SCATTERED AMONG THE STARS
They're 26 and 25 years old when their paths cross again. Ian dropped below the radar and became an M16 agent while Amy became the Madrigal Branch Leader. When he discovers a rogue Madrigal stealing files from the M16, he seeks Amy out for her help. "So, Amy Cahill, will you marry me?"
Rated T for swearing and potentially hinted adult content later on.
CHAPTER 6
December 26th 2015, 1040
The doorbell rang loudly, a cheerful tone that broke the silence settling over the house. Ian had already gone to work, leaving the house at around seven-thirty in the morning. Amy glanced up at the digital clock in surprise. As far as she knew, they weren't expecting anybody. She was supposed to go to the Trade Centre later on in the afternoon, to keep up her cover and to meet with Marie. The cross-check of the photograph should have been done by now.
Placing the newly-washed dish onto the countertop, she wiped her hands on a nearby cloth, moving across the wooden floors silently. A hand reached for the secret weapon hidden behind a craftily-disguised panel on the wall. One push of a button would present the steel and chrome in second.
Ever quiet, Amy looked through the doorhole with one eye. Outside, a brunette waited impatiently, tapping her foot on the porch. "Amy?" she called.
Quickly, the Madrigal in question swung open the door. "Marie?" she exclaimed in surprise, reaching out to hug her friend. "You're not supposed to be here yet! I thought the arrangement was to meet at three at the Trade Centre?"
Marie smiled. "I thought I might pop over for a visit and save us both the trouble. Isn't it easier to keep this all under wraps if we just do everything at home?"
Amy frowned, leaning against the doorframe. Her hair tumbled down messily from a bun atop her head. London was absolutely freezing in December, and right now, dressed only in a sweater and long pants, she decided to move back into the warmth of their radiator-heated house. "How would you like to have this conversation inside?"
Marie laughed. "I thought you'd never ask."
Amy stepped aside to allow her fellow Madrigal to move in, glancing quickly outside to see if anyone had seen and identified them. Although truthfully, if they knew who she and Marie really were, chances were that they'd probably have the common sense to watch from afar.
Closing the door behind them, Amy followed her friend into the kitchen, taking the coat off of the grateful brunette and hanging it by the door. Marie took off her knitted cap as well, running a hand through her locks with a relieved sigh.
Amy moved through the kitchen deftly, making them both a mug of hot chocolate. She'd be damned if this weather didn't constitute an excuse to have the delicious drink.
The two Madrigals chatted excitedly as they sat down in the living room, Amy sinking into the sofa with a sigh, two hands gripping her mug. "Any news?"
Marie didn't say anything. Reaching into her briefcase lying on the floor at her foot, she pulled out a brown manila envelope. Still silent, she passed it to Amy.
Amy took the envelope and set it down on the coffee table. Returning to her seat on the sofa, she curled up comfortably and tucked her feet underneath her. "Anything of particular interest? Something I need to look at immediately? I'll be here a while, so I might as well just read it later."
Marie shrugged. "Depends on how you look at it."
Amy leaned forward, still holding on to her mug precariously. She kept her voice carefully void of emotion, landing on a clear neutrality. "What's that supposed to mean?"
Marie looked around furtively. "You mentioned a partner."
Amy tensed. "Yes," she answered tentatively. "So?"
"You said… you said his name was Ian."
"Yes." Amy almost narrowed her eyes before realising how suspicious that would have looked. Instead, she chose to reaarange her hot chocolate, shifting her position on the couch.
She resisted the urge to groan. She was going to have to tell Ian about this, and if Marie really couldn't accept that she was working with Ian Kabra, a Lucian – well, a Lucian traitor – then they were going to have a problem.
But maybe this time his traitory would be useful, Amy thought rather dryly. After all, who better to run a secret almost-kind-of-not-really conspiracy with than a cleverly artful Lucian?
