Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

CHAPTER ONE —

As he sits at the desk in his office, mobile held to his ear and the silence stretching onward and onward after his ill-thought, to his current thinking, compromise, Gareth Mallory cannot help but to wonder…

What had he been thinking?

Had he been thinking?

At what point had he so completely taken leave of any and all good sense?

Even after the Lady had agreed and their plans had been rearranged to accommodate this new alternative he offered, even after the line had disconnected, still the question lingered.

He had barely known Olivia Mansfield. Though he had gained some respect for her during the inquiry and due to the lengths to which she was willing to go to prevent anyone else from being caught in the crosshair that was aimed at her, still, he did not much care for the woman.

It was impressive and, perhaps, even admirable that she had reached the position she had as the director of MI-6 despite every force that no doubt would have opposed her and it is even further testament to her that she had retained the position. After all, he’s barely into the job himself and there are already days when he regrets having accepted it when it was offered. He had never been a ghost, and—whatever his predecessor or Bond might have thought—he hadn’t even been particularly good as a bureaucrat. He was a soldier, and, even when that had become an impossibility to continue, it did not change the nature of the man.

That was the reason, he suspects, that Olivia Mansfield had so immediately decided that she disliked him, as she must have done. She was a being of shadows who learned how to finesse with the greatest of politesse, to gain favors and be owed them. She was a woman used to defying anything and everything that stood in her way, and, like a hurricane or tsunami, flattening any and all opposition.

He was not to be cowed, and she despised him for it, as well as for the role he had been given in ushering her out whether she liked it or not.

Unfortunately for her, in the end, uncaring time and the consequences of her own actions were her greatest adversaries and those she could not fight.

He had done what he could.

‘She made her own choices, and now others are left to live with them.’

He can see the one who spoke those words still before her mother’s gravestone, dressed in customary black, standing out in the dreary grey of a London rain without an umbrella.

It had been a downpour when he was traveling from his doctor’s appointment to the funeral. Or, at least, he had intended to be at the funeral. Instead, traffic had been so terrible with the near monsoon of a storm that he had been late. He had wanted to reschedule the bloody appointment the moment he knew the funeral would fall on the same day, but there simply hadn’t been a day near enough to weather it.

By the time he arrived, the funeral was long over, and, he had assumed, the graveside would be abandoned. Still, he felt it would be proper to go and to pay his respects, and perhaps, at a later time, he might visit the next of kin.

He knew, of course, from the hearing, that her husband was deceased, but Moneypenny had told him there was a daughter. He had originally intended to give condolences for the loss at the funeral and leave it be. With that plan shot to hell, he had planned instead to make a stop by later to the same end, as well as to apologize for having been so inexcusably ill-mannered as to have missed her mother’s funeral and to reiterate the appreciation for her mother’s many years of service.

To his surprise, one figure stood, tall and still at the graveside, posture so straight and form so sharp that she was almost as a sentinel keeping watch.

He had assumed then that perhaps it was the daughter. Who else would remain so long after the service and the burial? He braced himself then, prepared to give the needed apologies as well as to respectfully give condolences.

The absence of an umbrella despite the determined drizzle made him think that perhaps grief had gotten the better of her. He had lost both of his parents quite some years ago, before he had even been discharged from the military. He remembered then and remembers even still how difficult it had been, even with the death of his father.

She certainly couldn’t be faulted if she was out of sorts, and he had fully prepared himself to weather whatever tears and laments might follow and to perhaps offer an encouraging word or two. Perhaps his tardiness could be redeemed.

Though sympathy has never been a strong suit of his, if she was standing there by herself, in the rain, on a day such as that, then surely, she mustn’t have anyone else to provide such, and so, would not some attempt be better than none?

He had remembered standing alone at both of his parents’ funerals as well.

When he approached, he had made sure to so carefully set the umbrella that it would be over her as well, to give her a reprieve from the cold, late March rain.

‘Fitting weather for a funeral, I suppose,’ he had offered as a means to break the ice.

She had not looked at him to start, but he took the moment to observe her, to study her. There was something to her face that held a certain amount of likeness to her mother. There was a similarity to the sharpness of her facial features, to the set of her mouth, the arch of her eyebrows, but there the similarities seemed to end.

In her heels, she was slightly taller than him, smartly-dressed in her mourning clothes that were such as he would have expected more to have seen on some Hollywood starlet or other in a black and white film in not so dissimilar a situation. Indeed, he had noticed even from this meeting a timeless sort of elegance to her that seems so rare in this day and age.

There was not a single tear to smudge her makeup, not the slightest redness to her eyes. Her overall demeanor was one of poise and grace, even at such a time.

He had thought it quite admirable, had thought that perhaps she was every bit the force of nature as he had found her mother to be in so brief a span.

Yet, when she had looked at him, he saw the way she braced herself to converse, the way her expression had tensed ever so slightly, the way she had drawn herself up to her full height, tall and proud and almost regal in her bearing.

But she looked weary, too.

‘Yes. Yes, I suppose it is.’

He had apologized that he was late, given the explanation not as an excuse but that she would know he hadn’t intended it as a sleight to her or to her mother. He had seen her look to the sling about his arm. He had seen the way that she seemed to notice his discomfort. He had refused to take the pain medication. Too many soldiers had found their way into prescriptions never to be the same afterwards. Pain was an old friend. He could bear it, and so he did.

Still, her concern was noted and even appreciated. Particularly when she made no attempt to fuss over it as some might.

‘There’s no need for apologies. Truly. I think she would have considered it far more practical to see a doctor for an injury to a living body than to attend a funeral for a dead one. Mother was nothing if not… pragmatic.’

There was something careful to the way she said the words, as though she worried to wield the jagged pieces of the wrong ones.

Is that what it had been? That there was a familiarity that echoed from across the years? A different graveside. Specific words selected out of respect when so many others would have better-served.

He said nothing of it in the moment. If she wished to maintain pretenses, then who was he to ignore them?

‘Then you must be Miss Mansfield.’

He knew that she was. There was an almost knowing look she hadn’t quite been able to hide that told him she knew that as well.

It was polite conversation.

She carried on with it.

‘That I am, and to whom do I have the pleasure of speaking?’

So prim and proper even in her manner of speech. She had been either highly educated or extremely well-read, he had no doubt.

‘Mallory. Gareth Mallory.’

He saw the moment she realized, the instantaneous recognition of his name, and he had tried to ready himself for whatever might be said. Instead, her expression had merely softened and the very corners of her lips so barely upturned, the smallest of smiles or a trick of the lighting, and she had thanked him.

‘It was a brave thing to do, risking your life like that.’

‘For all the good that it did.’

The words had escaped, honest and self-critical, before he could catch them, and he had immediately berated himself.

It wasn’t a conversation with an old comrade—like Ellsworth or Stevens or MacCall—about the losses in war and the futility of any attempts to prevent them. It was a family member of one recently fallen in the line of duty, and it was inappropriate to say the least.

Before he had been able to apologize, however, she had looked him dead in the eye, unflinching despite such thoughtlessness on his part.

‘Well. We can only do what we are able. Beyond that, it’s out of our hands. She made her own choices, and now others are left to live with them.’

He had been struck nearly dumb by the statement. Those were words he might have expected from one of said comrades, the unflappable practicality of a soldier, of someone who has seen wars and experienced losses. They were not the words he thought would be said by such a lovely young woman who seemed, aside from this, to exist within such a frame of time as all should be well in the world.

He wondered then if this had been a result of her mother’s practicality and her pragmatic nature.

By the time he recovered, the silence had gone on too long, and so there was nothing but to maintain it. Her gaze was directed again at the headstone, and so he had shifted his own there as well, that he did not make her uncomfortable.

For some time, he merely stood with her, keeping over her the shared shelter of the umbrella, until at last it grew late and he knew he was near the end of his pain tolerance for the day. Only the former did he express to her. The latter he kept to himself.

‘If it would not be an overstep to inquire as to your means of transportation, I would gladly escort you to it to spare you a long slog through the rain.’

‘In truth, I arrived by cab, and I could hardly ask it of you to wait with me until one arrives.’

It hadn’t seemed a refusal. It had seemed a polite consideration. Perhaps she had noticed the pain wearing on him, even if he had tried to hide it. She was observant, to be certain.

Still, as it wasn’t a refusal—and he suspected was more that he wouldn’t be inconvenienced—he offered a rebuttal.

‘You needn’t ask it of me if I’ve already offered it. Shall we then?’

She had stared at him for a moment, and, for the life of him, he hadn’t been certain what to make of that look. He had half-expected that he misread, and had an apology ready when her expression seemed almost to melt, the warmth of a smile reaching her eyes, even if she couldn’t quite bring herself to smile. She stepped nearer to him, took his proffered, uninjured arm, and thanked him. Through the rain they walked together, beneath the shelter of his umbrella, and together they waited until she was able to hail a cab.

He had been fine after that, though, hadn’t he?

He had shown the proper respect due to the family of one who had so long served her country. There was nothing more and nothing less to it than that.

It had been the same when he told Moneypenny that he would take her mother’s personal effects to her, though what a fool he had made of himself once he was there. Barely through the door and he had fumbled and stumbled his way through an effort to compliment her home, and yet, how patient she had been at his bumbling attempt.

Was that where the shift had happened? Surely not. He had still comported himself with perfect—if somewhat awkward to start—professionalism. He had managed to uphold his side of the conversation after the initial missteps. He had even joked a bit in an attempt to alleviate the heaviness to her.

She was odd, certainly, a fact that became more evident with that second meeting.

She had entire built-in shelves packed with hardback books that ran floor to ceiling and from one end of the wall to the next, a gramophone and several storage containers full of albums, and such a strangely anachronistic sensibility that seemed to put her at odds to most even within his own generation. Still, there had been nothing overly personable in the interaction, even if they had parted with first names.

She hadn’t wished to be called Miss Mansfield, and he would hardly have insisted upon such formality as a continued use of his military title when he was to call her Cynthia. What poor form that would have been!

If not then, though, perhaps it was the early morning phone call he received as he endeavored to wrap a long night at the office, as he tried to dig his way out from under the mountain of paperwork still growing from the fallout of his predecessor’s death.

He hadn’t recognized the number, but what did that really mean in the grand scheme of things in this occupation, except to show caution in answering?

He had answered with a guarded hello, and only barely had the word left him when the one on the other end of the line—how quickly he recognized her voice—started into a speech that confirmed exactly what he had thought at the graveside. She and her mother’s relationship had been contentious to say the least, though if one or both parties were at fault for it, he couldn’t say, and he was only half-able to follow the train of her thought.

It seemed as though he had somehow been dropped, en media res, into this production, as though quite a few other events had transpired to lead to this drunken soliloquy lamenting such loss as did not so easily conform to societal expectations. Her speech was marred with slurs and punctuated with the telltale sound of tears, but still he listened.

She was in a bad way, and he never would have considered hanging up on her, on anyone, so clearly suffering beneath the weight of the world.

How many soldiers had survived even the worst of battlefields only to be lost to the oppressiveness of the night hours, the heaviness of their own thoughts? No, it was no trouble for him to listen, just as he would for one of his own, caught in the trenches of their mind.

He listened without a word until at last she asked a response of him, until she asked if anything she said had made sense.

‘Or do I… do I just sound as absolu’ely sloshed as I feel?’

He was never adept at such things as comfort, as reassurance. Despite his mother’s attempts, the household in which he was raised had no patience for tears, had no patience for anyone who couldn’t pick himself up out of the dirt, wipe the blood from his knees, and carry on with the day and the responsibilities of it. Words meant to soothe were rare and only ever really offered in the times where his father was away on deployment.

Still, he had tried to show that he had understood, had ventured dangerously close to revealing that she wasn’t the only one to feel such a way, to have weathered grief that was so set apart from the experiences of others, the experiences of those with close relationships to their parents, to those who were able to miss all of the wonderful times and mourn that there would be no more. Were she in any better state than she was, if she had been any less sloshed, perhaps he wouldn’t have said so much. Perhaps he might only have apologized, told her it was normal for grief to take different forms for different people, and left it there.

How convoluted his own grief had been with his father’s death and, even in listening to her speak of her mother, he could almost feel that constriction to his chest once more, the heavy beat to his heart.

It was a difficult grief indeed to grieve what never was and would never be.

Was that it then? That he had seen some of his own struggle of years ago reflected now in her pain?

He had thought of her a few times over the course of the two days between that phone call and her next, which was both perfectly sober and unreservedly apologetic. The poor woman was beyond embarrassed, and he had done the right thing and reassured her.

If she had called him simply because he left her his card, surely there couldn’t have been anyone else she might call. He wouldn’t fault or guilt or belittle her for reaching out to someone when she needed it.

By that thought, he invited her to dinner to give her the time and space to talk with someone who already knew the general gist, even if not the specifics, even if he doubted she even remembered how much he did know.

Even in turning the past months over in his head, he conveniently neglects to consider either trip to the orchestra. They weren’t the origin of this, he could easily have reasoned, if he had to explain it. Clearly, something had shifted well before either event, something that made him keep reaching out to her.

On second thought, he determines that he does not want to consider it any further, does not wish to linger on retrospection.

He decides instead to focus on concluding the last of the paperwork today, and pondering—without context of remembering previous events, thank you!—what had possessed him to invite the Lady to his home after she so considerately attempted to return to him his evening that he might recover from the whirlwind of the past two weeks and the jet lag that had only compounded it.

What a bloody mess.

— RETROSPECTION

Chapter Text

CHAPTER TWO —

The moment he emerges from his office in nearly military stride—raincoat over his arm, the umbrella in hand, and the handle of his attaché case gripped white-knuckle tight in his other hand—he knows that his inner turmoil must be evident on his face, because Moneypenny stands up from her desk, her expression one of concern.

“Is something the matter, Sir?”

“No. Nothing’s the matter,” he says, but the words are a bit too brusque, and, with a sigh, he briefly stops. He schools his face to as near neutral as he can manage, then turns to her, and offers a tight smile. “Thank you, Moneypenny. Have a good evening.”

He does not wait for her answer—a confused ‘Good evening, Sir.’—before he takes the last steps necessary to reach the door, open it, and step out from the office.

Of course, the sergeant is waiting and if there’s anything Mallory can say to the credit of Jim Ellsworth, it is that he is a natural-born observer. Every minute detail about a person, Ellsworth is bound to notice. It is a particularly enviable skill of his, to read people so well and to adapt with little to no difficulty.

Not that he needs even that to see past the paper-thin attempt to seem his usual composed self.

Jim knows him better than almost anyone else, after all.

Wise enough not to directly ask but not quite enough to leave it be, it’s only a moment before Ellsworth finds a roundabout approach to the issue.

“Seems we’re runnin’ a bit late, Sir,” the younger man begins, in his bright and open tone. “Have you already called t’ let ‘er know you’d been caught up a bit?”

“I have.”

“So we’re still t’ meet the Lady at Diogenes then?” he questions.

His Irish tongue manages to butcher the restaurant’s name, and Mallory can’t say entirely for certain if it is an attempt at comedy or quite in earnest.

To anyone who knew of his history, particularly of his time held captive by the IRA, it must be quite a puzzlement to learn that the lead of his security team is Irish. Indeed, he knows that Moneypenny and Tanner had been puzzled when first he shared his choices, when he asked for the selected files to be pulled and requests put in to see them transferred to the Office. They had also been polite enough—or sharp enough—to refrain from any commentary, a wise course of action.

The truth of the matter is that—despite his country of origin, despite being the second youngest of his six main security team members—Mallory hadn’t even hesitated to select him as the lead. There is no one he would trust more to ensure his personal safety.

No matter how insufferable he was upon the asking, or how infuriating he can be on occasion.

Occasions such as now.

“We will not be meeting the Lady at Diogenes.”

“Why? What happened? Did somethin’ come up?”

“Something like that…” he begins with a rather decided frown. He’s already dreading that he’ll have to explain the matter to him so that he knows the amended itinerary.

What had he been thinking?

This time, Jim seems to decide it’s better not to pry—at least for the moment—and he remains silent, simply falling in step with him.

When they reach the car, Ellsworth gets the back passenger door open for him, and he gets in, settling into the leather seats with a sigh.

Stevens is smart enough not to ask or even to seem as though he’s noticed anything.

A moment later, Ellsworth gets into the passenger seat, and Mallory pretends that he doesn’t see, from the corner of his eye, the look exchanged between the two.

“Are we set to go to Diogenes then, Sir?” Stevens asks, just barely getting the question out before Ellsworth had tried to signal him not to ask.

“Yes. Let’s go.”

The reaction is immediate as Jim spins around to look at him, caught almost comically between confusion, disbelief, and indignation, mouth opening and closing a few times as he tries to get his thoughts together.

Were Mallory in better humor, he might have laughed. It was a difficult feat to leave Jim Ellsworth speechless.

“I t’ought y’ said—”

“I said that I wasn’t to meet the Lady there. I can’t be held responsible for what you assumed.”

Another look passes between the two. He keeps his own gaze turned toward the world outside the window.

“Well! How d’you like that? Would y’ be so kind then as t’ tell me what exactly we are doin’?”

His jaw tightens, lips pressed thin for a moment as he braces himself for what he is to relay.

“I will be stopping by Diogenes for takeaway, and then I’ll meet the Lady. At home.”

Once they’re out onto the street, Stevens glances at him through the rear view mirror, a look of concern evident.

“So you’re bringin' the food to her? Miss Mansfield isn’t feelin' poorly, is she?”

“No, she’s quite well, so far as I know.”

“Alright. So long as nothin’s wrong. You’ll probably have to update her on the travel time, though, Sir. You know how traffic can be this time of the evenin'. Might be a bit before we make it out to her place.”

“We’re not going to her place.”

“Then what—”

Stevens abruptly stops, realizing his own misunderstanding. He returns his attention entirely back to the road again, eyes locked forward, and does his best to pretend that he had said nothing at all.

Unfortunately, Jim realizes as well.

There’s a particularly disconcerting level of mischievous glee that overtakes the younger man from time to time—exactly as it does now—and Mallory looks to the ceiling of the car and deeply inhales, bracing himself.

“So you’re meetin’ ‘er at your home then?” he nearly exclaims. “Now I see why y’ were bein’ so tight-lipped about it!”

“Whatever you think, allow me to correct you: She was concerned that I needed time to rest, and she didn’t wish to potentially keep me out late.”

“Whose idea was your house?” Ellsworth questions with such a cherubic look of innocence that even Mallory almost believes he hasn’t put the pieces together yet.

Perhaps he should have referred him to the 00 program instead.

“… Mine.”

The laugh that erupts as Jim rather decidedly returns his attention to the vehicles around them—how convenient that he thus avoids the look Mallory corners at him—is loud and highly amused and it takes the younger man a moment before he continues.

“So, what happened then? She was goin’ t’ call it off for the night, an’ you suggested meetin’ at your place?”

“I made a commitment, and it would be ungentlemanly not to follow through with it.”

That was it. It must have been.

When she had made the observation about how knackered he sounded, when she had offered the rain check to him, she had sounded so reluctant, so disappointed. She hadn’t wanted to cancel, but she was trying to be considerate of him.

He simply wanted to keep his word and maintain the meeting, and this was the only course of action where he needn’t be out late and, thus, the only one that was a proper compromise.

With that understanding, his agitation slowly bleeds away, expression and demeanor losing some of their tension.

Yes, that makes sense. It wasn’t anything foolish. It was simply him keeping his word that he didn’t disappoint the Lady. After all, if a gentleman hasn’t his word, what does he have?

To his surprise—and mild suspicion—nothing else is said.

He lets it be. Peace in our time. Or, at least, peace for a time.

The rest of the journey to Diogenes passes in silence, and when they arrive, Jim gets out and opens the door for him.

As they haven’t been here prior, they enter the restaurant together, Ellsworth first leading and then following only slightly behind him like a shadow.

As they walk into the establishment, Mallory looks about them, taking in the surroundings.

Diogenes is not at all what he would have expected to be a favorite of hers. There is such a distinctly modern look to it, which surprises him, given her apparent dislike for such styles. Still, he supposes that it isn’t one of the worst offenders he has ever seen, and it isn’t entirely unpleasant. It, at least, doesn’t seem quite so lifeless as most.

“Do my eyes deceive me?” begins a voice from barely beyond his peripheral.

He turns to sight the owner, his eyes settling on a tall and lanky gentleman quite impeccably dressed… and rather familiar. Said gentleman approaches with an easy and almost lazy stride and an amiable smile.

“Or is that the Lieutenant Colonel?”

“Mycroft Holmes,” Mallory greets, bringing into place a polite smile. The confirmation that he knows the man is enough that he sees Ellsworth relax, though he has no doubt that the man is still closely watching as Holmes draws near and offers his hand, which Mallory shakes. “What a surprise.”

“A surprise? My dear fellow, you mustn’t know,” the man begins with the somewhat lopsided smile that has ever seemed almost a permanent feature of his face, at least when not focused upon pouring over data. “I am the owner of Diogenes.”

His surprise must be evident, because Holmes gives a good-natured laugh and shakes his head.

“I do hope that hasn’t changed your mind, Colonel?”

“No. No, of course not.”

He cannot but wonder if Cynthia realizes that one of her favorite restaurants is owned by a gentleman who serves in the very unique capacity of being a clearinghouse of information for both MI-5 and MI-6, acquiring, processing, and analyzing all sorts of data, even offering quite detailed and accurate cost-benefit and risk-reward analyses.

All without the use of a computer.

“Splendid!” Holmes exclaims, clapping his hands together. “Well then! Though I don’t often make such offers, in light of having so special a guest, I offer for you to have your choice of the available seating. Would you prefer something in a back corner, perhaps?”

“Actually, I’m not dining in this evening. I’m here to pick up a takeaway order.”

He sees Holmes’ expression change, brow furrowing in something that seems like consternation, a frown settling into place.

“How odd! Had you called the order in advance? I don’t recall seeing your name…” he begins, seeming quite perturbed. “Oh, I do hope that we haven’t erred and misplaced it.”

“No, it wouldn’t be under my name. I’m picking it up on behalf of someone else.”

“Most excellent!” he proclaims, expression affable once more, and it’s all Mallory can do to keep in place the perfunctory smile reserved for dealing with work and with colleagues.

So rarely as their paths have crossed, he had forgotten how effusive the man could be.

“And what name would be on the order?”

“Cynthia Mansfield.”

Instantaneously, in the mere span of a blink, Holmes’ smile broadens from its usual crooked appearance to something so terribly bright and enthusiastic.

“Cynthia Mansfield! Ah! Would you believe, then, Colonel, that we share an acquaintance in common? Cynthia is such a singular and talented young woman, is she not? Indeed, I don’t believe that, within the whole of my acquaintance, there is anyone else quite like her. Have you known her for long?”

Mallory cannot quite explain the odd way his chest clenches at Holmes’ oh so familiar and exceedingly fond tone, and any attempt at keeping his expression neutral becomes far more conscious of an effort to maintain.

The man really is quite tiresome, isn’t he?

“We only recently met, as a matter of fact. At her mother’s funeral.”

Again the other’s expression changes—how exhausting it must be to change almost as the weather!—and Holmes’ exuberance gives way to a much more subdued and solemn expression.

“What a terrible business that was... I was out of the country at the time, across the Pond. How I hated that I wasn’t able to attend and offer my support,” he laments with a heavy sigh and a shake of his head. “I know that must have been such a difficult day for her.”

“Yes. Quite, I would suppose, all things considered.”

Mallory elaborates no further on what is to be considered. If the man knows her so well as he seems to insinuate, then he should know; if he doesn’t, Mallory certainly wouldn’t betray what was told to him in confidence.

“Indeed. You know, in truth, my own family being what it is, over the years I have come to consider that dear lady rather like a sister to me.”

With one word, the cold grip that had taken hold of his heart, that had slowed its beating and made it feel so heavy, that had made his chest feel tight, seems to have vanished as though it had never existed, his somewhat bemused expression no doubt reflecting the shift, even as he finds himself baffled at it having occurred at all or what it was even.

“Ah! Here I am, chattering on and keeping you here conversing with me, when you’re clearly on your way to visit with far more agreeable company. So difficult as I find it, in that brotherly capacity, not to wax poetic about her many commendable qualities or to regale you with tales of her triumphs with the Orchestra—though if you have yet to hear her play violin, you really must!— But! As I said, I shall refrain and instead retrieve your takeaway. I’ll only be a moment.”

“Very well.”

As the other walks away towards the kitchen, at last Mallory allows himself to acknowledge Jim’s stare that had been rather decidedly fixed upon him since the conversation took so unexpected a turn.

Mostly recovered from… whatever it had been… he gives Jim a rather blasé look and the slightest shrug.

“A small world, I suppose,” he says, his tone unconcerned and even dismissive.

Was that the reason Cynthia had wished to bring him here? If, indeed, the two are like siblings, perhaps she had wished to introduce them—

He drops the line of thought as though scalded.

What a strange notion!

Unless, of course, she does know exactly who Mycroft Holmes is beyond the veneer of restaurateur. If she did know, perhaps she wished to facilitate the establishment of a work connection for the both of them.

Yet that idea seems only slightly less ridiculous than that last.

So much as she has tried to distance herself from everything to do with her mother, it is unlikely she would attempt to give introductions of two people within that very world.

The more reasonable explanation is that she wished to bring him here simply because he had shared several of his favorite longtime haunts with her. She insisted at the coffee shop—after that hell performance by that devil of a composer called Stravinsky—that she should return the favor and show some of her favorites to him.

Indeed, for his first time at an orchestra performance since he was a young lad, it had been a less than pleasant experience, at least where the music was concerned.

So jarring and discordant as the symphony had been, so cacophonous and unsettling, it had been all that he could do simply to maintain and to keep his seat, to not find some reason that he would need excuse himself. He had little doubt that he could signal Jim at any point, and the other would have approached—knowing exactly why without needing it explained—and told him that he was needed outside for a moment.

How simple it would have been to have had at least some reprieve from the onslaught, but it would have been so terribly ill-mannered to leave his guest unaccompanied. So he had grit his teeth and pushed down the discomfort, clamped it down tight, locked it away behind the doors he doesn’t open—but through which, from time to time, things occasionally escape.

‘We can leave. It’s no trouble, really,’ she had whispered so near to his ear, that she wouldn’t disturb others—or that she wouldn’t draw attention?

If he is honest with himself, he wasn’t terribly surprised that she had noticed. In retrospect, he knows that he did not, in fact, have it managed and to so adept an observer, that something was amiss must have been quite apparent.

What had surprised him was when she simply accepted his assurance that he was fine.

For the briefest moment, he assumed that she had perhaps chalked it up to a headache, and he had fully prepared to lean into the assumption if she raised it after the performance.

And then she had upended his reasoning, upended his plan… when she had slipped her arm through his, moving as near to him as she could manage with the seating, and to settle her hand upon his arm.

He had almost ceased to breathe as he stared at her in the dark of the concert hall with such a feeling in his chest as he refused to acknowledge. He attributed it instead to gratitude for her consideration, for her discernment, for the fact that she had wordlessly offered support, even if he was rather embarrassed and irritated with himself for the fact that it had been noticeable at all.

Still, she had even made so great a show of nonchalance, as though it was simply a thing she had done on a whim, and afterwards she had asked not one question, had said not one thing except to supply him with an answer they surely both knew wasn’t the answer at all:

‘Stravinsky isn’t for everyone.’

“Ah! My apologies for the wait, Colonel!” calls Holmes, breaking Mallory from his reverie, and in that moment how quickly he reclaims his professional air, banishing the strange smile that thoughts of either orchestra performance—and, indeed, the Lady herself at times—seem to draw from him.

“I realized when I had looked at it that the order wasn’t quite right, but it should be acceptable now.”

Mallory’s eyebrows rise a bit to see the not inconsiderable takeaway bag the man carried.

What on earth had she even ordered?

Once more, he catches himself, forcibly bringing his more diplomatic smile back into place as Holmes passes the—quite weighty—bag to him.

Without missing a beat, he offers his payment card to the man, only for Holmes to immediately hold up his hands and shake his head.

“There’s no need for that! In fact, I’ll not hear a word about payment,” Mycroft states, the latter statement interrupting his attempt to interject and insist otherwise. There is a warm grin that has replaced what Mallory realizes now was perhaps the man’s own ‘work-smile’. “I send it with my compliments, and I hope that you both have a lovely evening.”

A rather sharp people reader himself—even if not always the best at utilizing such observation to better leverage social interactions—Mallory realizes, too, in this moment, that the man’s entire bearing seems to have shifted to one far more authentic and sincere than his prior behavior. Even the tone of his voice has turned less performative, more full and natural.

If sibling-adjacent he is, indeed… Had this entire interaction been some sort of test? Had Holmes been trying to discern something from him?

To what end?

And what had he observed to so change his demeanor?

