Sorry about the inordinately cruel delay guys but life suddenly got hideously busy. I shouldn't even be writing this fic now. I should be writing exam notes and cleaning my room and researching why jazz is a form of social protest and finishing that River Song birthday fic for my friend. Fail. I had so much difficulty writing this piece, mainly because Lucas is John does not work with Ros or even just plain Lucas of series eight. I've tried my hardest to make this believable but it was very difficult to get to the 'soul' of this conversation. I always got the impression that Ros and Lucas had a very strong bond and that John would never ever have resurfaced if Ros had been around because in a way Ros was Lucas' lifeline.

Harry Pearce: Lucas, you invited a man who repeatedly tortured you, into your private space. What do you think a psychologist will say about that?

Lucas North: No idea, but I have a feeling it might be in Latin.

Spooks 8.4

Ros put down the book of William Blake poetry, carelessly, like she hadn't really been reading the back. Actually, knowing Ros she probably hadn't.

"So. William Blake? I wonder what the shrinks would make of your personality from this bookshelf?"

Lucas shrugged. "That I'm in love with a mad man? That deep down I'm in silent rebellion? That underneath my smooth, cool customer exterior I'm secretly a sensitive softie?"

Ros laughed. "Hardly."

He raised one eyebrow. "So sure Ros?"

"You have secrets Lucas, I'll give you that, but you certainly don't have the right or the gravitas to try those shoddy pick up lines with me."

Lucas looked shocked for a moment, then laughed. "Ros! I thought you knew me better than that!"

She smiled. "It was too good an opportunity to pass up."

"What? And I thought we were friends?"

Ros blinked once, surprised. "We are."

The silence grew between them. Lucas felt the distance like it was something physical, something visible. He reached out a hand as though to touch the side of her face but she pulled back, just out of reach.

"I like you best out of everyone here Ros. You want to know why that is?"

She seemed relieved at the change in topic. "Because I don't have a past with you?"

"There is that," he conceded, "but Jo has no past with me, Tariq..."

There was a sharpness that hadn't been there before. He'd hit a nerve. "Tariq is an irritating, forever calculating to annoy, smug, pretentious t-shirt wearing adolescent. Forgive me for failing to see how you and he could ever be more than mere acquaintances."

He laughed. "So charming, Ros. And there you've just answered your own question. We get along because we are similar in many ways. We're distanced and we don't take crap..."

"Unless it's from Sarah in your case..." Ros said studying the ceiling with interest, the curve of a smile and her eyes dancing just a little the only indications of a joke at his expense.

Lucas ignored her. It was the best tactic. "You and me, Ros. We've both got a past, had to learn how to cope with things. We both never took kindly to fools and we're relentlessly loyal."

Her green eyes suddenly turned haunted. "Are we though Lucas? Are we really?"

"Harry would trust you with his life."

"And you too," she said, but the conviction was lacking, even if she was a born liar.

"So," Lucas said eventually, "what's in your past then? Jack Coleville isn't the only skeleton in your closet."

"And what's in yours Lucas North? More than just Russian prison, Oleg Darshavin, Elizabeta and Nancy Drew or I'm a member of Nightingale."

Lucas laughed. "For all I know, you could be."

"It takes one to know one," Ros rejoined, and then frowned as Lucas stiffened. Her voice softened, "It's alright Lucas. I don't have to ever know but if you ever did tell me, I would never, ever judge you." How could I, with what I've done.

His eyes were tortured, begging. "I didn't want to do it Ros. Please believe me."

She was somewhere faraway. "I had no such excuse Lucas because I did. I believed so hard in the damned cause. Every day I'm still here Lucas, I'm paying for it. I'm atoning. I'll always do the best job I can for those I care about because of what I know I am capable of ."

"Atonement," Lucas drew the word out, contemplating the phrase, thoughtful. "I was atoning in that prison, you know. But I think you're better at it than me." He looked close to tears, "deep down I'm weak."

This time it was her hand that reached out. "You weren't weak in that Russian cell, Lucas. Not then, and certainly not now. I might question your taste in women, but I would never, ever question your loyalty to Harry, to me, to the team so stop looking at me like a puppy dog all pitiful and begging from its master for the meal time scraps. We are what we make of ourselves Lucas and it is our decision alone, no one else's."

His words came out small. "Thanks for the lecture."

She moved her hand away. "Lose the self pitying. It gets boring fast."

He managed to smile, properly, as he got up and poured them both a drink.

She nodded at him, acknowledging the effort. "Good man."

Their glasses clinked, the alcohol sloshing at the sides gently.

"Cheers," she said, green eyes level and calm, and in that moment Lucas wondered what he would ever do if she was gone out of his life; what he would do without that cold, acerbic wit, the self assuredness, the command. The very idea was untenable.

Ok, guys so I said this was my last snippet but that was before I had my epiphany. I mean how can I possibly finish this fic without the last, possibly the single most important "conversation" that should have been, yet never was. How? A dedication to whoever guesses who the last conversation is between in the reviews :)