Marie looked slightly scared. No, not scared, Amy corrected. Worried. "I've looked it up. His name, I mean," the brunette clarified. "There are so many Ians in the database. I don't think he's Madrigal, because otherwise you wouldn't need me at all. That still leaves too many possibilities."
This time, Marie was the one who moved forward, her eyes still scanning the room. Amy followed her gaze and found no pattern to it. "But?" prodded the redhead.
Marie turned back to Amy. "But the photo you sent me is from an M16 database."
Amy froze. A chill ran down her spine. Quiet ringing sounded until white noise filled her ears. She forced down an overwhelming surge of panic. "How did you know?"
Marie was watching her carefully, eyes tracking her every movement. "You can't send me a photo and then not expect me to find out a little more about where it was taken."
Amy slumped. Well, no point in hiding anything now. "You're right. Any conclusions?" Damn, she'd been hoping to be the only link between Marie and Ian. The former should never have known about Ian. A little voice started nagging at the back of her head. Too innocent. Too trustworthy. Guillible. Naïve. A roar of anger coursed through her, before Amy realized that the only person she was mad at was herself.
"Your partner's Lucian. Isn't he?"
Amy licked her lips. Cleared her throat. Twisted her hands together. "Yes."
"I did my research, plus I added up all the old rumours from a few years ago."
The Madrigal leader's throat locked.
"People say that you and the old Lucian leader – "
"That we what?" Amy snapped, crisp words spat out. "That we what? What?"
"I think you know."
The silence that stained the air afterwards was impermeable. Seconds ticked by loudly.
Amy's heart raced. Her pulse jittered so quickly, she could hear her own blood rushing through her ears. No. The guard that had alerted her to Ian's presence only four nights ago would never had said anything. She'd cleared the security videos, made sure that anybody and everybody who saw them wouldn't breathe a word.
Marie hesitated, then ploughed on. "It's Ian Kabra. Isn't it." The question became a statement.
Amy's heart sank. The game was out. Better Marie than anybody else, right?
Better Marie than Dan. Right?
She cleared her throat. "Surprise?"
Marie groaned and put her head in her hands.
December 26th 2015, 1900
"No! Oh, my God! How could you!"
"Sarah, no, I promise you – it's not what it looks like – trust me!"
"I trusted-"
Keys tumbled in a door lock, click-swish-clanging, and the door swung open with a gentle creak. Footsteps pressed down on the floor, and the door was closed quietly. The sounds came closer.
"Amy? Where are you? Could you turn off the bloody television?"
What? What time was it? Amy sat up and blinked blearily at the digital clock on the wall. It blinked back at her cheerily in green LED letters. 17:00. She groaned internally. "Here." Her voice was pathetically weak. She cleared her throat. "Here," she tried again. She heard him hanging up his coat on the rack and turned around from her spot on the sofa.
"Did you fall asleep?" A hint of laughter bled into his voice. In her sleepy stupour, Amy thought she saw little smile lines appear on his face. The sofa sank down happily as he sat next to her, putitng his briefcase carefully on the coffee table. "Tired?"
She yawned, and then blinked at him (again). "Yes. Catching up on all my lost sleep from when I was Branch Leader. I'm supposedly on leave, remember?" she teased playfully, leaning towards him unconciously.
Ian's laugh was rich and smooth; warm chocolate on a cold winter's evening. She hoped he wouldn't stop talking. He reached for the television remote; turned the volume down. "I remember." He watched her carefully, sweeping his gaze down from her bush-hair to her curled-up toes, her frame wrapped around the sofa pillow as she rested her head on the sofa arm.
"How was your day?" she asked. "Oh, and Marie brought the photos over already. I haven't looked at them yet," she told him.
He nodded absently, eyes tracing her form. "Today was… okay. It was good, I suppose."
Never in a million years could he have imagined how intimate they could be. Not like this, certainly. Quiet. Slow. Amber light from the dining table fixture washed everything into pure gold. The wind pushed against the windows. It was dark outside. Indigo-navy blues filled the sky. It was cold, too, Ian thought. His heavy coat had barely been enough to ward off the cold. But it was warm here, here at home.