He does not allow the questions to linger, instead, after a moment, he nods… and, this time, he initiates a parting handshake to the other gentleman.

“And you as well,” he says before turning to leave.

“Oh! Wait! I’d almost forgotten!” Holmes exclaims, and Mallory turns again to see him retrieving another, far smaller bag from behind the pay counter, the initials ‘C.M.’ written upon it. “What a catastrophe that would have been! Here, allow me.”

Without waiting for answer, Holmes starts out the door, holding it open for them to follow him out and, when they reach the vehicle, still sitting in the loading lane, they get the items settled into it. Holmes once more expresses his well-wishes for the evening, and then disappears back into the restaurant.

Mallory stands there for a moment, expression one of utter bafflement, before he looks to Jim who shrugs. Shaking his head, he gets into the vehicle, and, a moment later, they depart for home.

— A SMALL WORLD

Chapter Text

CHAPTER THREE —

Mallory is uncertain how many times he has thought it today in relation to the matter of his offer and all of the problems that have been tied to it, but the moment that he unlocks his door and steps inside, gaze sweeping over his abode, the thought returns again.

What in the hell was he thinking?

He steps aside just enough to allow Ellsworth to go past him to carry out the usual security sweep upon returning home, but still he stands at the door, one takeaway bag in each arm, as he stares at the place almost as though seeing it for the first time.

It isn’t that there is anything wrong with it. Indeed, there are several nice pieces of furniture.

Walking in through the front door, there is a small entry area where stands an old wooden hall tree. Beyond that is the dining room, with a lovely antique cherry dining suite, a buffet against the wall, and a china cabinet, as well as a tea service. Aside from that, however, and a single gold-framed Scottish regimental painting on the wall separating the dining room from the kitchen… there is little else to recommend it.

It seems sparse—sterile.

Despite his stumble in finding the right word to describe it during his attempt to offer a compliment in their second meeting, Cynthia’s home had been quite comfortable and even pleasant. The furnishings were not so different from his own, most certainly antiques based upon her apparent liking of all things archaic, anachronistic, or simply old.

With a sharp, self-deprecating hiss that might have been a laugh under different circumstances, he shakes his head with a disapproving rattle and continues through the dining room to enter the kitchen that he may set the takeaway bags down upon the counter.

No, whereas his home is spartan and bland, her own had been warm and inviting, doubtlessly maintained with a great deal of care and a meticulous attention to detail. She had clearly taken great pride in it and in all within it, curating it to be just so, and how well it reflects her as a result.

The same could not be said of his own house here in the city.

Or, perhaps it could.

He isn’t certain which would be the sorrier truth.

Mallory sighs, bringing a hand up to pinch the bridge of his nose, eyes closing for a moment as he tries to regain his equanimity.

He had invited her for the sole purpose of keeping their previously established appointment and nothing more. There is absolutely no reason to concern himself with what she might think of the place. No reason at all.

Even so, when Jim returns to the main section of the home at last, the Irishman finds him in the kitchen, wiping down a spotless counter top that clearly hadn’t needed it.

“You’re all clear, Boss. Anythin’ else you need from me before I go out to the car?” Jim questions, and Mallory hears him step into the kitchen before he can even see him from his peripheral as he halts beside him.

“No. I believe that will be all for the evening,” he answers, at least feeling a bit more centered as he tosses the paper towel into the rubbish bin. He then looks to Jim who seems remarkably devoid of even the slightest glimmer of mischief in his expression, a fact which mildly alarms him, though he endeavors to keep the suspicion from his face.

If mischief hadn’t occurred to him in this moment, he certainly wasn’t going to remind him that it should have done.

“You and Stevens are, of course, free to go whenever MacCall and Singh arrive for their tour of duty.”

“Right. I’ll be on my way then,” Jim answers, brief and simple, and, in departing, the man claps him on his good shoulder before leaving. “Have a good night, Sir.”

Sir?

Sir?

When not in the company of others or in public places where their exchanges might be overheard, how many times had the other used such formal address? He can scarcely count a handful since the nature of their acquaintance had so shifted from superior officer and subordinate to the generally unspoken familial undertone that has existed for only a few years shy of two decades now.

Mallory turns to look at him as he starts out of the kitchen, and he can’t quite seem to help himself, after all.

“Is something the matter, Jim?”

The man stops and turns to look at him, expression one of confusion.

“The matter?”

“You’re acting strangely, and I’m not certain what to make of it. At this rate, I half-expect to find that you’ve short-sheeted my bed or put motor oil in my shoes.”

With a sudden bark of laughter, the other grins, crooked and roguish.

He already wishes he had said nothing.

“Y’ complain when I don’t behave, and then y’ complain when I do. Why don’t y’ make up your mind, Old Man, and tell me which it is you’d prefer?” he retorts, shaking his head. “Simple fact of the matter is that y’ already look about as nervous as a long-tailed cat in a room full of rockers.”

Mallory scoffs at the comparison, a spectacular frown taking hold, though Jim seems unbothered as he continues.

“It’d not be any fun t’ be actin’ the maggot with y’ now. You’re in no mood for it.”

“Exactly as I thought,” he begins, shaking his head. “The second you opened your mouth, I regretted asking.”

“But y’ did ask all the same, and I do so appreciate your concern. But now, I’ll be wishin’ y’ again a grand evenin', and I’ll see y’ in the morn.”

“And it had better not be a moment sooner, you jackanapes!” Mallory calls after him, hearing another blast of a laugh from somewhere near to the front door.

He hears the door open and he freezes, his heart skipping enough beats that it might be considered alarming, when he hears Jim speak.

“Ah! Miss Cynthia! What a fine evenin’ it is, and all the more t’ be graced by the sight of so lovely a lady! Don’t you just look as pretty as a picture! Maybe prettier even! How are you?”

Mallory takes the animated greeting for what it is—a warning—and there is an almost comical scramble to be certain the kitchen is in the best of shape, even as he strains his ears to hear the conversation.

“Well! Sergeant, I dare not even ask how often that silver tongue of yours gets you into trouble,” follows her amused answer, and Mallory can’t help but snort.

Yes, Jim, how often does it get you into trouble?

“—but I thank you all the same for the kindness of the compliment.”

How perfectly polite and diplomatic of her.

“I’m quite well, as I hope you are also, though I admit you gave me quite a start as I hadn’t even yet knocked on the door, and you certainly weren’t who I expected to see,” she says with a good-natured laugh, and Mallory can’t help but smile a bit himself as he readjusts his jacket to smooth it from his cleaning spree.

“I was just on me way out as a matter of fact. The Boss is—”

“Right here,” he says, stepping out from the kitchen and into view of the door. “I’m right here.”

Mallory walks toward where they stand, Jim still just inside the door and Cynthia just beyond it. She is dressed in a rather striking black, sunflower print, knee-length dress that suits her perfectly—but then again, what doesn’t?

His attention shifts to Jim.

“Surely, for all your pretty compliments you’ve more manners than to keep a lady waiting out on the doorstep, haven’t you?”

From the corner of his eye, he sees her smile broaden, her soft laugh making it difficult to keep the pretense of being cross with the other.

“Och! You’ve cut me t’ the bone, Sir, that y’ have, but you’re not wrong and that’s the worst of it. I’ve made an arse of m’self indeed, and me mother would be shamed t’ have borne such a son!” he exclaims, looking so very contrite indeed. “Well! If you’ll forgive the unintended sleight and accept the sincerest of apologies, Miss Cynthia, I’ll be on me way and let y’ pass.”

“All is quite forgiven, I assure you,” she says, making a great show herself of magnanimity, though when she glances from Ellsworth to him, Mallory can’t help but notice the amusement in her eyes and the threat of a smile tugging at the corners of her lips.

A lovely sight indeed.

Clearing his throat—for effect, of course—he looks to Jim.

“Alright then. Your apology has been accepted. Off with you, before you find some other excuse to loiter.”

“I’m a-goin’. I’m a-goin’,” Jim grouses, though that grin makes an appearance again. He gives a brief bow of his head as he passes Cynthia before making his way to the car, and Mallory watches with a look of mock disapproval to be certain that he gets there.

Cynthia’s laugh steals his attention, and he turns to look at her, only to find that her gaze was already on him.

“I can see now what you meant, at the Orchestra. I bet he keeps you on your toes.”

“It’s so difficult to find good help these days,” he says before he steps to the side and holds open the door that she might enter. “Please, do come in.”

“Thank you,” she says with another beautiful smile as she steps into the home.

It certainly isn’t anxiety that keeps his eyes on her, trying to watch for even a minute shift that might indicate her thoughts upon entering, and yet he watches all the same, even as he closes and secures the door behind them.

“Your home is… very stream-lined. It seems so efficient and open,” she says, her smile not faltering for even a moment.

He can’t quite catch the brief laugh that escapes him, though when her attention shifts to him again in mild bemusement, he shakes his head.

Why had he even worried in the first place? She seems not only capable of seeing the positive in almost anything, but to quite decidedly seek it, even with such a comparatively bleak place as this.

“Thank you,” he says, a faint smile lingering, and he means it. “If you’d like, you can set your violin case and satchel down on the buffet near the wall over there, so that they’ll be in a safe location."

“Alright,” she says, giving him a wry look over her shoulder as she starts toward the indicated table. “I can’t imagine how claustrophobic you must have felt walking through my well-appointed home. I can certainly understand now why you might have been a bit at a loss for words.”

Tension in his neck and shoulders that he hadn’t even realized was there begins to relax, the somewhat teasing tone as she repeats what his compliment to her had been when he first saw her home does wonders to soothe.

How does she manage to put him so at ease?

“I confess, I would attribute my loss for words much more to an infrequency in making such house calls. Just as the state of things here has less to do with personal preference and more to do simply with the fact that, even prior to MI-6, I do little more than sleep here.”

Mallory watches as she first gently sets down her satchel—seemingly cautious not to scuff the finish on the table—and then so carefully takes her violin case from her shoulder to set it down as well, something almost reverent in the gesture.

“If you don’t spend much time here, I can’t fault you for keeping it simple. It’s much easier to navigate and upkeep that way. If I told you the hours upon hours of dusting and cleaning that I do every week… you would likely be horrified. It’s positively nightmarish,” she laughs, as she turns to look at him once more. “It’s worth it, of course. But still.”

He chuckles, shaking his head before he glances to the kitchen and then back to her.

“If you’re ready to eat, the takeaway is on the island. I wasn’t certain exactly what you ordered, so I thought it best to leave checking it to you.”

“I can do that,” she answers, moving past him and into the kitchen, and he follows after her.

He sees the moment that she takes note of the bags and as she stops almost midstep, head canting to one side in obvious confusion… before she resumes her walk toward it.

She moves to the bag and looks to him.

“This was the order?” she questions, and there returns some of that tension.

Was something the matter? Had Holmes given him the wrong order?

“So I was informed,” he answers, hedging a bit.

“Hm!”

Finally, she opens the larger of the two bags and peers down into it, and the fact that she only looks more puzzled does nothing to ease that unsettled feeling.

She takes first from the bag a small stack of quite high-end throwaway plates, and sitting on top of them are two sets of cloth napkins rolled and secured in such a way as he assumes means there is silverware wrapped up in it.

Actual silverware?

He draws nearer at that, moving to stand beside her, his brow furrowed in shared confusion.

The next items she takes from the bag are two large, clear lid containers. Inside of one appears to be several plastic, lidded ramikens with various dressings and the other is entirely full with an assortment of desserts.

“I didn’t order this…” she says, even as she sets the containers down and reaches for the next ones. Taking them from the bag reveals two sizable salads.

“Well, I did order salads, but they were side salads to the entrees.”

Those, too, are set down, and she reaches in once more to remove another large to-go container with a clear lid, yet, before he has a chance to note what is in it, she suddenly laughs, setting the box down to reach in and take out a small square of paper.

“The absolute menace!” she suddenly proclaims, before turning the note to show him.

‘ Compliments of the chef. Enjoy. - M.H. ’

He looks from the paper to Cynthia. Whereas something about it seems to have made sense of this situation for her, his own confusion remains.

“He must have made the meal, and it looks like he added more than a few items that I didn’t order, the ridiculous man! Gareth, he is absolutely incorrigible,” she says, shaking her head, her laughter finally subsiding as she regains her composure, though a smile remains as she looks up to meet his confused stare.

She seems to notice and begins to explain.

“Mycroft is my Jim, if you understand. He’s been something of an utterly insufferable, mischievous sibling. We met what seems like ages ago when myself and some of my colleagues ventured to Diogenes after an orchestra performance. He had attended that night and recognized that we were with the orchestra. He absolutely loves music—though he can’t play a note of it—so he came over to chat and even comped all of our meals.”

At last, his expression relaxes again, now understanding what had happened, a soft chuckle escaping him.

“He did the same today, as a matter of fact. He wouldn’t even hear of me paying for the meal, despite my insistence.”

“Of course he did,” she says, shaking her head and chuckling again. “I didn’t know that he would do that, but I suppose that it really doesn’t surprise me either. I sometimes wonder how he makes a living at all. Do you see the ridiculousness that I’ve put up with over the years? He’s absolutely impossible.”

“I not only understand, but I quite sympathize as well,” he says, glancing back in the direction of the door.

“I have no doubt of that,” she agrees. “I truly don’t know how you manage.”

“Oh, allow me to assure you that it is a struggle. An aggravating and never-ending struggle, though my Chief-of-Security does have some redeeming qualities, how-ever slight,” he says, before reaching for the other bag and opening it, taking from it a bottle of wine. When he notes the vintage, his eyes widen a bit in surprise.

“Then again, I don’t think Jim has ever been so generous as to give me such a spectacular vintage of red wine. If he had, I might have more to say to his credit. Or, at least, I might have after a few drinks.”

He hears a more brief laugh escape her this time, and then she unexpectedly moves to stand closer still, leaning in a bit to better see the bottle, the pleasant, gentle scent of her perfume catching him. In the same moment, when she leans in as she does, her hand shifts to rest on the upper back of his arm.

His heart certainly does not stop for a moment and his breath does not catch before either resumes again. Absolutely not. That would be utterly ridiculous.

If it did occur, however, he would be quite grateful that she seems not to notice, too distracted by the sight of the label as her eyes go wide as well.

“Oh, no! Don’t let him fool you! That’s restitution for some past nonsense, a guilty conscious, or bribery of some sort!” she exclaims. “What’s more, I’d wager you more than earned that yourself dealing with him today. I do hope that he didn’t give you too much trouble.”

How she looks at him, with such sharp focus, as though she might determine the truth of the matter before he even answers.

“No,” he says simply. He can only hope that he doesn’t look nearly so flustered as he feels at the moment.

“No, he didn’t cause me any trouble at all. He simply greeted me when I walked into the restaurant and brought out the takeaway bags. He even carried out the wine to the car.”

It isn’t being untruthful. The interesting exchange at the restaurant was certainly nothing about which for her to potentially fret.

It had been perfectly fine, not even of note, really.

“Good. I’m glad to hear that,” she says with an absolutely beaming smile before she steps away that she can begin to sort the takeaway containers. “Do you have any glasses? I daresay that might be the only thing that he didn’t set in here for us.”

“I do.”

Setting down the wine bottle upon the island, he seizes the opportunity to make a temporary tactical retreat. He walks over to a cabinet near the refrigerator to take from it two wine glasses.

“I’ll… take these to the dining room. Is the food still warm?”

“Fairly so, though it might benefit from being reheated just a touch.”

“The microwave has been a bit finicky the past couple of days. You’ll need to press time cook and input whatever time you think, then press start. If it doesn’t, I’ll have to see about finesseing it again,” he advises.

The two wine glasses in one hand, he picks up the wine bottle with his free hand and walks past her and into the dining room.

“Oh? Have you great skill in talking microwaves around to seeing your side of things?” she calls to him as he sets the wine bottle and glasses down upon the table and turns to the china cabinet against the wall, opening the drawer to take from it two place mats.

“Something like that,” he calls back as he sets the place mats on the table. “The term we used in the military was percussive maintenance.”

The laugh from the kitchen is such as tells him that he had caught her off-guard, and he huffs a laugh and starts back into the kitchen. She turns from the microwave to look at him, one eyebrow raised.

“I can quite honestly say that I’ve never heard that one. Percussive maintenance. You know, I think I might have unknowingly used that method before with my telly.”

The moment she says she’s done percussive maintenance on her telly, it becomes very clear to him that she can’t have done that with any modern television. He scoffs, shaking his head and looking to her in near disbelief.

“Oh no. Don’t tell me. As well as a gramophone you have one of those goliath, black and white sets.”

“Excuse you!” she exclaims, pointing a finger at him as her other hand rests on her hip. “I’ll have you know that I quite prefer my goliath of a black and white telly. And! If you don’t care for black and white, you ought to have specified that when I asked what films you might want to watch.”

He holds up his hands in mock surrender—though he cannot truly say he regrets provoking such a spirited reaction either. How she makes him smile!

When was the last time he had ever smiled so much?

He cannot seem to remember for certain…

“My apologies. I hadn’t intended to give offense. I’m certain it’s a perfectly fine set.”

“It quite is, and I’ll not have it besmirched in such a manner. But! I suppose it can be forgiven just this once… if you can, indeed, convince the microwave to properly work.”

“How good of you. I shall remain forever in your debt for the opportunity, madam,” he answers with a slight bow—and definitely not being quite pleased with how her smile broadens again—before he moves to where she stands, already looking at the microwave. “If you’ll step just slightly to the side, please…”

She does so with no more prompting than that, and, removing his suit jacket at last to set upon the kitchen barstool at the island, he leans down and reaches out to carefully turn the appliance a bit. He does a cursory examination to make sure nothing had externally changed since last he checked. Satisfied that there are no sparks, stripped or pulled wires or anything else that might be a more evident issue, he turns it back into place again.

Very carefully, very precisely… he strikes it with the flat of his palm, and then he presses the start button.

It immediately begins to work, the microwave humming as the plate inside turns.

“You are an absolute wonder, do you know that?” she questions in seeming disbelief and, despite the fact that she’s joking—she must be, right? over something so insignificant?—still he smiles, just a little, at the compliment. “Do you know, when I have had to try that with my poor telly, it sometimes takes four or five attempts to find where the disconnect is?”

“Well, as has been established, I haven’t quite the talent for cooking that you do. I suppose if one is hungry enough, and the offending appliance is the main source for sustenance, you have a bit more motivation.”

“We really ought to fix that,” she replies, nodding sagely, even as she goes about readying the next plate. “You know, in case the thing ever chooses to be more decidedly uncooperative.”

“Yes, perhaps that would be a wise course of action.”

“And your arm is out of the sling now, so now you’ve no excuse,” she retorts, a rather pointed look given.

The microwave beeps, and she takes out the first plate, then sets the next in and leans down a bit to better see the display that she might set the time.

He chuckles and shakes his head, a smile of his own persisting.

“That’s quite true. You have me there.”

At his answer, she pauses her fiddling with the numeric pad just long enough to look up at him with a teasing smile.

Perhaps he should mention to his doctor that odd fluttering in his chest the next he’s subjected to the yearly physical.

“I suppose you should consider yourself fortunate. If you hadn’t already gone to such trouble to retrieve so marvelous a meal, I might even have shown you a thing or two today.”

“You don’t think that would have been too overtaxing then?” he retorts, raising an eyebrow at her, that wry look returned.

“Somehow, I have perfect faith that you could have managed,” she answers, starting the microwave without issue this time and standing up straight again. “But then, you still wouldn’t have had to be out at all hours, which was the main of my concern, smart aleck.”

He huffs another laugh but says nothing more, allowing the familiar and comfortable silence to settle as they wait for the microwave to finish its task.

When it does, he takes the container from the counter top, opens the door of the microwave, and takes out the one from there as well before looking to her and indicating the direction of the dining room.

“After you.”

She answers with a slight nod and, when she starts out of the kitchen with the salad containers in hand, he falls into step behind her.

— WARNING

Chapter Text

CHAPTER FOUR —

“That meal truly was superb,” Mallory says as he follows behind her, returning to the kitchen at last. “I had never dined in—or ordered takeaway from—Diogenes prior to this, but Mister Holmes may well have earned himself another customer.”

“He really is a marvelous chef. The actual chef employed by the restaurant is as well, as a matter of fact,” she answers smiling over her shoulder at him as she moves to the island.

She sets down the plate with what remains of her meal, as well as the dessert container—both of which still had plenty left.

Significantly less remained of his own supper, but that there was any left at all surprised him. There aren’t many meals he can say he’s ever had that he wasn’t able to clear the plate in one sitting, but this had certainly been one. That they both felt obligated to try at least one of the desserts had made the concept of pacing even more of a necessity.

“Wait,” he begins, setting his own plate down onto the island, as well as the wine bottle—the latter not substantially lighter than when first he carried it into the dining room, but still lighter. “I recall you saying, a while back about that soup you made… The Brown Windsor Soup… that a friend had given you the recipe. Might I surmise that was Mister Holmes then?”

“You might,” she confirms and there is something to her expression that seems surprised, but perhaps pleasantly so. “Yes, Mycroft is the one who gave me the recipe. Why?”

“No reason, really. Merely for clarification,” he says with a quiet chuckle. “I simply hadn’t realized at the time you meant that you had received the recipe from someone who was a chef by profession.”

She laughs outright, light and warm, before she replies. “It hadn’t even occurred to me until you saying that just now that I ought to have specified I meant an actual chef… I suppose, when one does have a chef for a friend or family member, it’s easy to forget that most throw that word around a bit more cavalierly.”

“I can certainly assure you that I shall not be one of them, and certainly not after this,” he says, shaking his head. “Do relay my thanks when next you speak to him, as well as a hearty appreciation for such talent and such a meal.”

“Against my better judgement, I will, though I wager there will be no tolerating him after such a high compliment as that.”

“I quite understand. It would seem Mister Holmes and Jim share several striking similarities. Perhaps I should leave it instead to your discretion.”

“Perhaps. I’ll do my best to determine some way to manage it without overly encouraging his ego."

When silence settles once more, he looks around the kitchen and assesses what would need to be done to tidy. Cynthia already had begun to return the leftovers of her meal to her original container, and that would leave his plate, tossing away the salad containers, and cleaning the forks, then putting everything that needed it into the refrigerator.

Before beginning on the work, he takes the opportunity to unbutton and properly roll up the sleeves of his shirt. His vest and tie he had removed as they enjoyed dessert and another glass of wine, but certainly he wouldn’t wish his sleeves to be stained in this process.

Neatly rolling them to his elbows, he sets to gathering up the trash and tossing it into the rubbish bin, clearing the workspace a bit. Once that’s done, he moves to stand beside her, that he may reclaim his own meal container and begin to scrape his food back into it.

Except… in the midst of doing so, he suddenly becomes quite sharply aware that Cynthia had not only suddenly ceased her own attempts to clean, but also that, from his peripheral, he can see that she keeps glancing at him.

Or, rather, more specifically… she keeps staring at his arms.

Mallory doesn’t even have to look down to verify the cause, but he does even so.

The scars scattered in a myriad of markings about his wrists and forearms have faded over the years, but they persist, even still, reminders of the past.

That he does not feel the need to pull back down his sleeves, to re-button them that the marks are hidden once more from view, is notable in and of itself. He can’t remember even once when he has afforded the same level of transparency to any other besides the person who saw them when they were all still wounds in various stages of healing, still beneath the biting and tearing bind of the ropes.

His gaze shifts from the seemingly sporadic pale marks to her, even as he turns more fully toward her. He suddenly finds himself quite curious of what she will say—or if she will say anything at all.

When he turns as he does, blue-grey eyes snap up to meet his own, slightly wide, and looking rather as one who has been caught after trying very hard not to be.

He watches in silence as her face takes on a rather decided tinge of pink and she bites her lip, a habit of hers that he’s noticed appearing from time to time when she’s nervous or thinking very hard about something. Indeed, he suspects this time that it may be a mixture of both as he’s fairly certain that he can almost hear that mind of hers spinning. He has little doubt at all that she is desperately trying to find some other subject to redirect from what had clearly caught her attention.

At least twice now, she has noticed something he had not intended to be noticed.

The first time she had been kind enough to lend what aid she could—even without knowing why it was needed—and she had even given him an excuse.

‘Stravinsky isn’t for everyone.’

This time…

This time he gives her a small and somewhat heavy smile but a smile all the same.

“It’s alright, Cynthia,” he says gently, quietly, trying to reassure. “If you’re wondering… they’re souvenirs from my time spent subject to the… hospitality of the IRA.”

He cannot help but to wonder if she will request more information this time, now that he has offered that much, unasked. He watches as her expression changes, her eyes softening even as her brow furrows and the corners of her lips downturn.

After a moment, her eyes shift more deliberately to his wrists and arms, her gaze so methodically tracing over each of the telltale scars as though she might take note of each mark, each mar, each burn. She looks as though she means to decipher and to understand, as best she can, the stories they tell, as though she might hear the things that he could never fully say, never fully explain.

So intense is her stare that he would swear that he can almost feel it against his skin, but he does not tense and he does not move away from her, does not try to re-establish distance.

His own eyes remain fixed upon her face, watching, attempting to determine the nature of her thoughts.

It is somewhat of a surprise to realize that he sees not a hint of anything resembling pity. If he had, there is no question that he would have turned from her and busied himself with something else, created an escape.

He is not a man to be pitied.

No, instead, what he observes is far weightier than that, far more than that. He sees in her eyes and in her general demeanor an almost staggering hurt and sadness. The emotions are so clear and so profound, that it makes his own heart clench and lurch in his chest, his throat tight.

It feels as though he is stripped bare again, exposed and vulnerable.

Then, during the time when those scars were created, such nakedness had meant jeers and critiques. Their commentary dissected him, reduced him down to parts that they might appraise, rather than considering the entirety of the man. Through their efforts, they meant to dehumanize and degrade, to break the spirit that it might be made more pliable, more agreeable to their cause.

This, however…

The feeling is one-hundred fold what it had been at the first orchestra performance, when she noticed that something was wrong, when she moved so near to him and comforted as best she could, anchoring him to the moment with the warmth of her presence, the gentle touch of her hand.

How strange it is to be so terribly and fully seen! How impactful to see another—even one who was not there and could never understand, could never fully know—moved to such a degree.

He feels perhaps too human, in this moment, too alive, nerves alight and heart thudding so loudly that he can almost believe that she might hear it.

Yet, before it can become too much, at last her eyes rise to meet his own once more.

He can see the way that she blinks a few times and the hard swallow as she tries to compose herself. Even so, she does not shy away from this or from him. She holds his gaze, and for a moment, he almost forgets himself, almost allows himself to consider what lurks along the edges of whatever this has been these past months.

Then, despite the telltale mistiness to her eyes and the slightest tremble to her bottom lip, she gives him a soft smile even as she exhales a shaky sigh. And then… and then she reaches out, hand once more so softly settled upon his arm, resting lightly over those scars at his wrists before she gives the slightest squeeze.

“Thank you…” she murmurs—but for what? for telling her even so little as that? or for something else? something more?—and then she nods once and she turns to take up the silverware. She carries it to the sink, turning on the water to clean the utensils.

Mallory doesn’t mistake the action for a weak stomach on her part, some delicate sensibility that needs to retreat from whatever horrors she might have considered, might have pieced together from the fragments of it scattered across his skin. How could he?

No, so observant as she is, he has no doubt that she could see his unraveling composure, and she endeavors merely to relinquish his space to him once more, to allow him the reprieve he so desperately needs to breathe and to pull himself back together.

With the water running, he looks to the ceiling and exhales a shaky sigh of his own, turning that he can set both hands upon the counter top, to steady, allowing himself to breathe.

He is still simply a bit over-tired.

He’s fine.

When the moment passes, he stands tall again, resuming his task of clearing the island, taking up the repacked plates and bringing all of them, hers included, to the refrigerator that they wouldn’t sit out until her departure after the film. As he closes the door of the appliance, he hears the water stop running, and he moves to her, taking up the dish drying towel before she can and offering a small smile when she looks to him.

“Allow me,” he offers, holding out his hands for the utensils, then adding, with a fair attempt at a wry smile, “I suspect this will be far more genuinely helpful without the sling.”

It receives the desired result, a soft little laugh, as she passes them to him.

“I don’t know. I thought your presence quite helpful then, too. You acted as rather marvelous moral support.”

He responds with a huff of a laugh, and, as he begins to dry the cutlery, he can feel the slightest of smiles tugging at the corners of his mouth again as he shakes his head.

“How glad I am to hear that I wasn’t entirely useless.”

Her smile remains as she shakes her head in turn.

Still there is something so… so soft and so warm to her expression as she looks at him, and there goes his heart doing such strange things again.

“Speaking of being useful, is there anything else for me to do, or shall I see about bringing out your options for films that you can choose which best appeals to you?” she questions before adding. “Do you still have the time?”

