners up until that point had been drawn not from the Ministry's stables, but were instead the more extraordinary examples of the general population. Steed found it refreshing to work with someone outside the confines of the organization, and with more choice came a better chance of finding a partner with which one could really "click." He lost the argument, but kept Emma Peel, who was, by then, such a fixture in the department that even the powers-that-be were loathe to let her go. At the time, holding on to Emma was more than enough. If she was keen to continue, Steed saw no reason why he should be bothered by the regulations at any time in the near-future. But no one had anticipated the return of Peter Peel, least of all his wife. Despite the fact that Steed and Emma had known each other almost as long as Emma had been married, Emma's title had always served as a reminder that she had made a legal vow that preceded any bonds formed on the field. And so Mrs. Emma Peel had walked out of his life to reunite with her husband, and John Steed found himself in need of a new partner. Now the regulations made themselves heard, and for the first time Steed couldn't scout out a replacement on his own according to his tastes. He wasn't even certain he wanted to. Replacing Emma was…different, tinged with a slight hint of betrayal. There would never be another one like her. It was lucky Mother was thinking straight at the time, had known to give him Tara, someone who needed enough attention to keep him busy, because Steed certainly hadn't been thinking straight that day when he watched Emma climb into a car with…him….and drive away into what turned out to be a not-so-happily ever after. She divorced Peter in 1973, a few months after Tara had left for France, ironically, but even after reading the news in the society column, Steed couldn't muster up the courage to call her. Too many years. Too many old feelings. And yes, maybe he was a little bitter that he'd lost out to his own doppelganger all those years ago. But John Steed prided himself on never looking back. Experience had taught him the hard way that most things were better left in the past.
Instead, he set about finding a new partner, aligning himself with various Ministry agents on a non-exclusive basis. He preferred working with women, but even in that day and age they were still greatly outnumbered by their male cohorts, just as they were now. This meant he collaborated out of necessity with several male partners as well. On the rare occasion he was able to reunite with Tara's one-time vacation replacement, Lady Diana Forbes-Blakeney, and at times he felt as thought he recaptured something of his old partnerships, but alas, despite any number of talented agents, he didn't feel any magic chemistry, or productive conflict, or much of anything, with any of them.
Come June of 1973, McKay had called him to his office. Steed washed his face and slapped on some aftershave before returning to his bedroom to dress. His old friend had taken over the reins of the Ministry, and was in the process of reorganizing the department to his liking. Tommy was a tough old nut, had to be the way his leg still throbbed from the bullet that had never been completely removed, but even he was overwhelmed by the sheer volume of tasks and problems that needed sorting. Thus, he turned to one man he knew he could trust when it came time to make a major appointment.
***
"I'm going to start assigning agents to units," he told Steed over brandy. "Several of them, each with headed up with a supervisor. I need someone to coordinate Ministry activity, dole out assignments, collect reports, guide investigations, that sort of thing. The department's too damn big, and I'm too old, to go chasing after every greenhorn so I can send him off to the wars. Not all of us have an Amazon to take our calls"
"And you want me to head one of these units?" Steed surmised, recalling the formidable Rhonda with a slight smile.
McKay nodded. "I know I can trust you to be strict when the situation warrants, and say to hell with the rules when it's not. And a lot of our boys are still trained with at least one eye toward emulating you, although hopefully not your use of the expense account."
"Well, it's not really my line," Steed pointed out not bothering to defend that one. Mother had grumbled about his spending habits as well, but never followed through on his threats, and he doubted Tommy would, either. After all, what was the point of being "the Great John Steed" if you didn't get a few perks out of the job?
"I know you don't want to drive a desk, John, but neither did I, and I didn't have much choice in the matter. Anyway, I'm not asking you to give up field work. Far from it. I expect you'll have a hand in at least some of the assignments you send the boys out on. But I need someone here to help hold the fort, someone who knows what he's doing. Obviously I'll have a few others running similar teams as well, but you're anyone's choice for top man. And it'll give me a reason to fob off the bureaucrats when they start harping at me about your retirement."
Steed knew he had a point, that soon someone was going to do the math and wonder why a man over fifty was still running around in the line of fire when there was plenty of fresh young cannon fodder to be found. And Tommy was badly in need of help. He hadn't made a decision right then and there, but he'd known even as he left that there was no avoiding it.
He took the job.
Roughly around the same time that he received his new office, a letter arrived in the mail informing him that his rock-cake mad Auntie Penelope had decided to pass her elaborate old manor house out in the country to her favourite nephew. Steed had driven out to inspect the property, and immediately saw the potential for a long-held dream to become a reality. A stud farm, with plenty of grounds to exercise all those horses he'd always promised himself after retirement. Why not now? Besides, he reasoned, it would make a good base of operations. Any niggling feelings about being put out to pasture were pushed aside. He busied himself in his new post and threw himself into the renovations. At first the change was rather nice. He could fob assignments and reports off to his stable of agents, and that left plenty of time to work on the farm and bring it up to the Steed standard. He moved his things from Stable Mews and took great delight in decorating and acquiring new furniture for his infinitely larger new living space. And so the remainder of 1973 passed by quite pleasantly, and John Steed was too busy with other things to notice that his time in the field had shrunk dramatically.
Time passed. 1974 rolled around, and Steed was able to hold a fabulous New Year's gathering in his new abode, now ready to be debuted to the public. But when the party was long over and the guests had all gone, John Steed decided to venture back out into the wonderful world of fieldwork and start earning his keep again. The only problem was he'd been a mite too efficient in organizing his stable of agents into a force capable of taking on any assignment he threw at them, a group who waved off all his offers to assist beyond the radio contacts and other such passive roles he had become accustomed to playing. Between them and their partners, they were doing just fine. That left John Steed doling out adventures that once upon a time Mother, or One-Ten, or Charles, had doled out to him. And who did that make John Steed? Mother? Charles? One-Ten? Crusty older men who had entered the job young and brash and been spat out the other end, grim, less-than-sunny in temperament, and no longer surprised at what this line of work had to offer? Was that what he was now, a bitter old has-been?
Steed sighed as he straightened his tie. Technically McKay was filling that position now, but Steed wasn't entirely certain he wasn't following his old friend's lead. He wandered out into the house and to the kitchen, found the cup of tea Mrs. Weir customarily left him. It constituted his breakfast. As Mrs. Peel had observed all those years ago, he didn't eat breakfast. This was true. He drank it.
The tea went fast, and Steed took the paper with him to read in the office. Today wasn't supposed to be terribly trying, just as the last week had been. Everyone was on assignment and making good progress, everything was ticking over as it should. Steed climbed into his Jaguar, turned key and allowed himself a small smile at the sound of the engine coughing to life. Even the Jaguar was running smoothly with the smallest of inputs from him. He started down the drive, switched gears and sped up. Maybe, as far as the Ministry was concerned, John Steed was redundant. But hell, he could still handle a car.