With Amy.
Tenderness bloomed in his heart when he looked at her. He stared until he thought it was highly improper to do so anymore, and tore his gaze away, staring instead at a dark corner of the house, where the warmth of the light couldn't reach. It was still. Hushed. The television mumbled some soothingly white noise, and the sounds of their breathing filled the air.
"It's Boxing Day today," he said out loud, breaking the quiet.
She sat up a little. Pushed herself onto one elbow. Gave him a wan, little smile. Oh, how she'd missed him. "I know. Did you get anything from your colleagues?"
He turned to face her again, leaning back into the sofa. He looked tired, she observed, with dark smudges under his eyes. His back relaxed. The creases between his brows smoothened. When he spoke again, she was reminded once more of how he'd once been Ian Kabra, the object of every single teenage girl's crush at some point in time. His voice was silken sin, velvet darkness, like dark chocolate, smoothed out in thick, heavy layers. His eyes though fatigued, still had their usual charismatic glint.
When he spoke, she thought she might pass out had she not been practically lying down already. "No. But I got you something."
Nervously, she sat up a little straighter. "What is it?" God, she hoped she didn't sound too eager. Honestly, Amy, she scolded herself, this is not the time to get presents from someone! You have a job! A. JOB. J-O-B. SERIOUSLY. DECLINE IT. NOW. DE. CLINE.
He reached behind him, arm going behind the sofa and taking something with a rustle. With a flourish, he presented a small pink bag to her. "Ta-dah."
"Oh, no, I couldn't possibly." Screw it. Just take it. It looks good.
"Oh, no, but you definitely could. Here." He set the bag down in between them. Ian looked fully awake now, tiredness bleached from his features altogether as he looked for her reaction. "I think you'll like it, my wife."
She almost flinched at that, and then caught herself. Ai, damn, I'd forgotten about that. Argh. This is going to take some getting used to. "What a kind husband." Her words carried the same half-mocking tone he'd used.
"You're welcome."
Amy narrowed her eyes at him, pulling the bag towards her. With her hands on the opening of the bag, she kept her gaze on him and then smirked. Without looking, she tore open the bag. His smile widened.
For a full five seconds, they stared at each other. Then Amy gave up and looked down.
And down.
And down.
"IAN KABRA! You think you're hilarious, don't you?"
"What? Isn't it practical?" he sniggered. "It is useful. We need it, don't we? It's important to keep our ruse up, especially when my colleagues come over."
Amy glared at him. "Yes, because everybody puts their wedding certificates out when their friends come over."
"Maybe we just love each other soooo much."
She huffed. "Don't be immature."
He moved. So quickly, she didn't even see him get up from the sofa. Then he was suddenly so close, almost too close, his breath ghosting on her skin. "I'm many things," he told her quietly, bracing himself over her as she stared up at him from her spot on the sofa, "but I'm hardly immature."
She looked up at him, eyes wide. Her fingers tightened their grip on her pillow. Her breath came a little shorter.
Sometimes a boy is just a boy. A girl is just a girl. A house, just a house.
The night dragged on. It darkened to inky blackness until the only light that could be seen at all from outside was that of the little houses. Christmas had just passed. Butter warm light passed through windows until it became a blurry little patch that glowed like a gentle torch burning in the night.
Calling you home.
A/N I have nothing to say. I'm sorry. Practically no plot, but a little more interaction never hurts. Perhaps this makes me a liar, but I can no longer stay as dedicated to this story. I have too much on my plate. I'm sorry. Please forgive me. I will try to finish this story before I go to university, but… I can't guarantee you anything, and that makes me the worst kind of author. That said, this obviously isn't the last chapter – I have LOTS more planned, but whether I can write them – if I have the heart to – isn't definite. I'm sorry. I will try, though. Rest assured that I will try.