“I do,” he confirms, though he doesn’t even look at his watch. Regardless of what it might say, his answer would be unchanged, and he knows it. “If you’d like to retrieve the films, feel free, and I’ll be out in just a moment. As you’ve doubtlessly gathered, the reception room isn’t on this floor but on the one above us. Security reasons, you understand.”

“Of course,” she says as she departs from the kitchen, leaving him a moment to his thoughts as he finishes the last of his cleaning tasks.

— REPRIEVE

Chapter Text

CHAPTER FIVE—

Satisfied that the job was done, Mallory departs the kitchen, and seemingly the moment Cynthia hears his approach, she turns from her satchel, DVDs in hand.

“Are you ready?” he questions, gesturing to the stairs.

“I am!”

She crosses to the steps and walks up, him following behind her.

Upon reaching the next floor, into the long hall, he directs her to the right and into a largely open wood-paneled room, though, based on the layout of the furniture, it is clearly divided into two different spaces.

She had been kind indeed, downstairs, he knows for certain. He has no doubt that she saw the positives that she stated the rooms downstairs to have, but the way she lights up the moment they step fully into the room makes it quite clear that this is more to her preference.

Indeed, if there is any personality at all to his dwelling here, this floor is perhaps the most indicative of it.

The front of the large room functions as library, study, and office, all in one. Shelves made of dark rich wood line the walls, entirely packed full with books and some even neatly set upon their shelves in double rows. Notably set back away from the window, situated just to the left of the second door—the one further down the hall from the door they used—is a grand old oak, leather-top desk with a comfortable chair.

The side into which they entered, at the back of the home, is the reception room. Set on a diagonal in the corner of the room—across from the door—sits a television on a credenza and arranged around it is a comfortable leather sofa with a throw folded over the back of it, a matching leather chair, and a coffee table.

“Shall I suppose that, when home and not sleeping, this is where you spend a good deal of your time?” she questions as she steps a bit further into the room, taking in their surroundings with what seems a delighted smile and then looking to him.

“Yes, that would be a fair supposition,” he says as he looks around the room in turn.

“I thought as much. It’s very you,” she says, and he isn’t sure what sort of expression he must have worn but she laughs. “Oh, that’s a compliment, I assure you. It’s perfectly charming. I daresay, upon seeing this, that our tastes aren’t so dissimilar, after all. It’s almost like being at home.”

He finds it more and more alarming how such simple words, such seemingly insignificant exchanges, seem to so affect him. So offhanded a statement she makes, and yet, how he smiles to hear it, how his heart seems to swell and how the warmth seems to spread, any last lingering stress from the day giving way to feelings that seem nearly foreign to him.

Is this what peace feels like?

He dares not further query, not quite wishing to know what more he might find there.

“… Did you wish to look about first or go straight to the film?” he questions.

“Oh! I’m sure I would love to peruse the shelves and see what you have in your collection. Based upon the sheer volume of books, I suspect that I might perhaps even find a few titles I’ve overlooked with my own! However!” she begins with a little laugh. “I shall behave myself. I don’t want to keep you any later than it will be already by the time we finish one of these films. So enjoyable as it might be, I’ll not be the reason you don’t sleep tonight.”

That particular phrasing—and its various implications—must have caught him off-guard, because his gaze snaps to her, just in time to see her face flush a rather brilliant pink as she quickly adds, “By delaying the start of the film, I mean! I am still quite set upon making certain you get your rest, after all.”

“Very well then. If you’ll be seated, we’ll sort which film to watch, and I’ll set it in the player,” he offers, trying his best to carry on and not draw more attention to the verbal misstep lest she be further embarrassed. She certainly hadn’t intended to say that, after all. “What are our options for this evening?”

“Well,” she begins, her stare rather decidedly set upon the three DVDs in hand, even as she walks about the sofa and sits upon the middle cushion. “I brought some of my favorites. Our options are ‘The Adventures of Robin Hood’ (1938) with Errol Flynn and Olivia de Havilland, ‘Casablanca’ (1942) with Humphrey Bogart and Ingrid Bergman, or ‘The Scarlet Pimpernel’ (1932) with Leslie Howard and Merle Oberon. Have you seen any of those before?”

What a selection! Each and every one of the films even older than he is! If he knew any less about her, he would assume she had done it on purpose, and yet, knowing what he does, he can’t imagine what else he might have expected.

Exactly what else would be best watched on a black and white telly if not the films originally made for such presentation?

“Yes, two of them,” he says as he walks around to stand between the sofa and where the television sits. “In fact, I rather keenly remember watching several of Errol Flynn’s swashbuckling films as a boy and trying to mimic them, much to the chagrin of my mother and to the detriment of her antique vase.”

“Oh no!” she exclaims with a bright laugh. “Not the vase, surely.”

“Oh, indeed the vase. Completely shattered the damn thing on the floor and earned myself a reminder that any swashbuckling adventures needed to take place outside the house.”

“My goodness! And you had the nerve to protest my use of rapscallion!”

“In retrospect, perhaps you weren’t so far from the truth of it,” he admits with a soft chuckle of his own.

“Perhaps not,” Cynthia retorts with a knowing look. “So, you said you had seen two of them. What was the other?”

“Casablanca. I rather enjoyed that one as well.”

Though, he will quite decidedly ignore, for the moment, how he may currently share more with Bogart right now than he would care to acknowledge.

“The Scarlet Pimpernel… I admit, I have only a passing familiarity with it. I believe that it’s a book as well, isn’t it?”

“It is! It’s one of my absolute favorites. In fact! Only a few months ago, I had gifted to me a first edition printing of the book, in the most marvelous condition. I could scarcely believe it! I’m shocked that you’ve never read it!” she proclaims with no small amount of disbelief before she continues, teasing him. “It’s so quintessentially British that I might even say that I’m appalled!”

“I suppose I’ve been quite remiss, then, to overlook it,” he says. “What is it about?”

“It’s set in 1792, and it revolves around a daring band of Englishmen led by a mysterious figure known only as The Scarlet Pimpernel. Their purpose is to save all those such as they are able who have fallen afoul of the French Revolution, all at the risk of their own lives. The film takes liberties, so I would still very much recommend you read the book also, but as that’s the only one you’ve not seen, would you care to watch it?”

If he is honest, that she stated it is one of her very favorites had already quite decided the issue, though he must also admit that the premise intrigues him. He had heard of it, certainly, but he had simply never looked further into it—in any of its various iterations.

“Yes, that seems a fine choice for the evening,” he agrees and it was certainly the correct decision, based upon the beaming smile that followed it.

As she sets to opening the case, he turns on the telly and the player for the DVD, then returns to retrieve the disc from her and set it in the tray. Taking up the remote for the player from atop the machine, he walks over and sits down on the right side of the sofa—a decent and respectable amount of space between them—and he looks to her.

“Ready then?”

“I am! I can’t wait for you to see it. I really do think that you’ll like it.”

“Given your praise for it, I have high hopes, at least,” he answers before pressing play on the remote then setting it onto the coffee table as he turns his attention to the screen.

It is no shock at all to him when the quality of the picture is indeed that grainy and somewhat unfocused sort so reminiscent of that era, when the sound crackles, noise persisting even when otherwise there would be silence. He must admit that her reasons for preferring gramophones to digital music also applies to the films born from the early years of cinema. There was more character to them.

The film opens to the beginning cast cards with their old type fonts, telling who would be in the picture. He recognizes a few of the names from other films, but the most easily so are certainly the principles, Howard and Oberon.

After the opening credits, they enter upon familiar scenery: England, with soldiers going through drills in the yard. From there, it introduces the Prince of Wales, which begins the introduction into the Pimpernel and the necessity of his exploits, a newspaper shown on the screen to explain the horrors perpetrated in France:

‘Paris. June 5th 1792 On Wednesday last no fewer than fifty-three persons, including young girls, were guillotined by the order of Citizen Robespierre, the self-styled Dictator of France. An eye witness described the scene as heart-rending.’

“June 5th! That’s tomorrow! Oh, that’s so odd. I’d forgotten the date,” she quietly remarks, amused by the coincidence.

“A fitting time to watch, I suppose,” he answers as he glances to her before he settles a bit better back into the leather of the couch, his elbow settling upon the armrest to his right, already quite interested in this plot.

The action moves to Paris. It certainly looks the part of a people, city, and country gone mad. Still there are those moving among the chaos and tumult that distinguish themselves, and he takes note, curious if they’ll have to do with this band of Englishmen.

They do.

The first of the rescues is quite clever, though it does not go entirely as planned when one of those who they had intended to save is held back at the order of Citizen Robespierre.

The best-laid plans, and all that.

He sympathizes.

As the film continues, he finds himself quite entertained by it and certainly by the figure of Sir Percival Blakeney, Baronet—living the life of a dimwit and a fashion-obsessed fool to hide that he is the elusive Pimpernel. It is a part he plays with gusto, despite the weight that he admits bears down upon him.

“So many die every day that could be saved,” one of the League laments in arguing for an increase to their numbers.

“You think I don’t feel that? Do you think I like sitting there in the shadow of the knife, while one head falls after another? People I know and love? Innocent people? Kindly people?” Percy returns. “Herded like sheep. Butchered like cattle. And by men who make high-sounding principles an excuse for the most bestial cruelty!”

The words might as well have been written for today, for thirty years ago, even, during the Troubles. He cannot help but to be struck by how well they transcend the period for which they were intended to describe. How deeply they resonate even now, even with him.

Were those not his own thoughts during the Troubles? Were they not a young Jim Ellsworth’s thoughts when he volunteered to do his part to help put an end to the horror of it all?

‘I think you know why most have passed you for this particular assignment, Ellsworth, but I’m going to ask you outright, because I think you deserve the opportunity to state your case. Taking into account your ties, the nationality of your mother, why put in for this?”

'I won’t argue the point of if I think Ireland should be separate of England. Me way of speakin’ aside, I’m as much a part of one country as the other, and me parents and m’self have suffered the brunt of the whole ordeal. Me poor mother was disowned for havin’ the nerve to fall in love with an Englishman, for defyin’ her family to run off with him. So I understand the thing, and I understand how deep it runs. But, whatever anyone might think, whatever anyone might want, it’s been goin' on too long with innocent people gettin’ caught up in it. Grandparents. Parents. Children. People who aren’t soldiers, aren’t combatants, but they bleed and they die all the same. It isn’t right…'

He had decided on the spot that, regardless of what anyone else thought, he would accept Ellsworth into the unit under his direct command. When asked, he had stated the simple truth of it, 'Because I think he understands better than most why this has to stop.'

He had never regretted the choice.

What’s more, it had likely saved his life.

Movement from his peripheral breaks him from his train of thought, a fact for which he’s grateful in realizing to where those thoughts were beginning to wander.

From the corner of his eye, he looks at Cynthia. The movement had been that she brought her arms up about her, and he notices the way her overall posture seems a bit tensed, stiff, a sharp contrast to the openness and ease of her expression as she watches… and then he notices the slight shiver.

He turns his head to more clearly look at her and it catches her attention, causing her to look to him as well.

“Are you cold?”

“Oh, it’s nothing. I’m fine,” she says with a shrug.

“You’re shivering,” he pointedly returns with a dry look, which draws from her an almost bashful smile.

“Well. I suppose, I’ve always been a bit cold-natured, but it’s really nothing over which to worry.”

“That it’s nothing about which to worry doesn’t mean that you should simply suffer through it, either.”

He stands up from the sofa and he sees her watching him as he walks to retrieve the throw from the other side, opening it and shaking it to be certain it was devoid of spiders. Quite assured that it was suitable and safe, he steps toward her again, handing it to her that she might settle it as she likes.

There it is again, as she thanks him, that look of hers that is soft and warm and just shy of wonderment, that look that makes him feel as though he really has done something, something far more spectacular than the simple act of retrieving a blanket for her that she wouldn’t be cold.

He clears his throat, nods in acknowledgement of her offered thanks, and then he sits back down on the sofa, his arm resting on the back of it.

He turns his attention back to the screen, rather than on the feeling in his chest.

Another tense exchange occurs between Sir Percival and his wife Marguerite. Her brother pursues Percy to learn the cause of their estrangement, and Percy explains it to him without hesitation.

Marguerite had been responsible for the denouncement of the St. Cyr family, the first family to go to the guillotine.

“I watched that execution. The Marquis. His wife. His son. And it was my wife… who put them there.”

“… So that’s why you ceased to love her. What a tragedy…”

“Ceased? I shall love her till I die. That’s the tragedy.”

He cannot but wonder that he has never seen this film prior to now when it seems to have so well-constructed a script and so marvelous a production.

What, indeed, could be more of a tragedy than to love one you know that you cannot?

The scene changes again, now to a coat fitting for the Prince where Percy advises him on the matter of fashion in such a perfect performance that it is no wonder how all think the man a fool. He finds himself chuckling a bit at Percy’s summation of the whole travesty.

“Plain? It’s as ugly as a parson’s widow! Open up your sleeve, man! Let your ruffles take the air! Let ‘em flow! Let ‘em ripple! So that when his Royal Highness takes snuff, it will be a swallow’s flight.”

“That’s it!” the Prince exclaims. “Why! Dem’me. Percy. You’re brainless, spineless, useless, but you do know clothes!”

“Odd’s fish! That’s— That’s something, isn’t it, Sir?” Percy returns, seemingly glad merely to have some discernible value.

It would appear that Cynthia was correct. If the film continues on in this manner, he may very well have to list it as one of his favorites, too.

No sooner than he has the thought, however, does she rather decidedly catch his attention again when she seems to lean, ever so slightly more toward him, almost but not quite against his side. He does not turn to look at her, merely glances again from the corner of his eye.

Her own attention still seems quite set upon the screen, so he hardly thinks it was intentional. The thought occurs to him, then, that she might very well still be chilled. The place always has had a tendency to be a bit colder at night, though it had never bothered him prior to now as he has always been rather warm-natured.

At the moment, however, considering that she might be uncomfortable because of it is rather vexing.

It simply won’t do.

“Are you still cold?”

“A bit,” she answers with a chagrined expression.

He doesn’t even hesitate. Without giving it a second thought, he moves closer to her that she is settled against his side in earnest—doing what he could to help her just as she had done for him at the orchestra, though the reasons and purposes are so vastly different.

She is more than a bit chilled still, he realizes, when he is able to feel the cold on her skin even despite his shirt and the undershirt beneath it.

And she was simply going to soldier on through it! Honestly.

Cynthia looks to him and then she smiles, thanking him again before looking to the telly once more… as she presses just a bit closer, a bit more snug.

He returns his gaze quite decidedly to the screen, ignoring the recurring flutter in his chest and hoping she is too immersed in the film to notice it. He ignores, too, that sitting with her like this, so close, feels just as natural and as comfortable as it had felt at the orchestra.

It may be even more so now when there are no spectres of memory to battle back into their containment.

He focuses on the film.

They’re at Lord Grenville’s Ball now, and Percy is regaling the various ladies present with his oh-so-clever poem.

“They seek him here.

They seek him there.

Those Frenchies seek him everywhere.

Is he in heaven? Or is he in… ha-ha!”

Percy laughs with an indication to the ground below them, omitting the word hell in the presence of the ladies.

“That demmed elusive Pimpernel!”

He focuses upon the screen with great interest as the various parties literally and figuratively dance around each other.

He watches as Marguerite endeavors, under duress from Chauvelin, to learn the identity of that very Pimpernel, and Mallory certainly does not notice the way Cynthia finally seems to have stopped shivering or that he can no longer feel the cold through his own clothing.

Then there is the poor Comtesse de Tourney as she makes a plea to the Prince that England help save her husband, and the Prince gives his somber lament that England has done all that it can.

“But if a country goes mad, it has the right to commit every horror within its own walls.”

It is a terrible truth, and yet a truth all the same. It is no different today, and again he marvels at how well-done this film has been thus far.

He certainly does not consider the feelings of perfect contentment and ease that seem to have settled over him with the presence of the one nestled against his side.

He watches as Marguerite enacts her plan, feigning that she had almost swooned, overcome by the temperature within the dance hall while so many bodies crowded together in the space, participating in the minuet. Her gambit succeeds as she obtains a glance at poor Sir Andrew Ffoulkes’ note and tells Chauvelin what she had learned:

The Scarlet Pimpernel would be in the library at midnight.

How amusing that Chauvelin several times considers and almost immediately dismisses that lazy figure, asleep and draped across the chair in the library! How entertaining to watch him shift between a reluctant suspicion and adamant dismissal.

So stupid a man as Percival Blakeney could not possibly be the Scarlet Pimpernel. Ha!

The clock chimes midnight. Percy sleeps. Chauvelin waits.

The dance continues.

How dangerous of a game they play…

— THE BEST-LAID PLANS

Chapter Text

CHAPTER SIX —

For the first time in he isn’t certain know how long, waking is not done of a sudden. Rather, gradually, the barest trace of awareness returns with a slow and gentle ease, though at the very edge of his consciousness, two strange, sleep-made observations begin to settle themselves with some insistence.

The first is that there is a rather irritating noise from somewhere in the room, likely his alarm, sitting on his bedside table, telling him it was time to start another day.

The second is that he is quite pleasantly warm and perfectly comfortable, which will no doubt make getting out of bed that much more difficult…

Yet, as awareness does steadily return, those initial thoughts also give way to two others.

The first is that the sound is not his alarm, but rather his phone that stops ringing.

The second is that he realizes that he is not lying in his bed.

So much for waking not being done of a sudden.

He snaps wide awake and sits bolt upright from his reclined position on the sofa. It is in this moment when he reaches another several realizations all at once, though the urgency of at least one of those makes him all but leap to his feet.

If he could simply disappear himself from the face of the earth and leave no trace, he would.

“Wha-? Wha’s matter? Wha’s happen’?” asks a soft and so completely confused, sleep-slurred voice from the one who had been so comfortably curled up against him with her head on his chest and her hand over his heart. She now sits rubbing at her eyes with one hand, trying to right herself on the sofa after his sudden exit.

He… perhaps might have handled that a bit better, but the doorbell ringing and the knocking at the door had lent a certain immediacy to the issue. At least, it did if he didn’t want his security detail to rush in, thinking something is wrong.

The knocking at the door becomes more insistent.

“It’s morning,” he says, looking to his wristwatch even as he starts for the door. “Shit. I should have already been halfway to work by now. That’s Jim at the door.”

He practically sprints from the room and down the stairs without a backwards glance.

Oh, isn’t this absolutely stupendous.

“Hold on!” he nearly bellows at the door, stopping just before it to smooth back his hair and straighten his shirt that he looks at least slightly presentable before he opens the door to be met by the bright morning light and Jim.

… Who already looks absolutely insufferable with that gleam in his eyes.

“Runnin’ a bit late, aren’t you, Sir? I half-t’ought I’d have to let myself in and make sure y’ were alright. Are you?” he questions with a raise of his eyebrow as he glances toward the stairs.

“Quite,” he answers with an absolutely withering scowl and a no-nonsense look that dares the younger man to say something else. “I’ll be out shortly. Wait at the car.”

“As y’say, Sir,” Jim replies, and he may not say anything but the incorrigible grin on his face is more than enough.

Mallory all but slams the door shut with an agitated exhale.

Of all of the bloody ridiculous and irresponsible things he could have done—this of all things!

How awful this looks, and there’s no salvaging it! The Lady had remained at his house, overnight. That nothing had happened, that they had simply fallen asleep on the sofa watching the film, is entirely irrelevant in the grand scheme of things. Only the look of impropriety need exist to create an issue.

How stupid and careless of him!

“Gareth?” he hears her call from behind him, and he turns to look up at her, walking down the stairs. It is quite evident that she’s still groggily trying her best to banish sleep after having been so abruptly startled awake.

How utterly unfair that she should look so beautiful at this moment, and that, at the mere sight of her, his heart should persist in its foolishness.

“I’m so sorry for… I… Is everything alright?” she questions, and he can hear the mild note of distress to her voice, as though she somehow feels at fault for this.

What-ever his irritation with himself, he quickly shoves it elsewhere to deal with at a later time. The last thing he would want to do is upset her.

As she reaches the foot of the stairs, he moves to her, offering a reassuring smile.

“It is. Everything is fine. My apologies. I hadn’t intended to startle you like that,” he says, endeavoring to keep his voice far more calm and at ease than he feels at this moment. “I am running late, so I’ll… I’ll have to go upstairs to get ready… I… I don’t know what exactly is in the kitchen, but there should be eggs and bread for toast at the least, milk, maybe bacon. If you’d like breakfast, you’re welcome to it.”

“It’s much appreciated,” she says before giving him a chagrined smile. “I’m sorry to have caused any trouble. I suppose you weren’t the only one more tired than they thought…”

“There’s no reason to apologize. As you said, apparently, we were both tired. Don’t give it another thought.”

He’ll do plenty of that for the both of them.

With only the slightest hesitation, she nods in acknowledgement, and he moves past her and up the first flight of stairs and then the next.

He nearly sprints into his bedroom and closes the door behind him. He’s already unbuttoning his shirt the rest of the way and removing it, then stripping out of his undershirt, too, as he moves to his chest-of-drawers. He takes from it his socks, undershirt, and boxers, then moves to the wardrobe where he pulls from it whatever suit and shirt he can set hands on the fastest.

With the necessary items collected, he dodges into his bathroom, going about his usual morning routine, though it is executed in far more hurried a fashion than when he wakes up at his normal time. He even gets a quick five-minute, cold shower, a reminder of his military days.

By the time he throws the door open to his room, dressed as though not a thing in the world had gone awry this morning when, in fact, everything had, he is officially late to the office and well behind schedule, and he can’t even make the claim that he was caught in traffic. There was still the traffic left to deal with!

At times like these, he misses the days when the Tube was an option.

Taking the stairs two at a time, he reaches the ground floor and, not seeing Cynthia, turns his step toward the kitchen. However late he may be, he would never be so ungentlemanly as to simply rush off without a word—and most especially under such circumstances as this!

Besides that, he wants to make certain that she is alright, that he hadn’t upset her, that she wasn’t kicking herself over this… unfortunate incident.

She turns the moment that he enters the kitchen, a bright smile in place as she walks over to him, a thermos and a paper bag in hand.

“I thought that maybe some coffee and breakfast might improve the day, at least somewhat.”

He would be the absolute worst degree of fool or liar to say the sight of her smile, the picture of her in his kitchen this morning, the fact that she had taken the time to make coffee and breakfast for him doesn’t do wonders to soothe away any and all irritation.

He would be even more of one to say that he it doesn’t set within his chest a most terrible sort of ache…

“I… ah, thank you, Cynthia,” he says as she passes the items to him. “If… There’s no rush, but whenever you’re ready to leave, if you’ll lock up on your way out, I would appreciate it.”

“I will,” she reassures.

He should go. He’s already so terribly late, but he feels so completely frazzled and out of sorts and…

“Hold on,” Cynthia says with a light laugh as she shakes her head and steps nearer to him.

He watches her as though transfixed while slender fingers readjust his tie a bit to be better-centered, and he swallows hard as she smooths out the shoulders of his suit. When her hands so gently glide down to rest upon his lapels as she looks up to meet his gaze again at last, he thinks he forgets how to breathe.

Then, she leans closer still, far too close and yet somehow not close enough at the same time and…

She presses the gentlest and most chaste of kisses to the corner of his mouth, softly lingering for a moment before she pulls away again. His heart feels as though it might escape his chest, and all he can do is stare at her, stunned, awed, dumbstruck.

Cynthia smiles again, and he sees. God help him. He sees, for the first time, so clearly—he can’t even pretend that he doesn’t, can’t reason it away—the look to her eyes and to her expression that goes far beyond simple warmth, simple care.

“Well then. I think you’re good to go now, and I suppose that you’d better. That lot might burn the whole place down if you don’t get there soon.”

“Yes… Yes, I… You’re right,” he manages at last.

He nods and, with only the slightest hesitation more, with this almost overwhelming reluctance to leave, he turns and walks toward the door almost in a daze. Still, he pauses when he reaches it and turns back to look at her.

“You’ll text me when you’re safely home, won’t you?”

“I will. I promise.”

He gives a slight smile in response, then nods.

He stares at her for a moment longer then he opens the door and steps outside, locking the door handle and closing it behind him.

After a brief pause, he walks down the steps to the car, not so much as a look to Jim. Even when the other man opens the car door for him, he simply gets into the vehicle with a distracted ‘thank you’ and settles into his usual place as Jim closes the door then gets in on the passenger side.

As they start on their way to the office, his gaze shifts to the thermos and to the paper bag in his hand, his mind so very quiet and still, almost alarmingly so.

At last, there is no pretense, no logic, no defense. It had all been stripped away to reveal this very simple fact:

He loves her.

He loves her.

How strange a revelation, and yet, in retrospect, he certainly should have known, shouldn’t he? What an absolute muppet he’s been to this point! She must think him an absolute bloody fool.

And yet…

The way that she had looked at him this morning, so full of love…

She loves him, too, doesn’t she?

He doesn’t have the words to explain even to himself how he felt with her standing in his kitchen, having taken the time to make breakfast for him, only that this morning had brought into such stark understanding that perhaps it was not simply the decor that had left his home so lacking until now.

That tender kiss… It was not insistent. It was not demanding. It seemed merely a message perhaps, a more clear statement of her feelings, and what an undeniable realization of his own feelings it had caused.

Had he been less stunned, he isn’t certain that he wouldn’t have completely forgotten himself and kissed her again, right then and there, perhaps even called out sick for the day, if she hadn’t anywhere else to be, if she wanted to stay for a while longer yet…

Not quite wanting to follow that line of thought at the moment, he snaps his attention back to the present, only to realize that he had brought his hand up to his face, fingers resting upon where she had kissed.

He brings his hand down again, almost as though burned, and yet, it seems that her lips have branded him as solidly and as surely as the various marks she had seen last night upon his arms, because it is as though he can still feel the warmth of them there.

There is no going back from this. How could there be? This was past the point of no return, and he hasn’t the slightest idea what to do with it.

He had thought himself past this nonsense. After so many years of choosing service to country over any and every other aspect of his life—first with the military, then public service, and now with SIS—he had assumed that he would forever remain a confirmed bachelor.

In his younger years, he hadn’t met a single woman who hadn’t taken umbrage with his level of devotion to his country, with the fact that he would choose it again and again, had bled and nearly died for it. None had understood.

At least… he hadn’t met one who understood until Cynthia Mansfield, of all people, the very person who ought to have been the most wary of someone in his occupation, the most aware of the potential costs and risks, of the toll it can take.

He has enjoyed spending time with her these past months, certainly. She is clever and a marvelous conversationalist. She is talented beyond all belief. She is vibrant and vivacious. She is light and warmth and color and music in his world that has been dull and drab and lifeless and silent for so long. He has felt happier and more alive since their acquaintance began than he has felt in… ages.

In almost two decades, at least.

Almost two decades.

He sharply exhales, bringing his hand up to pinch the bridge of his nose, and he can already feel the beginning of a headache.

“Are you alright, Sir?” Stevens questions, concern evident in his voice.

He sits upright again, posture as straight as it had ever been in the service, and he looks out the window.

“I’m fine… I’ve a bit of a headache coming on, I think. That’s all.”

She will be thirty-six in August of this year.

He will be fifty-three in December of this year.

Seventeen years between them.

Seventeen years.

He knows better.

What had he been thinking?

He hadn’t been, clearly, but he certainly makes up for that now.

He spends the rest of the trip to the office thinking, mind spinning as he tries to weigh, to reconcile what he knows he feels versus the reality of this situation. He is distracted enough, in fact, that Stevens has to tell him that they’ve arrived and, only after his acknowledgement, does Jim get out of the car and get his door. He gets out and starts up the steps and into the building, Ellsworth following behind him and handing him the attaché case he had left in the car.

Brilliant.

Reaching his office, he opens the door, immediately noticing Moneypenny looking to him, more concerned than she was yesterday evening and she asks again:

“Are you alright, Sir?”

“Quite. Just… a bit of trouble with the alarm this morning,” he answers with a tight smile, never breaking stride as he crosses the room and enters his office, solidly closing the door behind him.

“… The main problem being that I didn’t set the bloody thing.”

He walks to his desk and sits down, setting the attaché on the floor and the thermos and brown paper bag atop the desk.

He sighs, bringing his hands up to rub at his eyes.

Oh, this is going to be a hell of a day, a fact that is only further confirmed for him when his mobile rings.

He takes the device from his jacket pocket, half-expecting that it might be the very one who was the source of both such happiness and such consternation this morning.

Instead, upon looking at the caller ID, he reaches another realization.

Today is the usual appointed day that Mrs. Abbott—the longtime housekeeper—was to clean the house. Considering how few times she has called him at work, somehow he suspects this isn’t a random call to see how he fares.

He takes a deep breath and then answers the call, bringing the phone to his ear.

“Hello?”

“Good mornin’, Sir,” begins that so distinctly and heavily Yorkshire accent, and he can already tell from her voice that she knows. “May I just say that, when I let myself into the city house today—”

“Helen—”

“When I let myself into the city house today to do the usual cleanin’, what do I find but a young lady, standin’ in your kitchen as though she’d every right to be there.”

“Helen—”

“Now, in all my years workin’ for your fam’ly, Sir, in all my years workin’ for you in particular, I have never been so shocked. Not once. If it’s not too much to ask, Sir, what precisely was a young lady doin’ in your kitchen at this hour? Really, so many years and not once have I been so speechless. You always bein’ so level-headed as you’ve been and now to find out—”

“Mrs. Abbott,” he says a bit more forcefully, at last quite losing his patience. “Would you care to hear me explain, or do you instead intend to just keep talking?”

“Alright, Sir. I’m listenin’,” the older woman says after a moment.

“To start: allow me to state that I don’t much care for the insinuations you seemed to be making, Helen. You have been granted a great deal of latitude in the household, out of consideration to your relation to the family, but I absolutely will not tolerate such aspersions levied against my character, and certainly not against that of the young lady,” he begins, tone a bit clipped but controlled and level. “Am I understood?”

“Yes, Sir,” she answers, by her tone at least somewhat chastized by the admonishment.

“Second: is the young lady still there?”

“No, Sir. She left about the time I came in, explained she had somewhere to be.”

“Good. Now. Allow me, if you will, to explain. She has been an acquaintance of mine for a few months now.” To put it mildly. “Last night, she and I had supper at my home. We had intended to meet at a restaurant, but I was so exhausted still from work that she offered a rain check, and I suggested that we might have supper and watch a film at my home instead. She agreed, and that is all that we did. She was there this morning because we fell asleep, on the sofa, watching the film.”

There is silence from the other end of the line for long enough that he debates if he should say something else, but at last, she speaks again, an apologetic note to her voice.

“I’m sorry, Sir. You’re right. I shouldn’t have jumped to conclusions like that. It’s only that… That was quite a start for this old woman!”

“For that, I apologize,” he says with a sigh, finally lifting the thermos and taking a sip of the coffee—he needs it—before he continues. “If I had remembered the day, I would have called to inform you prior, so that you wouldn’t have been caught so off-guard, but as you might guess, I was running late and thus a bit out of sorts this morning.”

Though being late certainly hadn’t been the majority of the reason for him being so flustered. It wasn’t even close.

“Of course… Sir, does the young lady have a name?”

“She does, but I don’t much care to discuss this further over the phone, and certainly not while I am at work. If it’s not too terribly late when I leave work today, I may stop by your flat to speak more on the matter.”

“Alright, Sir. I’ll get back to the cleanin’, and I’ll talk to you later.”

“Good day, Helen.”

“Good day, Sir.”

He hangs up the phone and drops it on the top of the desk, taking another swig of the coffee before he shifts his attention to the office intercom. Pressing the button, he speaks.

“Might I have the morning reports, Moneypenny? As well as any amendments that need be made to my schedule.”

“Right away, Sir.”

What a hell of a day.

— PAST THE POINT OF NO RETURN

Chapter Text

CHAPTER SEVEN —

It had, indeed, been a day, though, by the end of it, there was one matter about which he was perfectly certain.

In his spare moments, he had reasoned it through, agonized over it, and the simple fact of the matter is that it couldn’t possibly work, and so he needs to be responsible and respectful and… and he needs to tell her that, in person, this evening, so that this doesn’t drag out any further than he has allowed it to do at this point.

To do any less would be cruel and unconscionable.

When she had texted him, earlier in the day, telling him that she had returned home and that she hopes his day is going smoothly, he hadn’t answered for some time, not until he had decided.

[ sms ] : Apologies for the slow reply. It’s been busy.

[ sms ] : If you will be home, may I stop by this evening? We need to talk.

The near immediacy of her reply leaves this utterly wretched heart of his feeling as heavy as lead in his chest.

[ sms ] : Of course. I’ll be here. See you then.

He can almost hear her upset, even in those uniform characters on the screen, but this is what needs done. It… It needs to be done. She might be hurt now—and after how stupid he’s been, she has every right to be, doesn’t she?—but this is the best course of action. She’ll be far better-off in the long run, and he…

Well. There’s still the work, still the service to his country.

He’ll be fine, just as he always has been fine.

But that was before you knew, says that treacherous little voice in the back of his mind. How do you return to before when now you know?

He doesn’t have an answer.

It doesn’t matter.

He would manage.

He calls Mrs. Abbott to let her know that something had come up and that he would need to delay their meeting until tomorrow evening. She understood.

There was that sorted, at least, perhaps the simplest thing to his entire day.

When work is finished for the evening, he leaves with the briefest goodbye given to Moneypenny.

He says nothing to Ellsworth, and, for once, the Irishman seems disinclined to take a jab at him, to ask what might be wrong.

He says not one word at all until he settles into the car, sighs, and looks out the window.

“To Miss Mansfield’s home, Stevens.”

He sees, from his peripheral how Stevens and Ellsworth look to one another, but Stevens simply acknowledges the instruction and starts in that direction.

By the time they reach her home, it is nearly six o’clock, and he takes a few steadying breaths before he pops the car door handle himself, stepping out only to be met by Jim.

“You’ve had the face of a thundercloud for most of the day and certainly for the whole drive here. Might I ask what exactly it is you’re plannin’ t’ say to her?”

“The truth,” he says, and even his voice gives him away, betrays the tiredness that is more than it was even when first he returned from his whirlwind work trip.

“Which is what?”

He sighs, looking down as he continues, not quite able to meet Jim’s stare.

“That this has been a wonderful fantasy, but that it can’t work. Not in the real world.”

“Why?”

“You know damn well why.”

“No, I don’t. Tell me. Why won’t it?”

“There are a thousand reasons why it won’t.”

“Then feckin’ name one,” he returns, voice raised.

Mallory doesn’t feel like arguing, and he knows that he won’t be able to get through explaining himself twice. He owes the explanation to one person, and that’s who will hear it.

He tries to step past Jim only for the man to sidestep into his path again, and his stare snaps to him in near disbelief.

“D’ya care about her?”

He scowls. “That has nothing to do with—”

“Do. you. care. about. her?” he repeats, so clear and clipped in enunciating each word.

“What does it matter?!” he returns at last, his irritation and frustration with this entire situation boiling over at last, and he pointedly ignores the way his throat feels tight again, the way his chest seems constricted.

“It matters, because if y’ do care about somethin’, you don’t just t’row your hands in the air. In all this time I’ve known you, even with all that happened with the IRA— T’ree months they kept you, and y’ never t’rew your hands up. Y’ never have about nothin’. So why this? Why now when it matters, and y’ damn well know that it does?!”

He clenches his jaw hard enough that he’s half-convinced something might break with the strain, but he tries to step past again, Jim cutting him off once more and leaning in close. The younger man jabs a finger into his chest, right over his heart, and Mallory levels his stare at him again.

“She makes y’ happy. She makes y’ the happiest I’ve seen you for as long as I’ve known you. And if there’s anyone in this whole wide world that deserves a bit of happiness, Gareth Mallory, it’s you,” Jim begins, and Mallory can see the sincerity to the statement as well as what might be slightly misty eyes.

“And here’s another thing: you make her happy. She lights up every time she sees you, and that’s as plain as the nose on your face to anyone who sees the two of you. That night, at the symphony hall… God. Do y’ know what some people would give t’ have someone look at them the way she looked at you? Like you’d brought the stars down from the sky, just for her. Y’ love each other. You’re in love with each other. What-ever reasons y’ have, why don’t you take that into a fair account before you go in there and break her heart and yours.”

He looks down again but he stands stock still for a long moment, trying to breathe, to steady himself… then he steps past Jim again, and this time the man remains, unmoved.

He continues forward and walks up to the door. He barely knocks the third time when he hears the rattle of the door knob.

Had she been standing at the door? Had she seen the exchange before he reached it?

The door opens and there she stands, her expression grim and resolved.

“Come in,” she says, her voice far too quiet and level.

He isn’t certain that he can trust his own voice beyond what he needs it to say, so he simply nods and steps into her home—for a final time.

Without a word, she starts into the reception room, and he follows. For once, there is no soft music playing from the gramophone. There is only silence in the house and between them.

For once the silence is oppressive.

He hates it.

“Please, have a seat,” she says at last, even as she takes her usual place on the sofa.

“I… I would prefer to stand,” he says, stationing himself across the way, on the other side of the coffee table, near to the wall of bookshelves.

He needs the distance.

She nods and looks at him, expectant.

Might as well get it bloody well over with, cut straight to the point.

“… I did a great deal of thinking today, and the simple fact of the matter is that we shouldn’t see each other anymore.”

He sees her inhale, shaky and uneven, before she sets back her shoulders and raises her chin.

Is she bracing for the conversation to follow, or is she readying for war?

“Why? Did I—”

“You haven’t done anything wrong,” he says quickly, not wanting her even to think that this was her fault. If it is anyone’s fault, it was his for allowing his heart to get the better of his mind.

“Then why?”

“There are quite a few reasons,” he begins, taking another breath before he continues. “To start, there’s my work. ”

“I knew your job from nearly the start.”

“Cynthia, you have spent the majority of your life running full tilt from the shadows, from the world that surrounded your mother. That world is my world now, and it will be my world for the foreseeable future.”

“I told you: I knew that from nearly the start,” she says, voice so calm. “But, the simple truth I’ve realized over these past months, is that it was never my mother’s job that was the trouble. It was the way she handled it. The way she let it shape her. The way that she conducted her business as a result. On the clock. Off the clock. It didn’t matter. She was the work, a walking personification of shadows. Despite having the same job, you haven’t been that. I knew exactly what pursuing this would mean, and I made the decision that I am willing to step back to those shadows, to live adjacent to that world again, if it meant that I was doing so for and with you.”

There goes his heart again, lurching with her words, beating against the prison into which he had shut it.

“That isn’t a sacrifice that you should have to make.”

“I don’t think it’s for you to decide what sacrifices I should or shouldn’t make. I am a grown woman, and I have been self-sufficient for well over a decade. I am perfectly capable of making my own, informed, well-reasoned decisions. I don’t need them made for me—not by you or anyone else—no matter how well-intentioned the thought.”

He isn’t certain what he was expecting her to say, but that emphatic rebuttal certainly hadn’t been it, her words undercutting the entirety of that particular point. What more could be said on this objection that isn’t rendered moot? Nothing.

“You’re right. And allow me to assure you that I am well aware that you are a grown woman. However, that is the other matter,” he says, moving to the next issue.

“Our ages,” she states, so matter-of-fact that he can’t stop the sudden humorless laugh from escaping him.

“Yes, our ages. Put plainly, these May-October romances don’t work, not in the long run. I will be fifty-three this year, Cynthia. You are a young lady—”

“Comparatively, I suppose.”

“You are a young lady,” he repeats with a bit more insistence before he continues. “… and you should be able to live your life and to enjoy every moment of it. I am not a young man, and I haven’t been for quite some years. Perhaps you don’t see that as a problem now. Perhaps it isn’t now. I’m in fair enough shape for my age. I’ve no major complaints or conditions at the moment… But one day, almost assuredly, that won’t be the case. The last thing I would ever want is to be a burden to you.”

“You wouldn’t be.”

“Cynthia, there are seventeen years between us. If this continues, there is no way that I won’t be a burden to you at some point in the future.”

“A burden is typically seen as derogatory. It’s usually synonymous with a problem, a trouble, a responsibility, all usually unasked. A burden is something that you have to deal with,” she begins, and his brow furrows, starting to see what point she intends to make. “But you couldn’t be that to me, whatever hardship, whatever difficulty…”

She shakes her head, looking him dead in the eye. “Whatever might happen, I would choose you, Gareth, every time, at every turn, even if I knew full-well what would happen.”

There is such sincerity to her expression, such conviction to her words that he can’t hold her gaze. He bows his head, closing his eyes for a moment and taking a few deep breaths.

“You say that now… and I believe that you mean it…” he concedes, swallowing hard before he resumes, looking up at her again. “But you can’t know the future. You can’t even begin to guess at it, only to project that seemingly boundless optimism of yours onto it. You can’t know. I… I don’t want you to look back and to wish that you had found someone else. Someone younger, someone closer to your age, closer to where you are in life. I don’t want to be a regret of yours one day, and for you to look back and have so many years of your life behind you that you can’t get back.”

For a long moment, she remains silent, her face unreadable.

He finds himself both hoping and dreading that maybe, maybe he has gotten through to her, that maybe she hears the sense and the truth in his words, that maybe she will simply say that she understands and… and they can go their separate ways.

“So… to summarize… you’re worried about what the future could look like for us?”

“To put it very simply.”

He sees her nod, watches as she seems to consider for a moment before she speaks again.

“Very well. Then, let’s do a quick thought exercise, shall we? Let’s game this out, like a risk versus reward assessment—I’m sure you’re familiar with those, yes?”

Mallory bows his head again and sighs before he nods and looks to her.

“Yes, I am.”

“Good. So, you stated that you’re in good health, currently, yes? Clean report from the doctor? No heinous complaints or difficulties?”

“No. As I said, I’m in good health for a man of my age.”

“Granted,” she says with a nod before she continues right along, apparently unbothered by the concession. “Now, being in good health—for a man of your age—let’s say we do this, and we get… oh, let me choose a conservative estimate, to try to lower your chance of objection to the premise, and say there’s twelve years where you continue to have little to no major complaints or difficulties. Is that an agreeable scenario?”

“Yes.”

“Very well. That’s twelve years then. Let’s say at precisely twelve years and one day—God forbid—you have a stroke or a heart attack. If it’s fatal, that’s that, and I’m left to grieve, a widow at forty-eight… That still means that there were twelve wonderful years. That’s twelve years of mornings and evenings and holidays and every day. That’s twelve years of love. Twelve years of memories to treasure. Twelve years together,” she says, allowing those words to settle before she continues.

“Now let’s say, the same scenario happens and you survive, but it dictates that you need assistance or support, that adjustments have to be made. That’s still the same number of wonderful years… and perhaps more still, even if the years are different from that point onward.”

Why does she have to be so adamant about this? Why does she have to be so stubborn? He can’t even say that she’s being naive about the issue, that she isn’t considering the possibilities, because clearly she is right now, and likely she already has well before now by the sounds of it.

“But! Let’s finish the assessment and be equitable about this. Your scenario to consider: We’ll keep the time frame unchanged, for fairness. Let’s say, we do this, and we get twelve years. At twelve years and one day—again, God forbid—we find out that I have cancer.”

He winces with the conjecture, more so even than he had at her mention of stroke or heart attack where he is concerned.

“Cynthia—”

“No, it’s a perfectly valid scenario. Cancer is listed as over 50% chance for the UK, and my father died of it, so the genetics are likely there, and it’s a matter of odds and providence. So your choices are cancer or a crime gone wrong.”

“… Continue.”

“So—God forbid—cancer. If there aren’t treatments or they aren’t effective, then that’s it. You’re left to grieve, a widower at sixty-five. But it still meant twelve years of mornings… and evenings… and holidays… and every day… Twelve years together…” she says, barely pausing before she continues. “Now, let’s say there are treatments, but they’re difficult. They’re harsh on the body. I can’t function on the same level I did before, can’t do as much. I need help just to get through my day, get through treatments, get through appointments. Now you’re sixty-five and having to help your wife of forty-eight. There’s no guarantee that the treatments are successful, but there is the chance, and each day is another day. Even if they aren’t the most wonderful of memories, they’re still time together…”

She stops again, looking at him.

Holding her gaze, he seems to forget how to breathe again, despite the fact that he isn’t even entirely certain that she can see him through the tears welled in her eyes, the tears she stubbornly doesn’t allow to fall.

“If you knew it would go that way… If you knew, would you say that it wasn’t worth it? That the twelve good years weren’t worth the grief or the difficulty later?”

“… No…” he manages after a long moment, voice little above a whisper. “No… I wouldn’t say that…”

At last, she pushes to her feet, walking over to him and taking his hands within her own, and, despite himself, he holds to her hands as though they were a lifeline.

“Then why do you think that it would be different for me? I’m not looking at this through rose-tinted glasses. I’m not jumping into this without looking… Gareth, how-ever many years it might be, to me, it’s worth it. Every bit of hardship or difficulty or even grief would be worth it to have every moment of that time with you. To have any time with you. No one knows what tomorrow will bring… But I refuse to live my life in fear of it.”

He bows his head again, clenching his jaw and trying to keep himself together.

“You… are such an incredible person,” she says. “I don’t even know if I could put it into words… I have never met anyone like you in all of my years, how-ever meager you might consider them by comparison… I never knew that I could be so happy until I realized how happy I am since I met you…”

There she goes, echoing Jim’s words, and he shakes his head, closing his eyes tight, as her bombardment continues.

“If you don’t want this… if you don’t want an us… if don’t want me… if it’s because you don’t care, then look me in the eye and say that. But please, please, don’t be a martyr, and don’t make me one either,” she pleads with him, and he can hear the moment her voice breaks, when those tears at last escape their bounds and it absolutely shatters him.

A long moment passes before he exhales an unsteady breath and endeavors to put his thoughts, his feelings, into words.

“… I… I don’t know… I don’t know how this works. I don’t know that it can work…” he says, his words slow and heavy, and he feels her squeeze his hands. Whether it is a gesture to comfort and encourage, or meant as another expression of how much she wants him to stay, he isn’t certain, but it doesn’t matter, as he looks up to meet her gaze once more. “But the longer I’ve stood here arguing this with you… the more I’ve realized that I want it to work. God help me. I do want this. I do want an us. And I do want you…”

The relief he sees on her face, even as more tears begin to spill, makes his heart break free from its self-imposed confinement, and perhaps that is why the words escape him at last.

“I do love you, Cynthia… Oh, how I love you…”

The words settle in the space between them, and, after a moment, he feels her release his hands, though the thought never even enters his mind that perhaps that was a bridge too far. Not with the way she’s looking at him—indeed, as though he had brought down the stars just for her—and not with the way that her hands move up, one arm wrapping around his shoulders to bring him closer.

He watches her, speechless again, until she leans in and kisses him, in earnest this time, though still so soft, so indescribably tender, and he closes his eyes and returns it in kind, hands moving to her hips, to the small of her waist, bringing her close against him.

When their lips separate, hers remain near enough to brush against his, and she speaks aloud the answer she had already given him.

“I love you, too, Gareth…” she murmurs. “You have my whole heart, and nothing will change that… Whatever the future does hold… I’m with you, and we’ll face it together…”

This impossible, unbelievable, wonderful woman…

He doesn’t have the words to express what he feels. He isn’t certain the words even exist… so instead he merely kisses her and, this time, when they break, he rests his forehead against hers, eyes remaining closed, simply savoring this moment and this closeness. He feels a tear escape from his own eye, and he leans into her touch when she reaches up to brush it away, hand cupping his cheek.

“Together…” he agrees.

— THE TRUTH

Chapter Text

CHAPTER EIGHT —

Well, this certainly isn’t the way he had intended this evening to unfold.

Three months with the IRA he had held strong, hadn’t caved to all manner of degradation, torment, and torture, and when he was extracted, still he had stood as best he could on his own two feet and facilitated his own escape.

It had taken Cynthia Mansfield merely a quarter of an hour to so precisely refute each point he made and to completely demolish his resolve, leaving him no other choice except surrender.

The rest of the past hour was spent sat together on the sofa, her snug once more to his side, this time wrapped up in each other’s embrace. There were short, intermittent conversations throughout, but mostly there was a calm and soothing silence. He thinks that, for the most part, they were simply seeking the comfort and reassurance that the narrowly avoided crisis indeed had been avoided.

She was reassured that, even once he does leave for the evening, he isn’t departing from her life; he was reassured that he would not need part with her, after all—for better or for worse.

He still isn’t certain which it will be.

Despite having been swayed by her impassioned argument and the earnestness and desperation of her pleas to him, the logic, even, of what she set before him—what a sharp opponent she proved indeed!—still the nagging thought lingers that he isn’t entirely certain this is the right course of action.

At the very least, this may well be the most selfish decision that he’s ever made in his life, and yet…

When he holds her in his arms like this, when he feels her nestled against him, her head resting against his shoulder, her hand settled over his heart… he decides that he doesn’t care.

He’ll be selfish, in just this one matter.

Several more moments tick by and then she raises her head again to look first at the grandfather clock and then to him.

“Have you eaten yet?”

A small smile pulls at one corner of his mouth, a huff of an almost laugh perhaps an answer to the question in and of itself.

“No. In truth, aside from that wonderful breakfast sandwich you made for me this morning, I’ve not had much of anything.”

“Gareth,” she says, tone half-scolding yet still full of concern. “Was the day really so busy that you couldn’t eat?”

“No. I might have found the time, but I simply hadn’t quite the stomach for it.”

“If the breakfast sandwich managed to take away your appetite—”

He laughs outright then, low and soft, hand gently rubbing her shoulder.

“No, it wasn’t the sandwich.”

“Well, that’s a relief at least, as I would have suggested that you check the dates again of what’s in your kitchen. What then?”

“As I said, I had been thinking all day about… the previously discussed matter, and the notion of food seemed… less than appealing as a result.”

“Ah. I see. So you had yourself all worked up over it before you even got here then, hm?” she questions, giving him a look of what seems fond and even amused exasperation.

“Quite.”

“Well, as that’s been decidedly resolved and I’m certain you must be famished, why don’t I go into the kitchen, see what options we might have, and we’ll get supper started,” she says. Then her expression shifts ever-so-minutely, and there is the slightest stab of remorse when he sees a trace of uncertainty in her eyes. “If you haven’t anywhere else to be, at least?”

“No. I’ve nowhere else to be,” he says, offering her a soft smile, doing what he can to reassure—to begin to repair the damage that had been done—before he glances to the window. “Though, I likely do need to step out for a moment to tell my security detail that it will be a while yet.”

There seems not even the most fleeting of shadows remaining to her smile when he says that he will stay a while longer.

“Very well. I’ll leave you to that then, and I’ll go see what there is,” she says, leaning in to kiss him once more before she pulls away, him letting her go that she might do so.

He watches her as she stands from the sofa and walks from the room, his own faint smile lingering despite himself.

Whatever he had suffered or done to deserve such an extraordinary woman, or if it had been divine providence indeed that set them into each other’s paths, into each other’s lives, whatever the case, he is grateful for it.

He is grateful for her.

With a contented sigh, he pushes to his feet at last, peeking out the front window through the drawn curtains to see Jim’s silhouette leaned against the car, the telltale glow of a lit cigarette in the dark.

He shakes his head. There he goes, smoking again. Though… he must also begrudgingly admit that the lapse might at least be understandable, given the circumstances.

He turns from the window, steps out from the reception room, and walks down the hall to the door, though not without a brief glance over his shoulder to see Cynthia standing before the open fridge, assessing the possibilities.

The moment he opens the door, he sees Jim spring fully to his feet once more, rather than leaning back against the car. It is easy to see that the younger man is all nervous energy and agitation, and there is that guilt again. Clearly, Jim had been quite concerned for him, a fact that was evident by his attempt at intervention prior to him entering the home and only further reinforced now.

He walks over to the car.

“Well, Old Man? Out with it then! What happened? What’d you say?” Jim snaps, and, though he keeps his peace, even Stevens is looking at him through the open window, both of them waiting for an answer.

“I told her exactly what I had intended—”

Jim interrupts with an agitated sound and something in Gaelic hissed under his breath—something that by tone alone Mallory would assume was a curse—as he turns away a bit, tosses down his cigarette in disgust, and stamps it out. The Irishman brings his hands up to scrub at his face then shakes his head before looking to him again, scowling.

“Of all the— I can’t believe the nerve of you sometimes! Y’ can be absolutely impossible, d’ you know that? The worst sort of self-sabotagin’—”

“While I find, at the moment, that I don’t disagree with you, might I continue?”

Jim must hear something in his tone this time that gives him pause, as he stops, cants his head to one side and drops back to lean again on the car, arms crossed.

“Alright. Get on with it then. I’ll keep me gob shut.”

“That would be a first,” he retorts dryly before he takes a breath, hands slipping into his trouser pockets.

“I told her exactly what I had intended and, in far more polite words than some—” he says with a pointed look to Jim. “—she summarily negated every argument that I had against this continuing, provided several exceedingly well-thought and compelling counterarguments, and now I’ll be staying for supper, so you’ll need to let MacCall and Singh know to come here to relieve you.”

“You— Oh! You smug bastard! Y’ had me out here pacin’ a trench t’rough the pavement! I’ve been t’rough the better part of a pack, and probably took ten years off me life, and y’ have the gall not to lead with the fact— Ooo. If I didn’t like you so well, I’d slug y’ right here and now.”

Mallory sees Stevens bring his hand up to cover a laugh before turning his head to look away from the two.

“I thank you for that restraint, Sergeant, truly,” he wryly responds before he takes on a more sincere air. “I should also thank you… for what you said earlier… So much as I hesitate to say this… you were right.”

“Huh! Damn right that I was! And I’d bet me paycheck that she told some of the same things to you, too, didn’t she?” he returns, gruff but seemingly at least slightly appeased, some of the bluster gone from his delivery. “Speakin’ of that! You’d best quit standin’ out here chattin’ with us. Y’know Stevens could keep runnin’ his mouth for a while yet, and then she’d think you’d gone off again, y’ numpty.”

“Hey, don’t pull me into this, you barmy twit. I’ve been sat here, mindin’ my own business. Some of us can do that, you know,” Stevens retorts as he looks to them again. Ignoring Jim’s scoff, the man shifts his gaze to Mallory and smiles. “But, in seriousness, Sir, I’m happy for you. I’m not so… outspoken and quick to give my opinions as Jim, but she seems a sweet lady, and she does seem like she thinks the world of you—same as you do for her. I think it’s a fine match, and I really do wish you the best.”

“And so do I. So long as he’ll stay out of his own way.”

“And on that note, I thank the both of you, I wish you a good rest of the evening—” he says even as he turns to start walking back toward the door. “—and I will see you on your next watch.”

With that, he opens the door and steps back into the home, closing the door behind him. Upon looking down the hall, he sees Cynthia standing at the entry into the kitchen.

“Everything settled with them?” she questions.

“It is. They’ll be changing over soon,” he explains, securing the door and then starting toward her. “I told them that they would need to let MacCall and Singh know that they’ll need to meet them here.”

“Two more of your security?”

As he reaches her, he nods. “The evening shift.”

“How odd that I’ve never met them,” she says in some confusion, brow furrowing. “Most of our outings have been in the evenings, haven’t they?”

“It would be odd—at least until you remember that Jim is an insufferable busybody, and there were at least a few times wherein he insisted upon the fact that he could and would remain on shift until I returned home for the evening.”

Her laugh is light and easy as she nods. “You know, you’re right. That does make perfect sense.”

“To be fair to Jim, however, he and Stevens do typically remain on shift until whenever I make my way home, and then MacCall and Singh act as the night watch for when I am locked in for the night. There are the occasional particularly late evenings at the office where they take over, but that isn’t typical. Then, of course, there's also the weekend shift, and that's two more with Choi and Dawes.”

“It must have been such an adjustment,” she begins, chuckling. “I can’t imagine what it must have been like for you, going from doing whatever you want one day, free as a bird, to suddenly having a security team that goes with you everywhere.”

“It was an… adjustment, as you said, but it does help that, prior to their selection to my detail, I knew three of them from my time in the service.”

“I suppose that provides better peace of mind, for a start, having known them prior. And it also likely takes away some of the awkwardness of it,” she says with a nod before moving further into the kitchen once more, to where he sees several food items set out on the counter top.

“Well! Alright then. Would you care to join me in here for your first lesson in the culinary arts?”

“There’s no time like the present,” he raises an eyebrow but walks over to her, amused. “Might I inquire as to what we shall be preparing?”

“This evening, we’ll be starting with something fairly simple: garlic butter chicken pasta,” she begins, directing him to stand before the stove top. “As you can see, I’ve already set a pot of water on the stove and have it working toward a boil, and I also added a bit of salt, that way as the pasta absorbs the water, it adds a bit of flavor.”

“I suppose that all sounds simple enough so far,” he dryly remarks.

“Well, I’m certainly glad to hear that,” she returns, giving him an amused look. “Now, let’s take a gander at our ingredients, shall we?”

At her prompting, he moves over to better view the ingredients in trays on the counter.

“We have salted butter, six garlic cloves, salt and pepper, olive oil, spaghetti, and fresh parsley. As a sidenote, you always want fresh herbs when you can get them. Now, if you would be so kind as to retrieve a knife from the block, you can get the parsley chopped, and we’ll go from there.”

Without commentary, he moves back toward the entry of the kitchen to retrieve a proper knife, only to catch sight of something rather curious about the block itself, something that recalls to mind a conversation he had with a certain 00-agent, not long before his work trip.

‘Miss Mansfield mentioned in passing that someone told her more to do with her mother’s death. That wouldn’t have been you, would it, 007?’

‘It was. As a matter of fact, I believe that we both left that interaction rather… enlightened.’

At his raised eyebrow, Bond had continued, somewhat hesitantly, as though trying to determine how best to explain what had unfolded.

‘Well, Sir, let’s just say that Miss Mansfield has quite the arm.’

‘You were in an altercation with her?’

‘I wouldn’t quite go so far as to say that. The truth is that I startled her, but, after the umbrella and the knife block, I decided that it might be best to take a step back and defuse the situation.’

‘How did—Nevermind, 007. I don’t think that I want to know.’

‘Likely for the best, Sir.’

He looks more closely at the busted corner of the wooden knife block, fingers tracing along the edges of it, and, at last, curiosity gets the better of him as he looks to her.

“What happened here?” he questions turning the damaged side of the knife block towards her, and he notes that, when Cynthia turns to see what he’s asking about, she blinks for a moment, before the corners of her mouth downturn, irritation evident.

“That was the result of someone’s poor planning. If you want to know the story, I’ll tell you, but you might prefer to remain ignorant of it.”

Someone’s poor planning? What on earth could that mean?

“If it involves a certain employee, I suddenly find myself quite invested in hearing of it,” he answers, even as he takes the relevant knife from the block and brings it over where the ingredients sit.

“So he told you something, did he?” she asks, even as she sets the parsley onto a wooden cutting board for him. “The parsley has already been rinsed so if you’ll work on cutting that as fine as you can manage—focus on the leaves, while trying to keep out the majority of the stem—I’ll relay my tale.”

He does just that, beginning to chop the parsley as requested.

“Shall I assume that you remember the night I called you whilst three sheets to the wind?” she questions.

The huff of a laugh breaks free, knife briefly stalling as he glances to her.

“Yes, I do seem to recall something to that effect. I believe you used the word sloshed to describe it at the time,” he says before looking to his task once more, resuming his work.

“Indeed… Well! There was quite a series of events that led to that point, a series that started with me entering my home after being out all day and walking into my kitchen with groceries, only to get far enough in to see that corner—” There is another brief pause in cutting as he glances to the place indicated, then to her, and then continues again. “—where there was a strange man, seemingly waiting for my return home.”

Hie eyes go almost comically wide as he sets the knife down—a bit more solidly than he had intended—as he turns to look at her.

“You’re joking.”

“Oh, so he left that bit out, did he? I suppose I shouldn’t be shocked,” she returns and, he cannot even begin to untangle his reaction to this realization. “No, I can assure you that I am quite in earnest. I saw him, dropped my groceries to the floor and— Which reminds me. He still owes me a carton of eggs if you might be able to pass that message along to him.”

“He’ll be fortunate if that is the only message that I pass to him,” he scowls. “He broke into your home?”

“As I understand it, he’d let himself into my mother’s home on several occasions. I can’t say what possessed him to do so with her, but, apparently, he thought that approaching me on the street would have ended poorly. I don’t know if he would consider that incident as having gone better or worse, considering that, after I dropped my groceries, I threw the knife block at him, among other things.”

“You threw the knife block at him?”

He blinks at her, almost in incomprehension as he tries to process what she has told him. Bond had mentioned an umbrella and a knife block, but he hadn’t explained any further beyond that.

Now he quite understands why he neglected the finer details, even prior to his dismissal of the topic.

"To be perfectly honest, I threw whatever I could lay hands on to throw to buy me time so that I could put space between myself and him. My umbrella. My purse. The knife block. Then I ran up the stairs, locked myself in my room, and barricaded the door with the wardrobe,” she says, so off-handed in delivery. “We sorted the issue, but I’m rather proud to say that he didn’t leave unscathed.”

“Serves the bloody fool right,” he says with a disapproving frown as he resumes cutting. “It would seem I need to have a talk with that particular employee about what is appropriate and acceptable behavior.”

He almost but doesn’t quite startle when hands settle against his sides before her arms wrap around him as she embraces him from behind, her chin resting atop his shoulder.

“Shall I tell you, Gareth, how perfectly endearing I find it that you’re so offended on my behalf?” she says quite close to his ear, the breath of a laugh grazing against his neck.

Despite his current agitation with Bond, she manages to draw a smile from him, still, though he merely shakes his head.

Completing his task, he brings his free hand to settle upon her arms, even as he sets the knife down and indicates the cutting board with his other hand.

“So how does this look?”

“Perfect. You’ve done a marvelous job,” she confirms, as she moves one hand briefly reaching out to pull the stem off of the board and set it out of the way before returning her hand to where it was. “Now, if you’ll turn your attention to the garlic. Again, I had already peeled off the outer skin and rinsed the cloves, so all you’ll need do is cut open one side and then use that garlic press—and you’ll hold it over that ramiken there—to mince it. And whichever side you cut, you’ll put that to the grate, as it will make it easier.”

Reclaiming both of his hands, he does as she says, continuing until all six cloves are minced and in the ramiken.

“And now it looks like the water is boiling, so you’ll take the spaghetti from the box—you definitely do not break it because we aren’t heathens in this house—and then set it into the pot.”

Again, he follows her instruction, while trying to ignore the way she nuzzles against his shoulder or the way the fingers of one her hands trace aimless patterns against his side.

“Good, now stir that a bit and then we’ll move to seasoning and cooking the chicken breasts. Though, also, an important note with pasta, so long as it isn’t a scenario like lasagna where it requires a secondary cook time, you typically want to make sure that it’s al dente, which is to say that it’s tender but still firm when you bite into it. While it would still be edible, there are few things so unpleasant as mushy, overcooked pasta. Unless, of course, it’s pasta that’s so undercooked that it’s too firm.”

He snorts at her words and hears her huff in response as she buries her face against his shoulder. He has little doubt that her face is pink-tinged once more.

“So is this typical of cooking lessons?” he teases with a raised brow, turning his head a bit to look at her from the corner of his eye with some amusement.

“Oh! Absolutely not,” she responds with such a delightful little laugh as she looks up at him again—and, yes, there is that lovely blush—and his smile broadens. “If you’re alluding to a previous statement of mine that my chef friend taught me how to cook, allow me to assure you those were much more formal and structured lessons. With you, however… I find myself quite favoring a more… hands-on method of teaching.”

“I must admit that I’m discovering a certain fondness for it myself…”

There is that brilliant smile again, those grey-blue eyes practically alight, and, whatever doubts might yet remain, he must admit that she was absolutely correct on this matter:

What-ever may follow of this—if this works between them or if it doesn’t—it will have been worth it for every smile, every laugh, every embrace, every moment.

— FOR BETTER OR FOR WORSE

Chapter Text

CHAPTER NINE —

Last night had been marvelous. He and Cynthia had enjoyed a lovely dinner that he had prepared—with her contribution to the endeavor almost equal parts instruction and distraction—and, afterward, he had lingered for a while longer.

In truth, they hadn’t even really discussed any further on the matter of them or on any other topic. They had simply remained together, much as they had been prior to dinner, though with the welcome return of the usual soft background music from the record player. They both seemed content merely to be in each other’s presence.

By the time he had finally returned home, he had gone straight to bed and to sleep, not really taking any time to reflect on the evening and its developments.

With the morning, however, as he goes about his early hours fitness routine and the subsequent shower and tidy-up, as he gets dressed for the day, as he walks down to the kitchen to decide what is to be done for breakfast, there is one particular statement of hers that he turns over again and again in his mind.

‘I knew exactly what pursuing this would mean, and I made the decision that I am willing to step back to those shadows, to live adjacent to that world again, if it meant that I was doing so for and with you.’

She was right, and he couldn’t pretend otherwise. She had known he was stepping into her mother’s job. She had known from their third in-person meeting, at the restaurant, when she noticed Jim’s presence and deduced the reason. They had even discussed it later.

‘It would be difficult not to have done, considering the familiarity of a shadow being nearby whenever my mother was present,’ she had said.

Cynthia had known, and yet, still, she had continued to see him. And it wasn’t only her agreeing to meet with him either. She had gone so far as to invite him to outings as well!

She had made the choice that she would pursue him regardless, that she would love him regardless.

She loves him.

The thought still catches him.

He had been so certain that he was to be quite decidedly a bachelor for the rest of his days. The simple truth of it is that it wasn’t even truly a matter of his own preference, only practicality. Nowhere was that more evident, perhaps, than in the way he had fallen so easily into this without even realizing, drawn like moth to flame to the feeling of understanding, of connection, of mutual care.

Of love.

It isn’t his first go-around with the feeling, or, at least, he thought he had been crossed in it prior to now. That one statement of hers alone—nevermind everything else about her and about this—makes him reconsider, however.

There had been a university romance. She was a nice girl named Sarah who was studying to be a nurse. They had met in their first year and seemed to get on well. There had even been some talk of a future, until he decided that his future would include the military. She hadn’t wanted to be the wife of a military man, and so they had called an amicable split prior to graduation and never spoken again.

Once he was in the military, there had been another attempt at romance, though it hadn’t lasted very long at all. Her name had been Catherine, and she had been introduced to him by a friend from university. It wasn’t far into the relationship at all that it became quite apparent that she hadn’t been interested in pursuing anything serious with someone who intended to be career military.

The longest relationship of them all had been Danielle.

He had thought then that he had finally found the right person. She hadn’t seemed bothered in the slightest by his intention to remain in the military until retirement. What’s more, she had always joked that she rather liked a man in uniform. Of course, it hadn’t been only a joke either as she had shown him exactly how much she liked seeing him in uniform on more than one occasion.

He shakes his head with a frown, pushing the thought from his mind and opening one of the cabinets with his tea and coffee supplies, only to stare blankly at it, lost in thought again.

The much more physical nature of the relationship aside, they had gotten along quite well and agreed on most of the important things. He had been so certain of it that they had even lived together for a time.

Then he had been assigned to Northern Ireland, to the Hereford Regiment. They had seen little of each other during that span, and it had started to wear upon the relationship. Still he thought that it would be fine. Once his assignment was completed, they could get back on track again. It was just a rough patch, like all couples have if they remain together for any amount of time.

He hadn’t thought anything of it.

His time as a captive of the IRA had changed everything.

Three months they held him, and he had reached the point where he was certain he would die there.

Then, one day, even through the noise over the speaker in the corner of his cell, he’d heard the distinctive sound of flash bangs. Smoke had filled the air, creeping even under the door and into the room of his confinement, and that coupled with the pneumonia in his lungs had left him coughing and gasping for breath. He had heard gunfire, though, and for the first time since his nightmare began, he had felt something akin to hope flaring in his chest once more.

He had all but dragged himself across the room towards the door. Hands still bound together and coughing so much that he could barely see, still he had intended to seize whatever opportunity he could to fight, to escape, or to die in the attempt. It had been too long. He needed to get out of that place. He needed to get home. He needed to sort things with Danielle, maybe even propose to her.

When the door of the cellar had opened, he had thrown himself at the person, only to be caught and held instead. He had struggled and tried to fight against them, until a thick Irish accent broke through even the rush of the adrenaline.

‘Woah there, Colonel! S’alright! S’alright!’

It wasn’t just any Irishman, not one of the voices of those who had tormented him for so long. He knew it the moment he heard it, even before the man briefly brought down his mask to reveal the face of one Jim Ellsworth.

‘Come on, Mallory. Let’s get you out of this shithole.’

Bloodied and bruised, his left arm broken, several ribs busted, every breath feeling almost like he was drowning, still when Ellsworth had cut the rope binding his wrists together, he had accepted the pistol the younger man placed into his good hand. Stumbling and staggering, still he had done what he could to aid in securing his escape.

They hadn’t lost anyone that day, and that particular cell had been decimated beyond repair.

He had found, however, not long into a quite lengthy recovery, that his relationship with Danielle was a casualty of the ordeal.

‘Three months! Three months I didn’t know if you would return alive or in a flag-draped coffin! I can’t do this again. I won’t do this again. You won’t leave the military, even after this. I know you won’t. And I won’t give the ultimatum just to be told exactly where I rank when compared to Queen and Country. I wish you well. I really do. But this is it, Gareth. Goodbye.’

He had decided then and there—still in hospital and having not yet received the news that he would be medically discharged—that it really was quite an easy solution. If he truly was to dedicate his life to Queen and Country, then he simply wasn’t meant to share that life with anyone else. What could be more clear after every attempt failed for exactly that reason, even the one he thought had understood and even respected his choice?

He didn’t blame any of them.

He still doesn’t blame any of them.

They had known their limits, and he had learned his own. After all, what cause was there to subject himself to more heartache?

Even beyond that, however, he had been irreparably changed by his ordeal, and he knew it.

After his rescue, after Danielle’s departure, he was more quiet, more aloof, more cynical. He smiled very little. He laughed even less.

And the silence…

Three months in captivity, and worse than the strip downs and nakedness, worse than the dehumanization, worse than the beatings, worse than any of the rest of it… had been the noise torture. There were times that it had been a constant bombardment of chaos and tumult and agony such as he could not sleep, such as he thought would drive him mad.

He needed the silence when he returned home, and it had persisted as his constant companion throughout all the years since his return.

So many traits and so many aspects of himself he can place solidly either before or after his time held by the IRA, and the question that had followed of that knowledge stung him all the more.

If his previous lovers could not love him enough to remain before, then how could anyone love what was left of him after, when he was so changed?

He had assumed the answer was that no one could.

There’s a darkly amused laugh that escapes him as he finally pulls himself back, closing the cupboard with the coffee without even selecting any of it. Instead, he sets his hands on the counter top to lean upon it, his head bowed, as he takes a few deep breaths, realization hitting him with the force of a freight train.

He was 35 when Ellsworth and the others on the team pulled him from that hell.

He was 35 when he gave up and chose to simply focus on his career and his service.

He was 35 when he realized that some part of him had died…

Or, perhaps, at nearly 53, he’s finally learning that it didn’t die, after all. Perhaps it was merely that he had locked it away somewhere safe but untouchable, that it had been dormant all of this time, until he met Cynthia.

He was 35 when it happened.

Cynthia is 35 right now.

Isn’t it funny all of the little coincidences in life?

He still cannot say entirely for certain what it is about her that had caused the winter in his chest to regress at least to autumn. What had made his heart thaw that it might beat again, might race and stutter and soar and feel as it has since he met her? So many people he has met over the course of 18 years, and yet none of them have ever managed to slip past his defenses, none have reached him within his self-built fortress, within his self-inflicted prison.

Only her.

‘I made the decision that I am willing to step back to those shadows, to live adjacent to that world again, if it meant that I was doing so for and with you.’

Cynthia had never even known who he was prior to his capture, and it makes it even more difficult for him to make sense of this, to understand how she could so emphatically make such a proclamation, could care so much about the person he is now.

Somehow she chose what the others before her couldn’t, not even when he was more, when he was better.

She had chosen to love him.

Despite the reality of the work.

Despite the potential sacrifice.

Despite everything.

It utterly baffles him, but, even so, there is his heart again, fluttering and flying as though he were still the young man who did not yet know all that would unfold, who could still so wholeheartedly believe in love, who could be more.

Perhaps… Perhaps he can try to be again, not only for her, but for himself as well…

A rather incessant sound breaks him—again—from his thoughts, and bringing himself to focus, he realizes it’s the sound of someone knocking on the door.

Brow furrowing in mild confusion, he leaves the kitchen and walks over to glance out to see who it is… only to scoff and open the door.

“Jim,” he says, giving his best unimpressed look.

“Och! Such a face and a tone as that in greetin’! And not so much as a good mornin’!” he exclaims, even as he holds up a brown paper bag and a drink tray with four cups in it. “And here I came all this long way—on me day off, no less!—to bring you a nice breakfast and a couple of coffees, and this is the thanks that I get! Oh, that’s nice, Old Man. That’s real nice.”

“And I’m quite certain this great journey was undertaken for the sole purpose of good Christian charity, was it?” he retorts with one eyebrow raised, though he doesn’t even wait for an answer—the grin is answer enough—before he steps aside and opens the door wider. “Well, get in here then before I change my mind and shut the door on you and your breakfast.”

The other’s grin only broadens as he steps into the house.

“Alright. Let’s hear it then. I know you’ll be needin’ to tell somebody, and who’ve y’ got aside from me?” he says with a laugh as he walks over and sets the bag of breakfast and the coffees down on the dining room table—thankfully, on a place mat.

“I want you to know how much I appreciate that consideration, Jim,” he wryly retorts as he locks the door behind them and crosses to the table. “It means the world to me.”

“Of course. Y’know that I’m nothin’ if not considerate. And! I think you’ll agree that I showed a great deal of consideration in not askin’ overmuch last night—on account of Stevens bein’ such an insufferable busybody and all.”

It is all Mallory can do not to smile and roll his eyes at the continued slander of poor Stevens. The man truly has the patience of an absolute saint.

Major Theo Stevens had been another from the days of Hereford, where he and MacCall had both been under his command. He considered Stevens a friend, and Mallory knew that he was an exemplary soldier and a good man. If it hadn’t been for Jim, if it hadn’t been for the trust and the history that existed there, he might even have chosen Stevens to be his head of security.

When he had approached Stevens to ask if he would agree to be part of his detail, he had explained that Jim would be the lead, and he hadn’t balked, hadn’t said a word in complaint, hadn’t even asked his reasoning, despite Ellsworth being his junior by several years.

Stevens had simply chuckled and offered to be put on the same shift as Jim with a wry, ‘You’ll want at least someone on the shift what knows how to be quiet, Mallory. You put him and Rob on the same watch, and you’ll never know a moment’s peace.’

Each day, Mallory finds himself grateful that he had heeded those words of wisdom.

Jim Ellsworth and Theo Stevens had the day shift. Robert MacCall and David Singh kept the night watch. Noah Choi and Tommy Dawes covered the 48-hour on-call weekend shift.

All things considered, it had worked remarkably well thus far.

“But, come on then! How did your conversation go, hm? Heard it from old Rob when he reported in at turnover that you were there till fairly late into the evenin’ last night, and Choi says that you’ve plans t’ be out again ‘round lunchtime. Seein’ her today, too, are you?”

“First, before I take a seat, is there anything that we need from the kitchen for this breakfast of yours?”

“Might grab the salt and pepper shakers, but aside from that, I think it’s all here.”

“And what exactly is all?” he questions as he ventures into the kitchen and walks over to the cabinet to retrieve the requested shakers.

“Ah! Well! I came down from the flat and went into the Pied Merlin, as usual—y’know how old Mrs. O’Sullivan always likes to know I’m eatin’ a fair breakfast—but I told her I’d be bringin’ some breakfast t' you this mornin', so she’s got us some proper back bacon, sausage, eggs, tomatoes, mushrooms, and toast. Oh, and y’ don’t have t' worry over any jam! It’s here, too. Damn! She actually put a whole jar in the bag!”

Shakers retrieved, Mallory returns to the dining room to see two large plates set out at their respective places, and he shakes his head in something near wonderment.

“And would you remind me what, exactly, it was you did to so ingratiate yourself to Mrs. O’Sullivan?”

“Oh, don’t you start that again. I know your memory’s twice as sharp as mine, and the story’s not changed,” Jim retorts, though still he continues, taking a seat as Mallory does.

“Five years back, those hooligans were givin’ her and Mr. O’Sullivan trouble, taggin’ their place up like they were. Even broke out one of the windows! All that I did was to… well, t’ give ‘em a bit of discouragement from doin’ it again, y’ understand. Imagine! Terrorizin’ such a nice couple as that!”

“Shall I assume that she’s still trying to set you up with their daughter as well— What was her name? Naomi? Or has the poor woman returned to her senses?”

“See? There y’ are! Memory like a steel trap! Aye, her name’s Naomi, and I keep tryin’ t’ tell Mrs. O’Sullivan that the lass could do a lot better than a jackanapes like me.”

“And what does she say to that?”

“Looks me dead in the eye, she does, and she says, ‘Aye, young man, and still she could do much worse besides.’ Can y’ believe that!”

Mallory huffs a laugh, taking the cup of coffee that Jim offers him.

“Perhaps I should have a word with her instead to straighten out the matter?”

“Ha! As if I don’t know better than t’ put you in a room with the two of ‘em! You’d end up in league with her against me, and don’t you dare lie and say that y’ wouldn’t!”

He hides a smile behind the coffee cup as he takes a sip of it, and Jim seems to take it for confirmation as he scoffs and shakes his head.

“But enough of that. If you’ll bow your head, we’ll have grace before the meal, and then—don’t think I’ve forgotten!—we’ll get back to the matter of you and your Lady,” Jim says, squinting at him before the younger man bows his head and clasps his hands together.

Out of respect, Mallory follows suit as Jim says the prayer.

“Bless us, O Lord, as we eat t’gether. Bless the food we eat today. Bless the hands that made the food. Bless us, O Lord. Amen.”

“Amen.”

With that, he picks up the cutlery and starts with the sausage.

“Alright, then. So you went in and y’ told Miss Cynthia that you’re a daft beggar—”

“Somehow, I don’t seem to recall using those exact words,” he says, giving the other a jokingly reproachful stare, looking up at him from underneath his eyebrows.

“Well, y’ tried t’ tell ‘er that you wouldn’t go for it, and that was basically one and the same. So why don’t y’ start from there and tell me what happened next?”

Mallory sighs, taking another swig of his coffee before he endeavors to answer.

“She invited me in, and we went to the reception room to talk. I told her that we shouldn’t see each other anymore. She disagreed. I gave my objections. She refuted them—”

“Hey now! Don’t be skimmin’ the details,” Jim scolds, waving a forkful of eggs at him. “Y’ never did tell me what it was set y’ off like that for a start.”

He remains silent for a moment, covering it with another sip of coffee.

“… The first point I made had to do with my work.”

“What of it?”

“I expressed my thoughts that it had been a point of contention between her and her mother and that she had gone out of her way to stay as far from it as possible.”

“Huh! And what business was it of yours, hm? She knew what y’ did. I still can’t believe how fast she spotted me at the Ostler’s!”

“Yes, well. I believe that you’ll be pleased to know that she was similarly unimpressed.”

“And I’ll bet she was. She tell y’ off then?”

“With far more tact than you would have, but, yes.”

“Aye. She’s a good lass. Glad there’s finally someone else besides me t’ keep you in line. And the next point?”

“I would think that should be fairly obvious,” he answers, cornering a look at him. “Aren’t you the one always referring to me as Old Man?”

“Well, aye, but that’s a term of endearment. You’re not an old Old Man. Y’ still get around like y’ lost twenty years somewhere, and it hasn’t found you again yet,” Jim says with a snort before that crooked smirk of his reappears. “And what did she have t’ say t’ that? That her preferences were no business of yours—yet?”

“Careful,” he warns, giving him a slightly more serious stare—and noting Jim’s contrite expression—before he answers. “She said that she had given it proper consideration, but that, the fact of the matter is that no one knows what tomorrow brings and it was a chance she was willing to take.”

It’s an over-simplified explanation, but, even with Jim, he doesn’t quite feel like going into the particulars of what had been said.

‘… let’s say we do this, and we get… oh, let me choose a conservative estimate, to try to lower your chance of objection to the premise, and say there’s twelve years where you continue to have little to no major complaints or difficulties...’

Twelve years, as a conservative estimate, she had said. He had been so flabbergasted at the time, so dumbstruck, that only now do the implications of that assessment occur to him.

Has she truly already been considering a future for them? She had spoken of twelve years with such ease, as though it were nothing, as though she was already quite settled on the idea of spending that time with him.

‘Whatever the future does hold… I’m with you, and we’ll face it together…’

What’s more, how easily he had agreed to it! He hadn’t even questioned. It hadn’t even given him pause. He had accepted it for a fact as easily as she had said it as one.

Now, however, as it fully settles…

He finds that… if that is indeed what she wants… if she had meant exactly what she said rather than simply making a hypothetical to illustrate her point…

The simple truth woven all through their conversation, what seems to him now as if it was an unspoken agreement they had reached, is this: if she would indeed have him, if she really did want that future with him… He would share his life, share everything he has with her. He would give her those twelve years—and every other year he might live beyond it.

If she was agreeable to it, he would marry her in a heartbeat—without hesitation, without reservation.

“Ayup! What’s that smile then, hm?”

Blinking, he looks to Jim again, shaking his head before he takes another bite of his breakfast.

If he doesn’t want to share the specifics of what she said to argue the latter point, he certainly isn’t quite ready to share this realization. Not with Jim. Not even with the other party it concerns. Not yet, at least. He’ll give it some time, give her some time, now that this is established, now that they’ve agreed to give this a chance. She should have the time to be courted in earnest, to be certain that this is what she wants—that he is who she wants—before he shares that with her, before he asks that particular question.

“It’s nothing.”

“Oh no. That wasn’t nothin’. I’ve never seen you smile like that for as long as I’ve known you…” Jim says, his expression changing from his usual mischievousness to something softer, and that is perhaps the only reason that Mallory chooses to give him something rather than simply telling the nosey Irishman to mind his own damn business.

“She gave me a cooking lesson.”

“Had y’ cookin’ the meal last night then, did she?” he asks, taking a sip of his coffee. Mallory has no doubt that Jim isn’t convinced that was the reason for the smile, but he’s willing to leave it be.

He appreciates it.

“Indeed. She’s apparently rather concerned that I might starve should the microwave ever cease to function.”

“If that percussive maintenance ever fails to work?” Jim questions, shaking his head. “S’ probably a fair worry. Did y’ manage to cook anythin' edible, at least?”

“I would say that it wasn’t anywhere near on par with her cooking, but it was edible.”

“Oh, but I’ll bet she fussed over it like it was from some five-star restaurant, didn’t she?”

His smile returns despite his attempt to be more reserved with his expression, lest Jim notice anything else he isn’t yet ready to address.

“She insisted that I was a natural.”

“Not that she’d be biased or anythin’,” Jim answers, snickering. “Y’know, I’ve heard of bein’ blindly in love, but this is certainly a new one for the books.”

“For your information, I survived it just fine, and I have yet to hear anything from her about food poisoning.”

“And speakin’ of that!” Jim exclaims, eyes alight once more as he’s reminded. “Like I said, Choi told me that you’d be goin’ out again today. You meetin’ with ‘er or d’ y’ have somewhere unrelated t’ be?”

“Yes, I’ll be seeing her again today. She’s going to call me once she’s out of rehearsal for the show tomorrow, and we’ll meet to go see Helen.”

“Takin’ quite the risk there, aren’t you? And so early in! Introducin’ Miss Cynthia to Hurricane Helen. You’re a braver man than I’d be.”

“Actually, they’ve already met—”

“That’s right! Yesterday was Mrs. Helen’s day t’ clean, wasn’t it? And, if she arrived when she was s’posed to, there’s no way Miss Cynthia’d left yet,” Jim says, face one of horror and dismay. “Och! Do I even want t’ know how that went?”

“In truth, I hadn’t the nerve to ask—either of them—but I can make a few educated guesses,” he says with a huff, shaking his head. “I do, however, feel that Cynthia is owed a proper introduction, and Helen… Well.”

“And Mrs. Helen’ll never let you hear the end of it if she doesn’t get an introduction, s’that it?”

“Precisely.”

“Well, Old Man, that bein’ the case, allow me to also state that I’m willin’ t’ stick around and offer moral support ‘till whenever your Fair Maiden calls to accompany you into the dragon’s lair—but then you’re on your own.”

“What would I ever do without you, Jim?”

“In givin’ the list of what all messes you’d be in without me, would y’ care for me to start by listin’ them in the chronological or the alphabetical?”

“Eat your breakfast, before I decide to throw you out on your ear instead.”

— INSUFFERABLE

Chapter Text

CHAPTER TEN —

Jim had been gracious enough not to flee from the place when Mallory took a moment after breakfast to call Helen, both to be certain that she was still expecting his visit, as well as to explain to her that he wouldn’t be alone.

“You’re bringing the Lady to meet me, Sir?”

“That is my intention, at least. Do you think that we might refrain from any further ill-advised commentary?”

“Oh, yes, Sir. I’ll be on my best behavior, that I will. You have my word.”

There had been a few other particulars discussed regarding a couple of topics that he didn’t—as yet—wish to be raised. He would mention them to Cynthia at some point in the future, in his own time, but there was no urgency to discussing them now.

He did his best to ignore Jim’s amused expression until he finally gave up, stood up from the table, and walked into the kitchen to answer questions, clarify his instructions, and then to conclude the phone call.

Only with that done had he returned to the dining room, to rejoin Jim at the table.

Though the truth of it would need likely be pried from him, he had to admit, at least to himself, that it was nice to simply be able to sit and talk with Jim again.

The past couple of months had been so hectic, between his sudden acquisition of a new position and these developments of a more personal nature. Most of the time had been occupied with strictly work matters such as coordinating the shift schedules as well as having orchestrated the initial training to be certain everyone was prepared for their duties, and then discussing daily schedules and establishing the best routes of travel.

Thus, quite at ease and at leisure to do so, they spoke for the next couple of hours—or rather, for the most part, Jim had talked and he had spoken when he felt a need to do so. Though there was still talk of items concerning work, the majority of it was general conversation that ceases only when his mobile rings.

He takes the device from his shirt pocket—he had opted for a more casual look today, for him at least, foregoing a suit in favor of a nice shirt and jeans—and, with a glance at the caller ID, he answers before it gets past the second ring.

“Shall I take it that rehearsal is finished for the day?”

“You can indeed,” she answers. “With that being the case, where is it that you want to meet?”

Her smile is so evident in her voice that he can picture it, and he finds himself smiling in turn. Once more, he must ignore Jim’s own bright grin as the younger man sits back in his chair, arms crossed, eavesdropping.

Ridiculous.

“I leave that entirely to your discretion. I sent the address to you in a text. Did you receive it?”

“One moment. Let me look…” she says, a brief silence following before she speaks again. “Yes! I did receive it. I’m fairly certain I know where that is, so, if it’s fine with you, I can just meet you at the grocery across the street from it? That way, at least, if I arrive first, I don’t give her another fright.”

“That sounds agreeable to me,” he answers as he stands up and starts moving about to gather what few items he needs to be ready to leave. “Though I do think you shouldn’t have to worry over any further issue with Helen. That has, seemingly, been quite resolved.”

“Well that certainly does put my mind more at ease. My goodness. I was concerned the poor woman was going to have a stroke when she walked in to find me in your kitchen,” she somewhat dryly remarks before he hears her laugh. “Of course, it didn’t do much for me either.”

“I didn’t hear of any umbrellas or knife blocks being damaged, and I have yet to find any obvious signs of battle, so I assume that, at least, was avoided?”

“Oh, ha ha. Aren’t you so funny? An absolute comedian,” she snarks, and his smile only broadens. “Yes, I can promise you that I refrained from any and all violence this time.”

“Quite a relief, truly.”

“As I mentioned in passing last night, I wasn’t quite sure at the time what should or shouldn’t be said, so, mostly I just gave my excuse to leave, picked up my things, and left. Did you, ah, did you manage to get sorted with her about… Well…”

As she pauses—he suspects trying to determine how to ask her question in as tactful a way as she could—there does return a brief flash of irritation at himself about even the look of impropriety where Cynthia is concerned. He will be more careful in future, to avoid any similar transgressions.

“I explained to her that we had fallen asleep watching a film the night prior and only been awakened by the sound of my detail knocking at the door, so there shouldn’t be any further misunderstanding on that point either.”

“Good... Good! I’m glad it’s been sorted. That will be one thing less, at least. But, alright! I will let you go, so that I can get the last of my things packed up in my instrument case, and I’ll be on my way,” she says, and he can hear the shuffle of items even over the phone, as well as, he thinks, her friend Jane’s quiet ‘Tell him hello for me!’ which is confirmed when Cynthia laughs and adds, “Though, before I do that, apparently, I am to first tell you that Jane says hello.”

“Feel free to pass along my greetings to her as well,” he says with a chuckle, shaking his head.

Certain that he has everything necessary, he turns to catch Jim’s gaze and gestures to the door. The younger doesn’t even hesitate before jumping up from his chair, crooked grin never faltering as he starts toward the door.

“He says hello,” Cynthia says with the phone seemingly held away before she returns. “Sorry. She has been quite thrilled since she saw you at the performance. I’ve had to fend off all manner of inquiry. I fear if I don’t introduce you to her soon, she might spontaneously combust.”

“Perhaps we can work that out as well soon,” he says without even a moment’s hesitation. The offer catches even him by surprise, but he’s already gone this far. “From what you’ve told me, she seems as though she would be too dearly missed to lose, particularly to something so unnecessary and senseless.”

He doesn’t think that he could ever get tired of hearing her laugh, and certainly not when he is the one to cause it.

“You’re quite right. It would be terrible. Worse still, we would have to break in a new oboist, and that’s just a bridge too far, honestly,” she answers with a theatrical sigh and again he hears Jane, though this time with an ‘I’ll remember that, you know!’ before wishing Cynthia farewell and saying that she would see her tomorrow.

After the sentiment is returned, she addresses him again.

“Now. What was I saying?”

“That you needed to let me go, so that you could finish getting everything sorted to leave,” he says, stepping out of his own home, after Jim, and locking the door behind them.

“Ah! Yes! So I’ll let you go, but I’ll see you shortly.”

“Oh and, Cynthia, please recall that I allowed you to sway me about not picking you up from rehearsal due to the uncertainty of what time you might get out for the day, but, in turn, you should resign yourself now to the fact that I will insist upon giving you a lift home this evening.”

He hears a huff of a laugh from the other end of the line, and he can almost see her bring her hand through her hair to push it back, another of those little ticks she does that he doubts she’s even noticed.

“Alright, alright. Fair enough. I’ll be responsible and get myself there, we’ll have a lovely time, and then I’ll let you get me home. Will that make you happy?” she questions, and he can hear the teasing note to her voice.

“Most decidedly.”

“Then it’s settled. See you soon. Love you!”

He’s caught off-guard enough by the casual utterance of the phrase that his breath catches in his throat for a moment and he stops mid-step, that warmth swelling in his chest. Thankfully, as also seems to be a habit of hers—and she had done it right from the beginning, hadn’t she?—she gives him the time to collect himself to answer rather than immediately disconnecting with the silence.

“I love you, too. Be safe.”

Ending the call and setting the mobile back into his shirt pocket, he turns to see that, somehow, Jim’s smile is near to rivaling the Cheshire Cat.

“Well!”

“Don’t start,” he warns as he resumes his walk toward the car, nodding to Choi who’s already standing at the door as he approaches.

“What?” the younger man exclaims with an outright laugh. “I didn’t realize we were on sayin’ all that yet. How dare you leave that little bit of information out! You’ve cut me t’ the bone again, Old Man.”

“If it makes you feel better, that’s the first time it has been said,” he says, stopping at the open door yet pausing to get into the vehicle as he reconsiders. “At least in that context.”

“Huh! The cheek of him! Choi, can y’ believe he’d treat me like this? Me, of all people?”

“I usually can’t believe that he hasn’t fired you yet, so I may be the wrong one to ask,” Choi responds in such perfect deadpan that if Mallory didn’t know the man better, he’d think he was quite in earnest.

“Now, look here—”

“Ellsworth, I do have somewhere to be. If you and Choi might resume your quarrel at a later time, I would be most appreciative,” he interrupts looking to Jim in—mostly—feigned exasperation.

“Go on then. Be on your way. So what’s it matter if me dirty rotten feelin’s are hurt? Doesn’t make any nevermind to any of you lot.”

“As long as you know,” Choi answers.

Endeavoring to cover a laugh with a cough, Mallory gets into the vehicle, though he does lean out briefly to address Jim. “Have a good rest of your day off, Jim. I can only hope by Monday that your feelings have recovered.”

“If they don’t, you and Stevens will hear about it all day, to be sure,” Dawes says from the driver’s seat as Mallory shakes his head and settles back into his own seat, allowing Choi to close the door as Jim sputters in mock indignation.

A brief and muffled exchange follows before Jim flips Choi a not-quite-polite hand sign and then dismissively waves his hand before turning to leave. Only then does Choi enter the car so that they may start on their way.

“Why did we agree to this anyway?” Dawes asks, looking to Choi.

The youngest of the entire detail, Tommy Dawes is also the closest to Jim in temperament, which is perhaps why Jim had recommended him.

“Because working for the Lieutenant Colonel outweighs the fact we have to deal with that clown,” Choi answers, and, again, how perfect his delivery.

Truly, if Mallory didn’t know beyond shadow of doubt, based upon the shining recommendations that the Irishman had given for them both, he might have wholeheartedly believed that they weren’t the close friends he knows them to be. He certainly wouldn’t have believed that on the evening shifts when Ellsworth isn’t out until all hours, the three often meet at the local pub.

Though he hadn’t personally served with them, Jim had done during the last months of his time in the military.

After Mallory’s own unwilling departure from the SAS, Jim hadn’t remained any longer than it took to get a few loose ends tied up, and then he had tendered his notice and left. Though Jim had never said as much, he has long suspected that what happened with him was the reason the younger man had left, a thought that both means the world to him yet also grieves him a bit.

Jim Ellsworth had been a brilliant soldier, mission-saavy, quick on his feet, steadfast, and dependable. The military lost a great one when he left. For that matter, the SAS lost several good men, considering Stevens and MacCall likewise left not long after Ellsworth.

Thinking of it now, he really has been quite blessed, hasn’t he, to be surrounded by such upstanding and loyal people? What rare qualities those are in this day and age.

He remains quiet throughout most of the trip toward Helen’s home, only occasionally contributing to the conversation when directly addressed or when he decides he has something to say. For the most part, he simply listens to Dawes and Choi as they idly chat.

When they reach their destination, he finds Cynthia had, indeed, arrived before him. Despite being more casually dressed herself due to being at rehearsals since earlier today, she still looks as lovely as she ever does in another floral sundress.

Then she has the nerve to smile and to wave when she sees his car pull up to the curb.

“Is that…?” Dawes begins, and Mallory can hear a note of what might be confusion and perhaps even mild disbelief to his voice.

“Yes, that is Miss Mansfield.”

Mallory can’t even blame the young man, as he remembers that this is both Dawe’s and Choi’s first time seeing her.

No, he doesn’t understand it either.

If Choi is surprised, he is at least professional enough not to show it, instead getting out of the car and opening Mallory’s door for him. Without hesitation, he steps out of the vehicle, nodding to Choi as he does so and then walks over to Cynthia. He notes, the moment she sees him, her eyebrows rise as she looks over him, her head canted to one side.

With a moment to consider, he realizes this may well be the first time she hasn’t seen him in a proper suit, and he chuckles. Apparently, it will be quite the day for firsts.

“I thought I might try for something a bit more casual today,” he explains with a wry expression, indicating his attire with a wave of his hand as he reaches her.

“I must say, it’s a good look,” she says as she steps closer to give him a quick kiss in greeting, before her smile widens all the more. “Though, to be perfectly honest, I don’t think you wear anything poorly.”

Though the compliment catches him off-guard, he doesn’t even consider that the words are empty flattery. She isn’t the sort for that, and so he accepts it without question. Oddly, he finds himself feeling almost bashful, and his face seems to warm.

Is he blushing?

He clears his throat and glances toward the car then looks back to Cynthia again.

“Before we walk across to Helen’s home, you’ve been subjected to Ellsworth on more than a few occasions now, and you’ve seen Stevens as well. I introduced you to MacCall and Singh last night. Would you care to meet the last two of my detail?”

“Of course!”

Offering his arm to her, they walk over to the vehicle where Choi stands and Dawes has the window rolled down.

“Cynthia. This is Noah Choi,” he begins. “And, at the wheel, is Tommy Dawes. Gentlemen, this is Cynthia Mansfield.”

“An honor to meet you,” Choi says, bowing his head to her.

“Certainly,” Dawes agrees. “It’s nice to finally have a face for the name.”

“And it’s wonderful to meet the both of you,” she greets with a warm smile. “I told the others the same, but I’m glad to know that Gareth has such good people watching his back.”

“We try at least,” Choi responds, cornering his eyes at him. “He certainly keeps us on our toes.”

“I don’t doubt that for a moment.”

“That said,” Mallory begins, shaking his head. “I should be perfectly fine at Helen’s, so, you’re free to stay with the car, Choi. Just keep watch on the front, as usual.”

“Yes, Sir,” he agrees.

With that settled, Mallory looks to Cynthia again.

“Shall we go officially introduce you to Helen now?”

With Cynthia’s affirmative—and a parting word to Choi and Dawes—they cross the street and go up the steps to the door of Helen’s home. Only then does she release his arm, that she might smooth her hair and her clothing, even as she looks to him.

“I meant to ask you, is there anything in particular that I should or shouldn’t mention? I know you said she had been a longtime housekeeper, but…”

“She knows about my work,” he confirms. “Or, at least, she knows my occupation. As you know, there’s not much else beyond that to discuss with anyone without appropriate clearance.”

It’s another subtle reminder to reinforce this aspect of the job, of what she was to deal with again, and far more closely, if this does proceed. He can hardly doubt that she knows, considering everything with her mother, and yet, still, mostly for his own peace of mind, he wants to be certain that he has been plain with her on this matter.

As he had expected, she nods.

“Of course. That does also make it remarkably convenient not to accidentally say more than one ought,” she replies, giving him an amused look, one eyebrow raised and the corners of her lips upturned.

“I suppose that is one way of looking at it,” he says, chuckling.

Reaching out, he knocks on the door, after which follows a cheery, “I’ll be right there, loves! One moment! This old woman doesn’t move like she used to.”

“Unless, of course, she’s particularly keen to overhear something. She can be wondrously agile then,” he murmurs under his breath to Cynthia, watching as she brings her hand up to cover her mouth and stifle a laugh.

A moment later, the door opens and there is Helen, bright-eyed and beaming.

“Good afternoon, Helen.”

“Good afternoon, Sir,” she answers, though her gaze almost immediately moves to Cynthia before looking to him again.

“I know that the two of you have technically already met…” he begins. “But I felt that perhaps more proper introductions are in order. Helen, this is Miss Cynthia Mansfield. Cynthia, this is Mrs. Helen Abbott.”

“How do you do, Miss?” Helen says, giving a slight curtsey.

“I’m well, and very pleased to meet you, Mrs. Abbott,” Cynthia says, reciprocating the curtsey, which obviously delights Helen who smiles all the more.

“My! Such fine manners! Just ‘Helen’ is fine, dearie. Come in! Come in,” she proclaims, stepping out of the way to allow them entry into the home, Mallory securing the door as they do. “If you’d both take a seat in the reception room, I’ve some tea and treats made up in the kitchen, and I’ll bring them in for us.”

“I’d be glad to help, if you’d like?” Cynthia offers without hesitation, and Mallory can’t quite explain what it does to his heart—not only to see time and again the effortless kindness she projects to seemingly everyone she meets—but to see her extend the same courtesy to Helen as well.

“Dear me! I appreciate the offer, but I can manage it. You two just go in and have a seat wherever you like. I’ll be right back!”

As Helen disappears into the kitchen, Mallory looks to Cynthia and gestures toward the reception room, indicating for her to go first.

— INTRODUCTIONS

Chapter Text

CHAPTER ELEVEN —

He isn’t really certain why he bothers to make plans at this point, particularly when everyone else seems so decided upon setting off seemingly in direct defiance of them.

To her credit, Helen is more than a few years beyond him. Some of his earliest memories had included her, when she was starting out work helping the housekeeper, her mother. Now, Helen is well into retirement years—though God help anyone who made an attempt to let her retire—and her own daughter had taken up the main of her work and her role.

As such, he is much more inclined to attribute the slip to a certain absent-mindedness brought on by the passing years, rather than any intentional malice. She had simply gotten carried away, and, he can also take some comfort—and perhaps even relief, in consideration of how they had met—in the fact that it was likely because of how well she and Cynthia had gotten along from nearly the start. In no time, they had been quite happily chatting as though the prior unfortunate incident had never happened, as they had been acquainted for years.

Even so, it had been a hell of thing to have to extract from the fire before it caught and set all his intentions ablaze, particularly when Helen stopped talking and looked to him, realizing her mistake.

‘Oh! The tales that I could tell you, Miss! You mightn’t even believe them! With all my years working for the family—’

He had taken up the explaining when Cynthia had, understandably, further inquired. He couldn’t decide if it was general politeness or curiosity, but the root cause didn’t truly change anything. He still had to figure out how to explain the elaboration from ‘a number of years’ to ‘working for the family’.

He isn’t quite ready to broach that topic, and not because he doesn’t trust Cynthia or he doubts her regard, but rather that particular aspect of his life would only complicate matters at the moment. They are complicated enough.

‘It’s quite alright, Helen,’ he had reassured, that the elderly woman wasn’t overly distressed and wouldn’t think that he was cross with her. It was an honest mistake. Nothing more.

‘Helen is a distant relation—on my mother’s side—who first worked for my mother due to the fact that she had dealt with a rather difficult pregnancy and delivery. At least, that is how I have always understood it.’

‘Yes, that’s quite right, Sir. I guess that’d be the first tale.’

If Cynthia had noted the strangeness surrounding that particular topic—and he suspects that she likely had—she had let it pass without comment, at least while there with Helen.

Now, however, sitting on Cynthia’s sofa together following another cooking lesson and the subsequent supper that followed, the topic of Helen is raised again, and he half-expects that it will circle back to the matter.

“Mrs. Helen really does seem like an absolute delight,” she begins. “She’s very sweet, and clearly she thinks the world of you. I thank you for formally introducing us.”

“She has her moments, but, on the whole, I would agree,” he allows.

She huffs and shakes her head, pulling away and straightening up a bit that she can give him a look that tells him exactly how much she sees through his bluster.

“You know, you can just admit that you like people, Gareth. There’s nothing criminal to it,” she say, perhaps only half-jokingly, one eyebrow raised at him.

“Perhaps,” he says, a small smile finding purchase. “… Though, I must confess that I rather marvel at your ease with such matters.”

Her expression turns to one of bemusement, her head canting to one side as it does when something has seemingly puzzled or confounded her.

“What do you mean?”

“I mean that…” he begins then pauses, lips pursed and brow furrowed slightly as he considers what he means. Or rather, if this is even a conversation in which he can actually engage.

How does he ask this question without also necessitating explanation as to why it seems so extraordinary to him? How does he explain without also having to give the multiplicity of events and relationships that had led him to wield nonchalance, to wear it as a shield.

He had been different once.

Can he even explain it?

He frowns and shakes his head.

“Nevermind.”

“What is it?” she questions as she reaches out to take his hand, and when he looks to her once more, her expression holds that warmth that he finds himself associating so specifically to her. “Whatever it is, you can ask. I won’t get upset.”

He can’t help but to exhale a chuckle. Of course she would assume that was the reason for his hesitation.

“It is only that… Most people have a multitude of faces—not even always in a malicious sense. They simply have different selves for different people or different places. At the least, a private and a public ‘self’. You, however…” he shakes his head again as he looks at her, struggling to pull the thoughts together with any cohesiveness without saying more than he is prepared to say at the moment.

“You seem to be exactly who you are with everyone. The only time I have ever seen you act any differently was when we first met at the graveside—which was quite understandable, especially given the circumstances. I suppose what I mean to say is…”

What does he mean?

“You’re wondering if it’s sincere?” she questions.

“No,” he quickly answers. She doesn’t sound upset—true to her word—but he doesn’t particularly want that misunderstanding to take root either.

Why must he be so far out of his depth with this? He used to be better at conversations, didn’t he? He used to be better with words and with… all of this.

He sighs, reaching up to take his free hand over his face before he looks to her again and continues.

“No, that isn’t what I meant. I have no doubt that it’s sincere. You are one of the most… singularly authentic people I have ever met. I simply… I marvel at how you manage it.”

She holds his stare for a moment with a quizzical expression as she turns over his words.

“If I understand… You’re wondering if I’m naïve because I’ve simply never had it return to bite me—”

If he couldn’t see the clearly amused look to her eyes, he might have jumped far sooner to interject and to clarify, but she’s teasing him again—or perhaps making a joke at her own expense—so instead he shakes his head then looks to her with an amused expression.

“—or if I’m simply masochistic enough to continue regardless, is that a fair summary?”

“I certainly wouldn’t quite have chosen those specific words, but I suppose that’s the gist of it, yes.”

She laughs, shrugging as she considers.

“Well, I can tell you that it’s not the first. I must admit that it has, indeed, been to my detriment more than a few times. However, it isn’t masochism either,” she says seeming to take a moment of her own before she releases his hand that she can settle back again, snuggled against his side with her head on his shoulder. How amusing that he imagines he can almost hear her thinking as she absently taps her fingers against his knee.

“I suppose, the simple fact of it is that, despite the times that it has caused me difficulty or brought me heartache… still there have been so many times that it hasn’t, so many times that it’s done the very opposite. Perhaps you’ll laugh and think me Silly indeed, but… despite how I was raised and despite everything that I have witnessed, or, perhaps, in spite it … It isn’t even a question for me, because—considering what there is to gain or even how it might help someone else—I would rather take the chance than not.”

He waits a moment, to be certain she had said her piece, but he nods and smiles, his hand giving her shoulder a reassuring squeeze.

“No, I don’t think you silly. Not in any regard,” he reassures. “How could I when that very mentality is one of the factors that brought about this?”

“If we’re being entirely truthful, you probably have poor decision-making with alcohol to credit most for the initial development—or at least for it being quite a bit expedited” she rather wryly remarks, drawing a laugh from him. “Though, even so, I can’t complain of the results…”

Cynthia shifts just slightly then, turning more toward him, bringing her arm up to wrap around him.

For a moment, he simply closes his eyes and takes a deep breath, basking in this feeling, before he rests his head against hers.

“You’ll certainly hear no complaint from me.”

“I’m glad for that…” she answers as her fingers once more trace aimless patterns against his side, somehow managing to both relax and thrill him all at once, particularly when she nuzzles against him as she does.

This woman…

Even as the time passes, almost equal parts comfortable silence and sporadic conversation, still the previous topic and what it had brought into such stark focus remains. It lingers in the back of his mind as the evening draws to a close, as they kiss good night and he departs, as he passes the journey home in silence, and even once he wishes Choi and Dawes a good rest of the evening and secures himself inside his home.

Something about the realization gnaws at him, makes him feel restless, and so, rather than readying for bed, he instead detours into his study.

When he sits down at his desk, he takes out some items he meant to review, some minor things to do with his schedule for the upcoming week, et cetera.

Instead, however, the thoughts at last push themselves to the forefront.

He had never truly noticed until now exactly how much he had leaned into the sarcasm, into the deflection, into understating any attachment he might have to anyone and anything. Now, however… Now there was no overlooking or ignoring it.

When was the last time he had simply spoken well of someone—on a personal rather than professional level—without qualifier, without some sort of joke or witticism meant to undercut the importance of the other person or of his regard for them?

Certainly, he had expressed to Jim, on rare occasions, his gratitude to him. There had been moments wherein he had said such truths… but even those had quickly been lessened by humor—from one or both of them. That doesn’t seem shocking. Neither of their personalities could much tolerate such openness in more than limited doses. They snipped and snarked and picked at each other like siblings, and that was how they showed their regard, as well as in all of the little moments and on being there whenever they were needed.

So, perhaps, within that particularly relationship, it made sense.

Furthermore, so much as he is loathe to think upon the time immediately after he had been rescued from the IRA, when it mattered, they could both be quite serious.

He had spoken of Jim in that matter to Cynthia because that was the nature of their relationship, but what of Helen? Cynthia hadn’t been incorrect. He knows that Helen does think the world of him and, what’s more, that level of regard isn’t one-sided. As well as helping her mother with the housekeeping, Helen had also been somewhat of a stand-in nanny to him, looking after and fussing over him, trying to sway him from mischief and keep him engaged when his parents were too busy to be bothered with a rambunctious rapscallion.

Yet, what had been his first instinct when Cynthia had spoken so well of Helen, despite how much it pleased him that she did think well of her?

‘ You can just admit that you like people, Gareth. There’s nothing criminal to it. ’

He should have simply agreed. Yes, Helen is wonderful. Yes, he does think the world of her in turn.

Why hadn’t he?

Because they made you afraid, says that little voice in the back of his mind.

They is such a nebulous term, and who does it entail? The obvious answer is the IRA. They had tried to break him. They had done everything they could to dehumanize him, to separate him from his humanity, to make him feel isolation to everyone and everything he knew. Until now, despite the difficulties in the aftermath, the trouble with reintegration, he would have said that they had utterly failed.

Had they though?

What connections had he maintained from before, and what connections had he made since then?

Certainly, Danielle had made the decision for him when she cut ties and walked away before he had even been released from hospital. There was nothing he could have done to sway her, and certainly not in the state he was at the time, or that he was in for some time after. Yet, even with her decision, could it have returned to the same when so many of his previous ties had not?

The only relationship that had not only survived but strengthened was, in fact, Jim Ellsworth. Even the friendships with MacCall and Stevens had been damaged, to some degree or other, but not so with Jim. Perhaps it was the fact of all that the young sergeant had done to rescue him and that he had been there, through all of it. From the moment Jim brought him out of that place, coughing and staggering out into the vehicle, all through his time recovering in hospital, and then through even to when he had returned home, Jim had been there, even through the worst of it and persisted even when Mallory had told him to leave him alone.

He hadn’t seen it then. He hadn’t seen it until this very moment, as a matter of fact.

In the end, they had succeeded in some regard, even if they hadn’t broken him.

They had fractured his faith. They had caused him to distance himself from all but one person, and what connections had he fostered since then that were of any consequence?

The one person who had decidedly chosen to spend time with him and who hadn’t let him push her away when he tried, and, even still, he struggled to explain to her today something that would have been so easy if he simply could have been forthright.

He had completely disconnected. He hadn’t simply chosen to remain a bachelor in the wake of Danielle’s departure. He had chosen to exist apart from everyone else. As a previous thought returns of not being able to remember when last he smiled so much, when last he laughed so easily, another realization lands.

He had even created distance from himself, from his own emotions, from the things he had once enjoyed.

What, indeed, had he lost that he hadn’t realized until now—now when finally he is trying to live again rather than merely exist and as he is relearning what living means.

What had he lost?

He leans back in his chair, one hand moving up to cover his mouth. He swallows hard and begins to regulate his breathing, jaw clenching as he tries to focus and to ground himself again in the present, even if the present isn’t much better, in this moment.

He hates it. He hates this. He hates that he hadn’t seen any of this until now.

Mallory moves suddenly, sitting upright in his chair again and casting aside the papers concerning his schedule to instead shuffle through his desk looking for a fresh pad of paper. He finds it and flips it open, taking up his fountain pen and uncapping it… and then hesitating before he sets nib to paper…

What is he doing? Why does this suddenly matter? What does he intend to prove to himself?

He needs to know that he isn’t broken. He needs to know that they didn’t win: not the IRA, not Danielle or Catherine or Sarah, and not his father—though they had all played a part.

The morning after his conversation with Cynthia regarding the two of them, he had realized that perhaps his heart was still alive and well. He had resolved that he would be better.

Now is the time to prove it.

Steeling his resolve, at last he touches pen to paper and begins to write.

He’s rusty. That much he can say with absolute certainty. The words are slow to occur to him, the pattern and meter clumsy in a way completely foreign to his prior writing—his poetry from ages ago, lifetimes ago. Perhaps even more difficult than that, however, is the way that he struggles even to be honest and open with himself, just as he had with Cynthia this evening.

He had told Cynthia when first they shared dinner together that he cared more for novels than poetry, but that hadn’t always been the case.

Perhaps it is simply difficult to enjoy poetry when one has locked themselves away.

Yet, despite the fact that he has perhaps struck and scribbled through more words than not on the page, still, even as he tosses the notepad back into his desk in irritation… he knows that it is not beyond salvage, that he is not beyond salvage. He can take the attempt out at another time and try the matter again, and he will. The next time, he won’t even do it out of stubborn pettiness, but rather because, so frustrating as it had been… it felt as though he was finally reclaiming yet another part of himself.

As he stands from the desk, at last intent on going to bed, his mobile rings, and he suddenly remembers that he had forgotten to message Cynthia upon his return.

When he answers, there is her voice, warm and amused.

“Did you find your way home then?”

How apropos of a question, even though her intent with it is in a more literal vein.

“I did, and I am terribly sorry not to have messaged you prior. As it was, I found myself rather lost in thought,” he admits, turning off the light to the study and making his way up the stairs.

“Oh? Anything of note?”

Quite a few things, though none he would care to discuss while they are still so fresh, and certainly not over the phone. Stepping into his bedroom, he sits on the bench at the foot of the bed and bends down to untie and remove his shoes and then his socks.

“Nothing to speak of. A bit of rumination, mostly.”

“Well that sounds rather serious.”

“You needn’t worry. I’ve contemplated no further poor decisions of my own at this particular moment—without or without alcohol,” he offers, just in case she might be concerned, considering the last bout of rumination.

“I should certainly hope not,” she says and he hears her laugh. “That said, however, I had better make my way to bed for the evening. I just wanted to call and make sure you were home. And to wish you good night.”

“I thought you did that before I left,” he teases in turn, setting the shoes at the corner post of his bed before he begins to unbutton his shirt.

“No, that was a here, let me walk you to the door so I can have a few more moments with you,” she begins, a conspiratorial note to her voice. “… And it’s also then a perfect excuse to kiss you again.”

“Well! So long as we’ve cleared up that misunderstanding, though as I recall, you took the opportunity to steal several kisses,” he says with a huff of a laugh, shaking his head, and he hears her laugh, too.

She had wanted a few more moments with him before he left, to kiss him, and, presumably, then she had decided to call to tell him good night. How different it is to be cared for as she cares for him. How wonderful to be loved so whole-heartedly.

“Regardless, I shall certainly sleep better, and I hope that you will as well.”

“Oh, I certainly shall. Or, at least, I had better with the performance tomorrow,” she returns and he can picture her looking to the clock, reminded once again of the existence of time, which seems her perpetual nemesis.

“Yes, I do suspect that would be for the best,” he chuckles as he tosses his shirt into the hamper to be left sitting in his undershirt and trousers.

“Perhaps so,” she answers, though there is a reluctance to her voice, even still, and one that he shares.

“Cynthia…”

“Yes?”

Even now, he momentarily hesitates, even after his musings in his study, even after he has already spoken the words twice before now.

Still, however, there is to say them first.

“I love you.”

There is only the briefest silence before she answers, and he can hear her smile in her voice.

“I love you, too, Gareth. Sleep well.”

“And you.”

When he hangs up the phone, he sits there for a moment longer, a soft smile lingering.

Yes, his heart still beats and his soul still feels, and this is the proof.

— RUMINATIONS

Chapter Text

CHAPTER TWELVE —

You cannot know, for I cannot explain—

He curses under his breath and pulls his attaché case to him, opening it with some level of urgency and rifling through its contents until he finds a notepad and pen. He opens the notepad and begins to write, his script little more than scrawl as he endeavors to capture the thought before it can escape him again.

Of course, this couldn’t have occurred to him yesterday, while he was quite at his leisure. No, of course, the words would become so evident now, sitting in traffic on his way to work.

He had forgotten how inconveniently-timed inspiration could be.

His agitation and the flurry of activity is enough that he seems to draw attention as, from his peripheral, he sees Jim turn around to look at him.

“Everythin’ alright there, Sir?” Jim asks, only after a couple of moments wherein Mallory does not look up from his work.

“Quite,” he answers, only briefly glancing to him from beneath his furrowed brow before returning his attention to the paper. “I was simply reminded of something.”

He should have been suspicious when Ellsworth neither said nor asked anything more, and yet, so focused as he is upon the words finally flowing to him and the limitation of needing it done by the time he reaches the office, that he pays him no further attention.

By the time they have reached work, he sets the notebook back into the case with an almost smile. He has it mostly sorted. It is not yet completed, but he knows where he’s going with the theme and the framework is there. He is pleased enough with it, in fact, that he thinks, if the day and his humor by that point allow, he might even write a bit more on it when he takes his lunch.

When Ellsworth gets the door, he gets out and begins the walk to the office, Jim falling into step with him as usual.

“So. Taken back up the writin’ then, have you?”

His gaze snaps to Jim, almost as though caught, before he scoffs. He should have known that it was too quiet, that it had been too quiet. Despite knowing quite well that the hall is usually empty this early, still he glances around them before he looks to Jim.

“And why do you say that?”

Jim doesn’t seem inclined to give verbal answer. Instead, he merely gives him a knowing, sidelong look.

Mallory sighs.

He doesn’t know if Jim managed to catch a glimpse of the page by some means or if he simply intuited it, but it would do little good to deny the fact.

He isn’t entirely certain how the other knows of his writing, but he has a sinking suspicion.

Regrettably, during the span of time following his return from the IRA, he had picked up a rather unfortunate habit of throwing out items. In a curious turn over the years, however, one will sometimes come to mind and, if he happens to mention it in conversation with Jim, occasionally, those very items he knew he had thrown out would periodically reappear within his home, often not long after one of Jim’s visits.

Though he had never asked or addressed it, the only logical explanation he could strike upon was that, during that time when Jim had basically taken care of him—getting him to doctor’s appointments and physical therapy, making certain that he ate and took his medication, and so on—the younger man had realized at some point and begun to salvage the items so carelessly and impulsively thrown away, the ones he felt might be regretted later. Now, with so specific a question, Mallory suspects that one or more of those poetry notebooks had been rescued those years ago as well.

The proof of it would be if they, too, reappeared in his home within the following weeks.

“I’m… considering revisiting the hobby.”

“Y’ goin’ t’ show it t’ her?”

“It isn’t finished it.”

The knee-jerk deflection earns him another look, this one more exasperated than the last.

“But once it’s finished: are y’ goin’ t’ show it t’ her? It is about her, isn’t it?”

Of course it’s about her. It’s only fitting, isn’t it? She is the one who had set these wheels into motion. She is the one who had found the key he had likewise thrown far away, the one that had so long sequestered his heart. She is the one who made him realize much of what he had abandoned that he might at least begin to recover what could be.

Of course the first poem he writes in all these years is about her.

She is the poetry.

He doesn’t answer that question, however, instead focusing on the first.

“… I haven’t decided. The truth of the matter is that I doubt my writing is even still passable. I haven’t written in this manner for years.”

“Y’know, if y’ need any help, I’d be glad t’ offer my expertise. I happen t’ have a very particular set of skills regardin’ this sort of thing.”

He shouldn’t ask.

He really shouldn’t ask.

“… Though I’m certain that I’ll regret this, as per usual, praytell, what is your expertise on this particular subject matter?”

“Oh, didn’t y’ know? I’m quite the poet,” the younger man begins, and there is that gleam to his eyes that assures Mallory he has, indeed, made a terrible mistake in giving him the satisfaction of further inquiry. “There was this one I wrote once that started somethin’ like: I once knew a bird from Leeds—”

“Thank you,” he interrupts with some adamance. “—but I think I can quite manage.”

What else should he have expected besides a bloody limerick?

“Huh! Everyone's a critic. Well, fine then. I s’pose you’ll just have t’ manage on your own then, because I’ll not offer t’ help a second time,” Jim retorts, doing a fine job of feigning offense… until they reach the door to the office, and he speaks again, the bluster replaced by one of those far more rare sincere expression. “But I do think y’ should it to show ‘er, though.”

“Hmph. Well. Perhaps. We’ll see…” he says with a noncommittal flippancy before he opens the door and steps into the office without a word more.

Seeing Moneypenny already at her desk, he gives his customary greeting to her as he crosses the room toward his office door, but when she answers in kind—how many such exchanges have they had by now, each to the same script?—this time he stops at his door.

His hand hovers just above the door handle for a moment before he settles it upon it but does not yet open the door, instead pivoting slightly to look at her. Ever observant, despite her stare having been on the files and papers upon her desk, she notices the uncharacteristic pause and looks up to meet his stare.

“Is there something you need, Sir?”

Well, if he means to test this new resolve, then there’s no time like the present, is there?

“No, nothing besides the usual review, whenever you have it prepared. There’s no rush,” he says. “… Did you have a pleasant weekend?”

Her eyebrows rise in evident surprise at the equally uncharacteristic personal inquiry, and his grip tightens slightly on the door knob, ready to make a speedy tactical retreat.

“It… was very pleasant, Sir. I spent the weekend visiting with my mother, as a matter of fact. Thank you for asking,” she answers with a personable smile. “And you? How was your weekend?”

That is the tricky part, isn’t it? Inquiring of others is simple enough—when one endeavors to act upon the thought—but it’s the follow-up, when they turn the tables, wherein the difficulty lies.

“It… was fine,” he says after a hesitation that is ever-so-slightly too long, and he could curse himself for being so awkward. “… It was very restful.”

Thankfully, Moneypenny seems disinclined to push the issue, instead merely nodding, smile not seeming to falter in the slightest.

“Well, I’m glad to hear that, Sir. I should have the morning report and any paper correspondence ready for you by the quarter hour.”

He nods, a single, sharp movement and a tight almost smile.

“Good… Very good. Thank you, Moneypenny… Carry on,” he says, only barely allowing for her affirmative before he disappears into the welcome solitude of his office at last and closes the door behind him. He remains there for a moment, wincing, before he shakes his head and continues to his desk to prepare, trying to remind himself that Rome wasn’t built in a day.

This is clearly going to be a—perhaps lengthy—process.

— A VERY PARTICULAR SET OF SKILLS

Chapter Text

CHAPTER THIRTEEN —

“I must confess that I’ve had something on my mind… and I believe there’s a matter we need to discuss…” Cynthia says of a sudden as she sits upon the sofa, following another lovely dinner.

Even as he takes his typical seat beside her—the seat that she usually encroaches upon more and more the longer their visit continues—there is a flash of concern with the words, despite how well everything had been going, aside from their schedules.

They had met a few minutes here and there, talked on the phone, and messaged, but this is the first night they’ve been able to actually set a date with each other in the last three weeks, and he can’t help but wonder if she’s begun to have second thoughts as a result…

She must notice the shift in his expression because she very quickly adds, “It’s not a matter of reconsideration in regards to us… It has more to do with… trying to see if we’re on the same page…”

She pauses again, seeming a bit flustered, as the slightest frown tugs at the corners of her lips. Then, suddenly she turns fully toward him, bringing her legs up to fold under her. “Well, I know that this, with us, has all been rather…”

“Unorthodox?” he offers with wry amusement, and she smiles and nods.

“Yes. That exactly. It’s all been rather unorthodox in how we went about this from the start to there finally even being an us… But now that there is, there’s something we should talk about. Normally, I would have mentioned this well before it ever reached the point we’re at now, but…” she trails off, and he thinks he knows where this is going, taking into account her general discomfort and the slightest tinge of pink to her cheeks.

If he is honest, he had been pondering the matter himself only a couple of nights ago, during this most recent span of them barely able to see each other for more than a few brief windows of time here and there amidst their schedules or merely the span of making and eating dinner before needing to go their separate ways.

As he was sitting at his desk after another late night phone call simply that they could hear each other’s voice, he had been thinking over something she said, only to find himself baffled by yet another epiphany.

They were well into the second month of them being together—though, indeed, the time to see one another had been somewhat of a premium commodity—and yet, the relationship had progressed no further than it had at its establishment.

They held hands. They kissed. They even cuddled together on the sofa while listening to music or watching films. Yet, it had gone no further.

It wasn’t as though there hadn’t been opportunities either. There had been more than a few even still, not least of which being how easily he might have taken a rain check from their sporadic cooking lessons with the intention of pursuing that very purpose… Yet, every time the opportunity had appeared to continue along the natural progression, he had shied from it.

He couldn’t for the life of him determine why. After all, Cynthia is a beautiful woman. He finds her attractive. He loves her. And he certainly isn’t unaffected by their time together, as his water bill might attest with the recent increase in cold showers…

He had eventually reached the conclusion that, perhaps, in some way or another, it was simply more of the fallout he’d never had reason to realize prior to finally beginning a relationship again. It was the logical explanation, after all. So difficult as he finds it at times to be more open, even with Cynthia—though he has been making a more concerted effort to do so since his last realization—still there is an even further level of vulnerability to such intimacy, and so, he reasoned, that must be it. Furthermore, he reached the conclusion that, the next time such a moment arrived, should she seem inclined, he would resume with forward momentum.

As he had only recently taken note of the awkwardness of his non-pursuit, he suspected then that she must have done the same. He assumed that she was perhaps questioning his interest or perhaps she simply intended, with her usual straightforward honesty, to ask if they might continue to the next step—to be certain they were on the same page.

There was no doubt in his mind that he would be quite willing to oblige her—even if he also needed to be prepared to explain that he might require the slightest patience in dealing with old yet ignored scars if they did give him pause, lest she think it some fault of hers or a lack of interest from him. She has been so understanding in every other regard. He had no doubt that she would understand that, too, so long as he could, indeed, get out the words to explain his impulse to break the mood and retreat.

And, that was only a worst case scenario, really. Chances were, now that he had realized the issue, he wouldn’t even need say anything about it at all. He could simply act.

So, assuming that she has similarly taken note of the stagnation, he is fully prepared to either assure her that he does indeed find her very attractive if that was what she needed or to affirm that he would be perfectly fine with progressing further if all she wanted was the confirmation that he was ready to take that step.

He is so very incorrect.

“I suppose the easiest approach is to be blunt,” she continues, and yet still there follows the briefest hesitation before she speaks again. “I… I know that these days, people are fairly… liberated, I suppose most might say, but, the simple fact of the matter is that, to this point in my life, I have been abstinent, and I intend to remain so until marriage. I made that vow to myself when I was quite young, and it’s… It’s important to me.”

He was so very incorrect that his brain actually has to buffer in real time, how-ever unfortunately his stunned silence might read for Cynthia.

If he is honest with himself, Mallory has never believed in all of the silly legends told to small—and usually misbehaving—children. The idea of creatures like faeries and red caps and kelpies and unicorns had always seemed utterly ridiculous to him, even as a child. Certainly, he was willing to entertain their existence within the literary world, especially in regards to such very British classics as J.M. Barrie’s Peter Pan. One might entertain the idea of all sorts of fantastical notions in novels and poetry, after all. That was the nature of it, to venture into the realms of imagination, to allow the impossible and sometimes absurd to play out upon the page.

Yet, he cannot help but to think that perhaps he should reevaluate his stance.

Surely the likelihood of their existence is no less than this unexpected turn.

“You’re… a virgin?” he manages at last, so intelligently, and even as he says it, he knows it isn’t quite what he should have said as her blush only worsens, her expression shifting to something that seems far more guarded and fragile. “That’s—! No, I apologize. I didn’t intend to make it sound— I simply… hadn’t been expecting that to be what you wished to discuss.”

“Well. Now you know,” she answers with a furrow to her brow and a frown in place, and he feels utterly wretched to have botched this so spectacularly, but he shouldn’t be surprised, he supposes. He seems to have a knack for bungling social interactions.

Still, when he holds out his hand to her, she takes it, and without hesitation, he brings her hand to his lips, to press the softest of kisses to her fingers as he holds her gaze.

It is at least some comfort to him the way that she seems to utterly melt when he does so. Whatever hurt he had, unintentionally, caused, seems to be assuaged with the tender gesture.

“Cynthia, there is absolutely nothing wrong with that—not in the slightest—and I do apologize if I made it seem otherwise. I think you would agree that simply isn’t something you hear these days, and it rather caught me by surprise,” he explains, giving her hand a reassuring squeeze.

A soft but somewhat wry smile appears as she squeezes his hand in turn and nods.

“Yes, I can assure you that I am quite aware that I am an oddity.”

“Truthfully, I admire you for it and the resolve you have maintained to persevere where others—myself included—so often have not. I… Well. I’ve certainly not been any sort of Casanova, but… I haven’t been chaste either…” he says, his own expression a bit chagrined. “… I’ve never been one for flings, but I have had exactly three longer-term relationships: one at university and two during different times of my military days, each of which were intimate. However. As I said, I respect you and your choice to abstain, and so allow me to assure you that I shall be on my best behavior, in consideration of that and of you.”

Her expression brightens and her smile warms again as she moves nearer to kiss him, soft and sweet.

“Thank you… I… Well, it isn’t that I thought you might be upset or anything like that, but… I would have been shocked, considering your previous career and your age, if you had been chaste,” she admits. “And I was at least a little concerned that you might be disappointed.”

He can’t help but chuckle then, gently bringing her closer that she is settled against his side—as has become a habit for them—and he can wrap his arms around her.

“I must admit that this won’t be without some… difficulty, at least, in that.. Well, you certainly are not unattractive, by any means, and though I am older, I am neither blind nor dead,” he teases, and he hears her huff of a laugh. “… In addition to the fact that you do so like to be close, and I rather like for you to be close as well… All I would ask is that you please remember to show some mercy.”

“Of course!” she exclaims, though not without a more pronounced laugh, even as she snuggles nearer still. “I don’t want to be a tease, and if you need me to not do something—or even to be more careful about it—I do hope you know that you can tell me. I certainly don’t intend to torment you.”

“Unfortunately, I suspect that you will do that regardless of intent,” he returns with another soft chuckle before he presses a kiss to her temple. “But, I shall survive, even so.”

“You had better,” she says, and there she goes again, her fingers tracing against his side and not a single thought about it.

No, it would most certainly not be done without difficulty, but she is more than worth any and every discomfort he might suffer.

He lingered for quite some time after that conversation. They sat together on the sofa, talking and simply existing together in almost equal measure, with only the occasional swap of a record to disturb either of them from their place.

When he finally reaches his bed that evening—following another cold shower indeed—and he settles beneath the sheets, he lies on his back and stares up at the coffered ceiling of his bedroom.

Even still he finds himself pondering the revelation of the day, that conversation that was both overdue and totally unexpected, simultaneously. It was particularly laughable how far off he had been with his supposition as to what she intended to discuss, but then how could he have possibly anticipated that?

Then again, if anyone would hold to such an idea—one that society as a whole seemed to have deemed anachronistic and obsolete decades ago—it would be her, wouldn’t it? And, to think, he had been so concerned that he might have to explain to her why he had yet to make a move, when the truth of the matter is that she might well have been relieved that was the case!

“My God. I may well have found the very last virgin of age in all of bloody England,” he dryly remarks, bringing his hands up to scrub over his face in continued disbelief and chuckling before turning off the bedside lamp and rolling over onto his side to, hopefully, sleep.

— UNORTHODOX

Chapter Text

CHAPTER FOURTEEN—

It was an impulse on his way to meet Cynthia at her home, already with groceries in the car because he intended to cook for her as a surprise. He had spotted the sign and told Stevens to loop back around to park in front of the shop.

Despite the nearness to her birthday, he isn’t window-shopping. That particular gift was already secured against any unforeseen circumstance that might otherwise wish to impede his ability to find something suitable by the 31st.

No, this had been purely a rather uncharacteristic bit of spontaneity, a new development for which he almost wholly credits the very one who told him about this shop. When prior had he ever been so impulsive? At this point, it is well-established knowledge among those who know him that he is a creature of habit, slow to veer from his routines and his comforts.

Still, Cynthia had mentioned the place some time prior as one of the shops she rather likes, and it was another twenty minutes before his agreed-upon arrival time. While he doubted she would be cross with him if he appeared early at her door, a brief stop wouldn’t hurt anything either.

Jim gets the car door as usual, and he steps out, looking up at the old but well-maintained shop sign:

Auntie Sophie’s Relics.

The shop itself is rather plain with a neat but simple window display showing a sampling of what it had on offer. At first glance, it isn’t much. Still, with a wry huff, he must admit that Cynthia seems to have a preference for such—both in places and in people.

Shaking his head, he moves to the door of the shop, allowing Jim to step inside first, and then he follows, noting the second ding of the bell overhead, announcing their entry.

As with any place, he does not go straight about his purpose until he is certain—of the lay of the land, the people, the potential risks. There is but one other person in the store, the shopkeeper, he presumes, as she stands behind the counter.

The business layout is architecturally simple with a fairly large sale room and, at the back, a curtain separating what is likely workspace and storage. The main room itself is somewhat packed with its various displays and shelving, not quite crowded but full. Strangely, he feels at ease, an almost immediate comfort he does not often feel in such unfamiliar territory, and it takes him only a moment to realize the reason is a simple one.

It is because the store reminds him of Cynthia’s home with its antique furnishings and her carefully displayed treasures of bygone eras. Of course she likes to venture here in her free time.

“Good day to you!” greets a voice to his right, and he turns to more fully look to the elderly shopkeeper he briefly observed when first he stepped into the place. She is tall and graceful for her age, her posture proper and straight, and her expression warm and kindly.

“Good day,” he says in turn, his eyes already sweeping over the sections of the shop to see if he might determine a place to start.

He wanders further in, among the shelves—the smell of barely lingering perfumes and old paper and printed ink permeating the air—and he realizes amidst the plethora of items that he isn’t certain what had intended with this detour.

Perhaps he should have waited to visit it with the one who told him of it, as with the Owl’s Burrough. He might have suggested that they could go on such an outing, perhaps even today with the weather so nice as it is, and he almost resolves to change tactics and do that instead when he feels a somewhat sharp elbow jabbed against his ribs.

He turns to see Jim, grinning in that alarming way of his and with that distinctive gleam in his eyes, and he frowns as though on instinct, yet, before he can ask, Jim tips his head toward the front of the store.

“The lady’s speakin’ t’ you, Sir,” he offers, and Mallory turns a bit more to see the shopkeeper had stepped from behind the desk and now stands at the end of the row.

“I beg your pardon, marm?” he asks.

“I said, is there anything I can help you with, young man?”

Young man? Young man? He blinks at her almost uncomprehendingly for a moment as the words process, as he realizes that she means him and not the actual young man to his left, but, rather than allowing his silence to fester into awkwardness he endeavors to give answer.

“I… I am looking to purchase a gift for someone, though, it would appear that I find myself rather at a loss,” he says with a somewhat chagrined smile, as though that had indeed been his intention all along. Had it been? Is that what had led him here, wanting to find some trinket or other not for mere practicality’s sake —after all, her birthday was already sorted—but simply to surprise her?

Judging by the grin on Jim’s face, he’ll never hear the end of this. Yet, rather than retreating from the realization or backtracking, he arches an eyebrow at Jim—yes, Ellsworth, what of it?—only for the man to snort and look away, busying himself with examining what appears to be a single headlamp from an old 1930s luxury car.

“Anything in particular?” she questions as she moves toward them, an almost enviable ease to her stride. “I have all sorts of things here. Vintage clothing and jewelry, out of print books, records, real fine china, knick-knacks. Does any of that seem of interest?”

Though a fondness for books is quite mutual between himself and Cynthia, one word in particular catches his attention, and he considers.

“… What do you have in the way of records?”

“Oh, dearie! I’ve all kinds here!” the woman exclaims, an enthusiastic smile appearing as she gestures for them to follow her. With only a glance to Jim, he does so, listening as she continues to address them. “Does this someone have a record player, or are they one of those aesthetic collectors who likes to frame them? I’ve some very high-quality album covers for that.”

“She has a record player. I don’t know the exact model, but I am quite certain that it’s an antique, not a reproduction.”

“Is it a tabletop or a cabinet?” she questions, stopping at the back corner of the shop where several shelves are lined with crates of albums.

“A cabinet… It’s an HMV. I know that much. With two latticed doors at the front of it and a raised lid, if that makes any difference.”

Mallory pointedly ignores Jim’s look of amusement upon him providing the description. He can’t even begin to guess what precisely has prompted it, and he doesn’t want to know.

“It does indeed! Do you know if the machine has a crank? Or is it electric?” the woman questions, and she seems quite enthused with the topic. Indeed, there is something rather curious to her expression, something that seems far too delighted over records, but then, perhaps she doesn’t sell many in this modern age.

“It’s electric. Though, I do seem to recall the Lady stating that it had been retrofitted for such.”

“My, what a keen memory you have! I must say that I envy you that. Once you get to my age, you don’t quite have the mind for all of that detail. If you knew the number of times I forgot where my glasses were, only to realize I was wearing them…”

Somehow, as she deliberately and systematically pulls one crate of records from the shelf, replaces it, and then pulls another, he has the suspicion that she needn’t envy him too much on the matter. Despite her words, she seems quite sharp.

“Ah! Here we are!” she exclaims, taking one crate and then another down to set on the table against the wall just to the right of the shelves—previously empty save for a tabletop record player—set there for this exact purpose it would seem. She pats the crates with a self-satisfied smile and then looks to them. “These will be what you need, dearie. I’ve not many shellac records, and I doubt there’s many to be found these days except in private collections, but I’ve a fair number of 10” LPs, and, based on what you’ve told me, that machine will play those, too.”

“Thank you, marm,” he says, only for the woman to all but cackle.

“Marm! Ha! I thought that’s what you had said earlier. Well, there’s no need for that. You can call me Auntie Sophie or just Sophie, luv. I might be an old bird, but I’m not for all such stuffy titles as that.”

He nods in acknowledgement, a somewhat wry smile given to Ellsworth who seems no less enchanted. Yes, somehow, he suspects this one was dangerous in her youth. How fortunate for them both that they’re visiting now, when they might yet escape unscathed.

Idly, he cannot help but think of Cynthia and be amused at the parallel. She had told him not to bother with ‘Miss Mansfield’ either, and that had been the start of it, hadn’t it?

Trying to fight back the smile threatening to make him look a particularly lovestruck fool indeed, he steps to the records, Auntie Sophie relinquishing him the space to do so. He begins to carefully and methodically turn through them, reading one album title and artist name and then another. This he does for several moments before, finally, he exhales a sigh and looks to the shopkeeper.

“… I must confess—Sophie—that I am a bit out of my depth in this particular field of interest,” he admits a bit ruefully. “Might you have any suggestions?”

“Oh, I might just. Do you know what albums she does have? Or the artists. We can work with either.”

“I haven’t quite the same appreciation or knowledge to recognize the orchestrations, but, aside from classical compositions, she does seem to have a preference toward music from the War Era and a bit afterwards. I… would prefer to lean toward that side of the spectrum.”

Perhaps, in that way, he might at least avoid another Stravinsky incident.

“Oh, then certainly, we have several options there. We have the classic crooners: Sinatra, Martin, Crosby, Como. And then we have artists like Shaw, Ellington, Basie… What sort of album might you want? What would you like for it to say?”

And there, again, is the crux of it, isn’t it? He doesn’t know what she does have, and while he has no doubt that she would be gracious if he happened to get a duplicate, he would much prefer not to give her something she has already. Beyond that, what does he want to get for her?

“If you’ll pardon me, I’ll go stand at the door, Sir,” Jim says, patting his good shoulder. “Y’ seem t’ have things in hand here.”

The words might easily have been taken for sarcasm, but he senses the other means only to give him space, and he appreciates it, particularly in so unnatural a position as this.

Tense meetings at White Hall, reprimands from the Foreign Minister when matters have gone wrong, precarious negotiations that required no small amount of finesse and steel in equal measure… and still, somehow, this seems far more intimidating of a prospect.

He turns his attention from Jim as he moves toward the door back to the records and then to Auntie Sophie again, and he clears his throat.

“I don’t know how useful such guidance might be, however…”

What does he want for her?

Yet, even as he asks the question of himself, he knows, and the answer is so painfully simple that he could laugh, though he restrains the impulse, only the faintest upturn to one corner of his mouth betraying him.

“Something… something that might make her smile.”

He sees the woman’s lined face crinkle with a smile of her own, soft and warm.

“Well, I believe that I know just what you’ll want then. I know there’s nothing so lovely, to my thinking, as one Mister Nat King Cole,” she says before gesturing to the first crate. “May I?”

Nodding, he steps back and allows her the space she needs, and she moves to the container, hand moving with certainty over the various albums until she seems to find what she’s looking for, taking two very distinct albums out and showing them to him.

“What do you think of these? I’ve others, but I must admit that these are two favorites and neither so easy to find these days in such pristine condition, if I do say so myself. Both, I guarantee, would delight your Lady.”

Despite himself, he almost balks at the title of the first.

Nat ‘King’ Cole Sings for Two In Love.

Instinctively, the blatant honesty of it nearly makes him recoil as though scalded, his gaze shifting to the other. Unforgettable, a much more sensible title, and still quite suitable. Though not so well-versed in music, he would need to have lived under rock not to have heard the song for which the album was titled. It would more than suffice.

And yet… before he can say as much, he hesitates.

He looks to the first album again.

Just as with the title, the cover leaves no room for doubt, no ambiguity.

Upon its well-worn sleeve is pictured a couple, sitting together at a table in a restaurant or club, spotlights likely settled upon the singer on the stage behind them. The illustration doesn’t show the singer, however, perhaps because the couple on which it focuses haven’t a single care for anyone else in the room, so clearly as they are in their own shared world.

Has that not been himself and Cynthia almost since the very beginning? Have they not looked exactly that way, sitting across the table from one another, lost in conversation and in each other, time quite forgotten until reality intrudes, until responsibilities and schedules draw them back?

There’s that feeling once more, swelling in his chest, the warmth that sometimes catches him offguard, even now. How strange it is still to one who thought never to feel such again.

“I think… I think the first would be best,” he says and his voice sounds so impossibly, so hopelessly soft, even to him, but, for once, he does not shy from it.

“I think so, too,” the older woman says, and there is such an unmistakable warmth to her voice that he looks to her, trying to determine its source. Before he can give it much thought, however, she smiles, even as she places the other album back into the crate. “It’s a fine, romantic album, and I should think any Lady would be glad to receive it for a gift. You’ve exceptionally good taste, young man.”

Thankfully, she moves immediately to practicalities again, telling him the price, insisting upon a slight discount—’really, I’m pleased simply to see someone want one of these lovely old albums and to know it will go to a good home!’—and then confirming with him that he would like the album wrapped and, yes, plain brown paper is quite fine.

When she returns to her counter at the front to enter the purchase into the register and wrap the gift, he takes a moment to collect his composure again, giving himself the excuse of replacing the crates of records onto the shelves that she wouldn’t need to pick them up again. With that done and with himself back together, he walks to the counter and takes from his wallet the correct amount for the purchase.

Upon receiving the change, he drops it into his pocket and then looks up to find the old woman looking at him. Here, again, he feels as though there is a great deal more than he knows to her expression. Yet, there is, perhaps, one reason likely as he notes the way her hand fidgets with her necklace.

There upon the chain is a worn and scuffed gold band, too large for her own fingers.

Perhaps she and her love had once enjoyed such albums as well. Perhaps she is torn between lament that they can do so no more and happiness that others might still. Regardless, his heart clenches in sympathy and perhaps the faintest guilt that he nearly shied from seizing what others so dearly miss, for what some so earnestly pray.

How could one who knew better—who knew the cut and the weight of loneliness like a well-worn suit—even entertain the idea of being anything less than earnest? How could he even think to cower from the truth when that brilliant woman who holds his heart could be so bold as to proclaim that she would choose him every time and to say it without even the slightest hedge, without so much as one qualification?

“Thank you, Sophie,” he says as she passes the paper-wrapped album to him, and he means it.

“Well, you’re very welcome,” she answers with a somewhat misty smile. “… She’s a blessed woman indeed.”

The words catch him—what a terribly and marvelously sentimental mood he seems in today!—and he offers a somewhat more evident smile.

“Of the two of us, I am by far the more blessed.”

So honest a statement—so forthright to a relative stranger—and yet something moved him to say it all the same, perhaps an acknowledgement, perhaps an assurance, to her or to himself, he cannot say.

Even so, with a nod, a farewell, and a wish that she have a fine rest of her day, he takes his leave, Jim opening the door to the store and then to the car, and they are on their way once more.

— NO AMBIGUITY

Chapter Text

CHAPTER FIFTEEN —

When Stevens brings the car to the curb and parks, Mallory doesn’t even wait for Jim to get out of the vehicle before he’s opened the door himself. Stepping out—though not neglecting his usual glance over his surroundings—he walks to the door and knocks.

It’s barely a moment before the door opens, and there she stands, beaming.

“Precisely on time, as usual. Perhaps the trains should set their clocks by your watch,” she teases, greeting him with a polite but affectionate kiss. When they part, he huffs a laugh.

“So long as it isn’t raining.”

“To be fair, I think you could hardly be faulted even for that,” she returns, giving him a knowing look.

“Perhaps not,” he concedes, adding to himself that, even if he could have been considered lacking that day, he would hardly complain of the events that followed of it.

“Well, are you to come in then, or have you elected to stay out here? It is such lovely weather.”

“I’m quite content to join you inside, however, first: You haven’t started on anything for supper, have you?”

“No…” she begins, looking at him somewhere between amusement and curiosity. “Why?”

“It’s only that I thought it quite time for me to show that your cooking lessons haven’t been for naught,” he explains, even as he backtracks to the car where Jim stands by the open door, looking at him with no small amount of humor.

Well, let him.

He retrieves the groceries and the second parcel, then steps back onto the curb, nodding to Jim as he starts toward the door. As he does, he notes that Cynthia tilts her head when she notices it isn’t only groceries he carries, and there’s something not only endearing but reassuring in her expression.

“That doesn’t look like groceries,” she comments, eyeing the parcel with some bemusement even as she opens the door for him.

“Because it isn’t,” he offers, a bit of teasing to his own voice now as he detours into the reception room where the usual soft tones of music drift from the gramophone, and he sets the gift safely down upon the coffee table.

He hears her scoff in protest, before she takes a moment to offer greeting to Jim and Stevens—as well as quietly telling Jim to let her know if they need anything—before closing the door and securing it. By the time he reaches the kitchen and sets the groceries down upon the counter, he sees her approach and does his best to keep his amusement restrained.

“You, Sir, are being so terribly mysterious at the moment,” she says as she settles behind him as she often does, arms around him and chin resting on his shoulder. “You do know it isn’t my birthday until the 31st, yes?”

“Yes, I do seem recall as much. Despite my advanced age, I’ve not quite gone senile yet.”

The words could have been sharp. They might have been a year ago, spoken to someone else, even someone like Jim. Now, however, they are light and wry.

“Ridiculous,” she returns, laughing as she presses a kiss to his neck, just above his collar—cheeky!—before briefly hiding her face against his shoulder and then looking to him again. “Very well then. Keep your secrets. Would my company be agreeable to you, or shall I leave you to your scheming?”

“I would be quite pleased for you to remain. Besides, I might require supervision—for the sake of your well-appointed kitchen.”

He earns another snicker, and there remains a hint of pride at the fact that she finds such joy in this, in him. To continually be reminded that he is not only anchor or protector but something more, that he might give her even a fraction of the happiness that she so freely bestows upon him.

“Where would you have me then?” she questions and—Lord help him—he can’t quite cover his laugh fast enough to spare her the realization of the verbal misstep. He doesn’t even need to see her face to know the color it turns. “I meant! Whether you would prefer me to supervise from here or to get a chair and sit out of the way?”

“Well,” he begins, coughing once and then clearing his throat to bring himself back to some semblance of dignity.

Honestly, Cynthia.

“If you believe you will be capable of behaving yourself, I can think of no complaint with you remaining as you normally do when we’ve had our cooking lessons. I might require close watch, after all.”

“I was hoping that you would say that…” she says, as her arms settle more solidly about him, seemingly content simply to be close.

Whether through his acquired knowledge or her careful attention—or perhaps, in spite of her careful attention—somehow, he manages to prepare a meal without any measurable damage and without need for triage to any of the parties involved.

Following their usual pattern, they take their meal in the dining room where time passes, unobserved, as they talk about a little of everything. She told of the most recent LSO happenings, and several times he laughed at the absurdity of the occasional hijinks apparently inherent to any place where musicians are gathered together. To his own surprise, he shared not particulars but the broader strokes of how work had been that week, and her sympathies and encouragement over the stress of it almost made him to forget that he had ever been stressed at all.

By the time the meal was finished, they continued their routine, cleaning up, washing and putting away the dishes, and then—as it would seem neither had anywhere to be tomorrow with the orchestra finally in their off-season—they make their way to the reception room…

Which seems to remind them both of the item left there at the start.

“So, do you intend to inform me of what this is tonight, or is it to remain a fixture on my coffee table in perpetuity, until whenever it best suits you?” she questions as she takes her usual seat on the sofa, her legs immediately pulled up under her. Resting her arm on the back of the sofa and propping up her head, she looks up at him through dark eyelashes with amusement dancing in her eyes and a smile playing at the corners of her lips, though trying to seem so serious.

Very well. If she wants to play, then he’s quite willing and able to do so. If anything, perhaps it will help him bring to order the nerves that have taken hold of him, despite his continuing certainty that he had made the correct decision.

Rather than immediately sit, he stands at the edge of the coffee table, hands sliding into the pockets of his trousers as he considers her from under his brow, endeavoring to muster the same severity that he has utilized in meetings to defy opposition and deter argument from even the most careless of operatives.

How dare she smile all the more, and how dare he find it so damnably attractive.

“I don’t know… I suppose it could stay there for a while longer yet. Did you say your schedule was free tomorrow?”

“You’re positively awful, do you know that?” she laughs, and he feels the corner of his mouth twitch as if it might rebel against his resolve. “Here I have been so incredibly patient. I’ve not asked even once in the past hours—”

“Though, I did prepare dinner for you, so I think that offered at least some respite from the gnawing of your curiosity.”

“—and you continue to tease me so.”

“Are you telling me that I should ‘have compassion for your poor nerves’?”

Her hand drops as she sits up straighter.

“Are you quoting Pride and Prejudice at me, Colonel Mallory?” she half-exclaims in disbelief, and there he almost falters again. The threat of a smile? Imminent.

“Confidentially, of course…” he begins, his voice lowered to that hushed tone one must use when discussing matters of the utmost delicacy in halls with a tendency to echo. “… were I to have done so, it would only have occurred as a result of our last conversation, wherein you spoke so highly of its ‘satirical prose’.”

The look of utter delight that blooms with the admission undermines his attempt to maintain appearances, the laugh escaping him at last as he takes his customary seat beside her.

“Did you like it? Or are you merely quoting it to humor me?” she questions as she leans closer, her hand lightly resting against his shoulder.

“I will admit, though it was not quite the novel I would have chosen to read unprompted—”

“Well, it’s certainly not War & Peace or Crime & Punishment,” she jokingly interjects.

“Even so, it was quite enjoyable.”

“I thought that you might like the dialogue. As well as the fact that Austen’s work has such dry wit woven throughout it.”

“Quite.”

She isn’t wrong. He had rather appreciated those aspects, particularly where Austen so subtly critiqued the mentalities and conventions of the day. What he enjoys far more, however, is seeing how much Cynthia brightens simply to know that he not only had read the book but liked it. Something in that knowledge further steadies him, and he decides to simply take the plunge.

“Now. I could regale you with a lengthy academic discussion regarding the virtue of satire as a tool for societal commentary…” he begins, leaning forward to carefully lift the paper-wrapped parcel from the table and offer it to her. “But, I am not, in fact, so awful.”

“No, you most certainly are not. Not in any regard,” she affirms—or is it ‘reassures’?—her tone softening. She shifts closer, stealing a kiss, then settles against his side. Only then does she take the gift, weighing it for a moment before looking up at him with renewed curiosity. Though he would wager that she has handled countless albums in her life, still she asks.

“What mischief, exactly, have you gotten into?”

“If you open it, you can discover that for yourself,” he says with a soft smile of his own. “Though, I would advise you to exercise some care as I was told that it’s rather old.”

Her bemused stare briefly lingers, and then she turns her attention to the wrapping. He watches as deft hands gently work away the tape from the edges of the brown paper, making certain it is all removed before she unfolds it, revealing the album inside.

She gasps and her hand flies to her mouth, her eyes widening a fraction as she stares at the front of the sleeve and the title emblazoned across it: Nat ‘King’ Cole Sings For Two in Love.

Despite telling himself all would be well, still he holds his breath.

He needn’t wait for long.

“Gareth…” she murmurs as she looks to him with misty eyes, a beautiful smile peeking from between her fingers. “You… You bought me an album?”

He nods in answer.

“Did you have that one?”

“No… No, I…” She blinks hard a few times, her gaze returning to the sleeve. Her hand smooths almost reverently over the cover, as if she senses the weight of the meaning behind it. “I didn’t. It’s perfect.”

Cynthia turns to face him, her hand gently settling to rest against his neck, and she draws him into another kiss, this time soft and lingering. His own hand moves to her waist, both steadying and holding her.

When the kiss breaks, still she remains near for a moment more.

“Shall I change out the record?” she questions, and, though he can hear the obvious excitement in her voice, still he leaves the choice to her.

“If you would like.”

Her expression brightens all the more, and he releases her that she can stand.

He watches her as she so carefully carries the record over to the gramophone, and, as she trades one record for the other, he cannot say what takes hold of him, but he quietly pushes to his feet and waits.

When the first soaring notes of music begin to play, she turns to face him once more—only to find him standing with his hand extended to her.

“M’lady, might I have this dance?”

Whatever it is that had compelled him, he ought to trust it more often, if the near breathless adoration with which she regards him is any indication as she takes his hand.

“I would be delighted.”

After relocating to a less occupied part of the room—where they needn’t concern themselves with the corners of coffee tables or the arms of chairs—he brings her close and it is gratifying in a way he cannot explain to feel how easily she follows his lead, how naturally they move together. As is his wont, he allows her to choose, and a thrill goes through him when she wraps one arm around his shoulders, and she settles so tantalizingly close, the warmth of her gentle perfume almost intoxicating.

When they begin to sway to the music, she rests her head against his own. He feels the softest sigh exhaled against his neck, and there goes his heart once more, skipping and stuttering.

She may well be the death of him, but if that were his fate, he would accept it for a moment such as this.

He isn’t certain how many songs pass before she leans back ever so slightly to catch his gaze.

“You know… I was thinking the other day about what you said… when I told you about my intentions…”

“Hopefully not about how badly I bungled that.”

Her laugh is quiet as she shakes her head.

“No… You said that it wouldn’t be easy, but that you would adhere to it for me.”

“It surprises even myself to think all to which I might agree, if you asked it of me,” he admits, with a somewhat wry smile that softens when her gaze dips, perhaps almost shyly.

“Well… I was so relieved at the time that… I suppose I didn’t think…” She looks up again to meet his searching eyes once more, and his breath catches in his chest.

The way she looks at him…

“It’s only that… I hope you don’t believe that it’s indifference… or that I’m somehow unaffected… You said that you’re not dead or blind. But I’m not a statue, either… With moments like this, with you holding me like this… looking so very gorgeous… it would be so very easy to be swayed…”

Her voice is little more than a whisper as she bares a truth to him that he finds difficult to fathom, even hearing the vulnerability in her voice, seeing the desire in her gaze. His chest clenching almost painfully, he stills, the music and their dance forgotten as she continues.

“But I respect myself and you too much to do this any other way… It isn’t that I don’t want you… But I want to do this right. Not only because I promised myself that I would, but because you deserve that respect as well.… And, because… If this should become relevant, at some point… it will be all the more wonderful, all the more special, for having waited.”

“Cynthia…”

He swallows hard, jaw clenching against this feeling to which he cannot quite give name.

He had assumed—of course he had—that, for all the ways in which it did work, this between them was not entered into without her willingness to overlook certain aspects of himself.

Since not long after their almost parting, he could not question the strength or the depth of their connection. Their similar intellectual interests, principles, and sensibilities had been the foundation, and while, emotionally they are as different as the night from the day, the differences in their temperaments have, thus far, seemed to complement one another.

Further, he has even allowed himself to think, on occasion, that while she has done wonders to remind him what it is to live for the first time in nigh two decades, perhaps she might appreciate the stability that he offers her. Perhaps, in that manner, it is even of benefit to her that he is older, that he is more settled, that he is far beyond the wild flights of fancy or fickle and fleeting infatuation so common to youth. No, he is quite set in his ways and his behaviors, and entirely set now in the notion of this, in the presence of her at his side and in his heart.

Indeed, he had admitted some time ago —against all logical understanding on his part—that he is willing to accept each of those items as established fact.

Yet, he is also too wizened to be naïve.

He has never been a vain man, and perhaps that is why he finds it so easy and, even natural, to admit that he is quite a few years removed from his prime, from being the more traditional sort of handsome that most young women would wish to call upon them, to court them. It is a fact of which he is reminded each time he looks in the mirror, each time he notes the ever-deepening lines upon his face, to say nothing of what complaints do ail him in those times when the weather turns cold or the rain encroaches overmuch…

Never, in all of his musings, had he ever dared to consider that this vibrant and impossible woman could think him even half so attractive, so desirable…

Until this moment, when she’s looking at him like that, when she’s making such a confession and he can hear the truth of it in her words, when he knows with certainty that she would not lie to him, not even about this.

It is even more shocking, more humbling, however, that she knows he has not shown the same restraint in his past, yet still she insists that she wants to do this right, out of respect not only for herself but also for him.

“You…” He exhales a shaky sigh as he brings one hand up to cup her jaw, thumb tracing the line of her cheekbone. “You are the most… extraordinary person I have met in all my years… and you honor me, likely far more than I deserve…”

“No. Perhaps you may believe that, but I certainly don’t,” she insists, conviction evident in the way she raises her chin and squares her shoulders, just as she had that night when she fought for this, for him, and yet still her voice is so infinitely tender. “What-ever you may think, my darling… there isn’t a single thing that I would change—not about you or about us. Not one.”

For a long moment, he can do nothing more than to stare at her—so many conflicting thoughts and feelings at war within him—and then he brings her once more into an embrace, and perhaps the kiss that follows says what he cannot, conveys all that she means to him.

When at last they both seem to remember the necessity of air, still they remain close as they resume their dance to the hushed awe of Cole crooning ‘Tenderly’, and the thought returns to him that he is far more blessed indeed.

— TENDERLY

Chapter Text

CHAPTER SIXTEEN —

Shoes strike upon the marble flooring in clipped, military cadence. He does not break stride even as he begins his walk up the red-carpeted Grand Staircase under the watchful marble stares of the immortalized Secretaries: Fox, Villiers, Salisbury, and Bevin. So many times as he has walked this very path, still he gives them due deference as he passes, even if only by the barest nod of his head.

Up the stairs to the next story, he pauses only briefly, as he often does, taking a moment to look upon Goetze’s central mural at the top of the stairs. The afternoon light from the arched windows and the dome above streams down to illuminate the stalwart figure of Britannia Pacificatrix. The embodiment of Britain, amidst the other nations, she stands tall and unbowed, despite having undergone the first World War and the martial ruins of Germany broken beneath her feet. How many times he has seen the proud sentinel and comforter, and yet, looking at it now, he is reminded of another who stood unbowed beneath the weight of grief.

With a wryly amused smile, he shakes his head and continues along his path until at last he enters into the reception room for the office of the Foreign Secretary.

“Good day, Director Mallory!” the Secretary’s receptionist greets with a smile, her rounded face almost cherubic in its cheer.

“And to you,” he politely returns, though he briefly hesitates when realizes, with no small amount of self-reproach, that he doesn’t know her name, despite the months of treks to this very office. How ill-mannered of him! He will need figure it out before the next time he is called to the Secretary’s office.

“… Is the Secretary’s schedule running on time today?”

“Oh, yes, Sir. He’s quite ready for you. I’ll let him know that you’re here. He always appreciates your punctuality, you know. Keeps the schedule running smooth,” she says with an approving nod, even as she reaches to press the phone intercom. “Secretary Norham, Director Mallory is here.”

“Send him in.”

Idly, Mallory finds himself almost wondering if even Norham knows his secretary’s name.

She releases the intercom, stands from her place behind the desk, and ushers him to the door. Opening it for him, she announces his presence once more, even as he steps into the room.

Upon Mallory’s entry into the office, Secretary Norham stands from his desk. Nigh a decade his senior, the man is slightly hunched about the neck and shoulders, but otherwise shows few signs of his age, standing tall and proud—or perhaps pompous—and there is a certain unusual sharpness to his eyes that immediately sets his nerves on end.

Something is not right, and he can surmise the cause.

The Foreign Secretary is not alone.

Standing from the chair across the desk from the Secretary is a clean-shaven young man. Were Mallory to guess, he would assume he was perhaps in his late thirties but certainly no older than early forties. He wears a sharp but modern suit, efficient and so entirely devoid of any indicators of his class or his lineage or his studies, and Mallory cannot even begin to guess his purpose here.

Mallory looks to Norham.

“Ah! There you are, Mallory. What did I tell you? I said that the nation could set its clocks by this man, and still he would manage to outperform them,” Norham chuckles in that self-satisfied way so central to his person.

The young man only barely indulges him with a smile that doesn’t reach his eyes.

Something is very not right.

“You did say as much, Secretary Norham, and it’s quite a feat to be certain when so many unexpected complications are so quick to arise,” the young man begins, his voice nearly lost even in the relative quiet of the room. “London can be so chaotic a place.”

“Director Mallory, I called you here that I might introduce you to your soon-to-be counterpart at MI-5, Max Denbigh,” Norham explains, and there is a certain look to his eyes and his expression that tells him everything he needs to know in a moment: this meeting is trouble of some sort. Based upon who he has introduced, he can speculate why.

Six months ago, Denbigh had authored a dossier that posited such departments as MI-6’s double-0 program were woefully obsolete. Everything that might need doing abroad, he argued, could be done via extensive digital surveillance networks and drones.

Of course the paper—and its author—had caught the attention of his office.

Max Denbigh. Born 1976. Graduated from Cambridge, Trinity College—where he met and befriended the current Home Secretary, Edmund Fairfax.

At the time, it was determined among the administrative staff within his own department that there was minimal concern.

Considering where the ‘minimal concern’ now stands, it would seem that he needs to adjust their assessment.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Director Mallory,” Denbigh says, offering his hand.

There is the briefest pause wherein he studies his bearing, his demeanor, his carefully precise expression, and then he crosses to take his offered hand and shake.

One can tell a lot about a man from a handshake. Denbigh’s grip is nearly firm but not quite, and his hands smooth, seemingly without a single callous.

Had the man ever done a day’s work requiring the labor of his hands?

Likely not.

“Mister Denbigh,” he says in answer, not quite prepared to express if it is a pleasure to meet him.

Already he suspects that it will not be so.

“Please, call me ‘Max’,” he corrects as they release each other’s hands and withdraw. “I’ve never had much use for titles or formality. I’ve always found that it seems to create barriers and impede earnest and equitable collaboration.”

A new-age communist then. How perfectly quaint.

He corners a look to Secretary Norham who chuckles, prepared as ever to smooth over any awkwardness.

There is a reason he has survived so long in politics.

“I do hope you will show us some grace, Max. It is ever so difficult to teach old dogs new tricks, but I do think we will manage it ere long,” he reassures the younger man while giving Mallory a pointed look in turn, a look that tells him, You know the game, whether you like it or not. Play it.

“Now, Director Mallory. I called you here not only to meet with Max, but to allow him to share with you certain concerns and suggestions that he has regarding the—what was it you said?—‘The Modernization of Intelligence through Application of Advanced Technologies’?”

“Exactly that, Secretary,” the man says with an earnestness so sweet that Mallory almost feels his stomach twist with nausea, though he endeavors to keep his sneer contained. Norham wishes him to behave? Then, he shall.

For the moment.

“Might I suppose that your concerns and suggestions have something to do with your paper that alluded to the ‘obsolescence of the current system’ that is ‘inherently flawed by the nature of its operators’?”

The man’s expression brightens—pride and self-importance—and his smile turns just a touch more sincere.

“I’m flattered that you read my paper. As you did, then you already know how important it is that we allow our intelligence apparatus to step forward from the shadows and into the light and transparency of the modern age.”

“And you have a plan for that, I gather?” he questions, expression one of carefully practiced impassivity.

“I do. If this most recent unpleasantness made anything clear, it’s that we need to amplify our intelligence gathering through real-time surveillance that can provide us with the ability to make informed judgments for the safety of the nation. Surely you would agree that our people deserve to be safe?”

Mister Denbigh is saying all the right words, but within them, Mallory swears that he can almost hear the hiss of a viper, of well-spoken duplicity coiled and ready to strike at any who are not aware, who do not show due caution.

He proceeds with careful deliberation.

“Increased surveillance would be of great benefit, even to the Service, yes,” he allows, and he can see the beginning of an upturn to the other’s mouth. That won’t last for long. “However. That cannot be done at the cost of individual liberty, and certainly not as a means of removing from commission all of our operatives in the field who are both highly effective and consistent in their ability to bring about the desired results. They have been trained to make decisions, on the ground-level. Contrary to what your academic theory seemed to espouse, a drone can’t do that.”

“I must admit that I’m a bit surprised,” the younger man begins, and Mallory finds something disconcerting to his expression, to this feigned shock. “I had thought that you would understand, more so than anyone else here, why this is so vital.”

His jaw clenches with the words, with the gnawing suspicion of what the other means to imply, but this time, he pretends, testing to see if the twit will be bold enough to say it outright rather than to make such insidious little insinuations.

“I’m afraid that I don’t follow.”

“It’s only that, I would think someone with your history—”

Mallory can feel his eyes narrow, the way his shoulders square, but Max Denbigh remains either oblivious or assured in his good standing with the Home Secretary as a means of securing himself.

“—would understand more keenly than anyone what could have been prevented had such systems been in place.”

“Mister Denbigh, I don’t think—” Norham interjects, and even from his peripheral—his stare remaining fixed upon the offending party—Mallory notes the way Norham’s eyes dart to him, uncertain.

“ ‘Max’, please. And, I do apologize if that was clumsy. I may have overstepped.” The words ring hollow in his ears, perfunctory not contrite, and he feels his jaw tighten all the more. “I only meant that given what you endured—”

“You know nothing of what I endured.”

“Of course not. Yet, even so, had we the capabilities that I’m advocating, you might never have had to undergo that hardship at all. Or, at the least, it might have been dramatically lessened as we would have had the means to locate you sooner. Wouldn’t you, of all people, wish to spare others from the same fate?”

Lips thinned, stare as cold as polished steel, he regards the other, unmoved by his thinly-veiled attempts at placation and manipulation. He inhales through his nose and then exhales, and when he speaks, he endeavors to keep his voice level that he might give the man no reason for self-congratulation.

“… What my experiences have taught me, Max, is this: there are no ends which justify means that cannot stand on their own,” he says and he notes the slight bristling of the other, the way that his eyes turn colder, his expression once of more deliberately-maintained composure.

Good.

“As our views on the matter appear irreconcilable, I see no point in continuing this discussion.”

“Yes, let’s place a pin in this for the moment, shall we, gentlemen?” Norham says with the practiced ease and politesse he has come to expect over the course of their acquaintance. “It is quite time to take a repast, after all, and there is never any good in men debating policy with tongues sharpened by empty stomachs.”

“You’re right, of course, Secretary. If you’ll excuse me…” Denbigh says, with a slight tip of his head before he moves to the door.

Still Mallory’s eyes remain fixed upon him, on his overconfident swagger, on his general air of superiority until the moment he exits and the door closes behind him.

“I admire your restraint, Mallory,” Norham wryly remarks, and, at last, he shifts his attention to the Secretary. “Max is perhaps young and overzealous… And yet, he isn’t entirely wrong either. I understand your position—of course, I do…”

Mallory can hear the qualifier before it ever follows, the warning of it evident in his expression ere the Secretary even speaks.

“But if you can’t come up with better arguments than tradition and sentimentality, you and I both know that there are others who will listen.”

“Sir.”

Without a word more, at the dismissive nod from the Secretary, he departs from the office with the purposeful but steady march of one preparing for war—as surely war it will be.

Even still, he is a man of good-breeding, and so he gives a courteous nod to the receptionist as he passes and wishes her a good day. He makes another mental note that he needs to learn her name before his next visit, and then he is out the door. He traces his steps back through the building, the sound of traffic assailing him even as he reclaims his shadow at the door.

Again, how remarkable is Ellsworth’s good sense—when he chooses to exhibit it—that he says nothing during the brisk walk back to the car, and neither does he speak as he opens the door for him and closes it behind him.

Mallory could have throttled the bastard.

Were he a man of lesser breeding, lesser control, he might have done and accepted the consequences, just for the satisfaction of wiping that look of faux concern from his miserable face.

The audacity of him! How dare the scheming bastard presume to drag out into casual discourse what he had endured! How dare he believe that his captivity was a tool he could wield to cut him at the knees, to make him bow to his Machiavellian, pseudo-intellectual argument!

He sharply exhales, endeavoring to breathe, to bring himself back to some sense of composure, and yet, when his phone buzzes once and then twice in short succession, he half considers throwing the bloody device out the window.

He takes it from his coat pocket instead to see who the hell wants something of him now.

He stops.

He breathes.

His expression softens despite the cold fury still coursing through his veins.

[ sms ] So, I happen to find myself in the city, not far from the office.

[ sms ] Might I tempt you to join me for lunch?

Holding the phone with near reverence as he reads back over the messages again, he takes another breath, steadier this time. So much as he looks forward to her random texts ranging from inquiring if his day is going well to something she found that made her think of him, he has never been more glad to see them than now.

He wants to reply in the affirmative. He wants to see her. He has no doubt that even just a brief lunch would vastly improve his day.

And yet… He should not at the present moment, and he knows it. Were he to meet her now, there is not even the slightest chance in hell that he would be able to school away his agitation, his anger, and—righteous or otherwise—he doesn’t want to subject her to his foul humor.

He almost conveys his apologies—it’s a busy day, he couldn’t possibly sneak away, et cetera—but he pauses and reconsiders… then sends a different message instead.

[ sms ] So much as I would like to say yes, I will have to decline lunch, and present you with a counter-offer of dinner, if that would be acceptable?

There is only the slightest delay before his phone buzzes again, and there is a stab of guilt at the speed of her reply. She must have been waiting for his answer.

[ sms ] Dinner would be marvelous. My place or yours?

He huffs, the faintest almost-smile and shakes his head as he types and hits send.

[ sms ] I’m not sure what is in my fridge at present that would be conducive to meal planning, so from an overabundance of caution, I will say yours.

Another brief pause. Another quick reply.

[ sms ] I’ll see you then. Love you. <3

After staring at the screen for a moment longer than necessary, he responds in kind and places the phone away again, his breathing and heart rate—mostly—leveled.

Everything will be fine. How-ever vexing Denbigh might be, this can be managed.

He won’t be caught off-guard again.

— OLD DOGS