Multi-part: Halcyon (NC-17 overall, various, Andy Roddick/Roger Federer) Title: Playing the Hero (Halcyon 8) Rating: R Pairing: Implied Roddick/Fish, Haas/Safin, Roddick/Federer Summary: … The world ended. People didn’t. Not quite. Notes: AU fic set in a hypothetical post-‘apocalyptic’ near future (I do love my apocalypses and jumping on the current AU bandwagon seemed like a good idea.) But this is one plot bunny that hasn’t had enough caffeine to sort itself out yet and I’m still sorting the threads out, so bear with me. Disclaimer: Hasn’t… um, won’t happen to my knowledge, the various tennis players own themselves. Blame the plotbunnies. They started it. Warnings: Abuse, violence, deaths of various RL people you may be fond of, mentions of terrorism, voluntary/involuntary drug use, the world post-‘apocalypse', probably more I've missed. It’s all fun and games here.
Andy is sitting on the brown grass at the edge of the airfield when Roger finds him, staring pensively up at the dusty sky. He’s playing absently with a silver bracelet around his wrist, engraved with the symbol of a fish and Roger hesitates before walking over, sitting beside him. Andy quickly tucks Mardy’s bracelet out of sight under his sleeve but Roger decides not to comment. He thinks there’s nothing he could say that wouldn’t sound jealous or petty anyway.
“How long until Yves gets here?” the American asks without taking his eyes off the sky. Roger shrugs.
“He said about twenty minutes when I spoke to him. He shouldn’t be much longer.”
Andy nods. The sunset is orange and red tonight, painting the brown landscape in golden colours. It glints in Andy’s eyes when he finally looks over at the Swiss.
“Roger, you know this is just to set up Marat’s plan right? I am coming back.”
“I know.” Roger sighs. “But Andy, you don’t have to.” It hurts to say the words but he knows it would be better for both of them if the American stayed safely out of reach. “The corporation knows you’re here. Mardy can fly over to you in America just as easily as coming here, once Marat admits where they are. Please Andy, think about it.”
“No.” Andy’s voice is flat. “You may think this was some sort of casual fuck for me Roger but it wasn’t. I’m coming back in a week. Or,” and suddenly his tone is carefully neutral, laced with the faintest trace of hope. “You could come with me? It’s only for a week, you won’t be missed back here-“
“I can’t.” Roger tries to soften his abrupt refusal with an apologetic smile, his heart aching as Andy looks down, clearly disappointed. “There’s something I have to do here. I’m sorry.”
“Do what? Andy is nothing if not persistent and Roger wonders if it’s suspicion he can see in the American’s eyes. Andy’s next words confirm it. “I’m coming back Roger on the condition you’re here and intact when I get here, understand? If you’re planning anything stupid like playing the hero for some reason-“
“Andy.” Roger cuts him off, swallowing tears as he lies with practised smoothness. “I’ll be here when you get back. I promise.”
“Good.” Andy doesn’t sound convinced but relaxes back anyway, leaning on his elbows. Roger leans back beside him, folding his arms behind his head as a pillow on the hard ground and before he can think to shift away Andy’s lying next to him, arm tucked around Roger’s waist and soft lips pressed to the Swiss’ neck. Roger gives in, closes his eyes, and lets Andy snuggle against him. He may never see the American again and he can tell Andy senses it too, from the almost too-tight grip he has on Roger’s waist, from the suggestion of despair in the kisses he’s brushing up Roger’s neck. It hurts because he really thought, for the first time since Mirka left…
He must have said her name out loud because Andy looks up at him, frowning. “What about Mirka?”
“What?!” Roger flinches then pretends he didn’t, shutting his eyes and forcing himself to relax. “Oh nothing. Just wondering when she’ll report.”
“Do you think she got out okay?” Andy asks softly and Roger’s glad his eyes are closed so Andy can’t see the tears fighting to escape. In a way he wishes the American was gone already – keeping the act up any longer would’ve been impossible. But at the same time something is selfishly screaming for him to confess, to let someone else worry about it for just a little while, because Roger doesn’t know what he’s going to do. He has an idea but it all depends on someone he hasn’t spoken to in over a year and so much could go wrong… he wants to tell Andy so the American can hug him and tell him to stop being so stupid, or drag Roger away to America, or even better come up with a plan that doesn’t involve Roger almost certainly getting killed.
But there’s always the chance Andy will decide to do the stupidly noble thing and Roger can’t let him do that, not with Mardy waiting anxiously for him wherever Marat’s got them all hidden. So he just shrugs, forcing his tone to be casually dismissive.
“She’s good at what she does. She’ll be fine.”
“I hope so.” Andy’s mouth moves up, pressing kisses to Roger’s ear then across, trailing them over the Swiss’ forehead. Roger keeps his eyes closed but arcs up into Andy with a groan as the American sits across his thighs, running his hands through Roger’s hair.
“Roger?” he whispers and the wordless moan from the Swiss almost counts as an answer. “I need to tell you something.”
“Now?” Roger gasps into the American’s mouth and Andy nods. “Okay. I’m listening.”
Marat let something slip when I was yelling at him on the phone. Did you think that he should have asked you for help, before he even thought of asking me?”
Roger nods. The realisation that not even Marat needed his help had stung, even more than the man he’d once adored not making the effort to let Roger know he was still alive. Andy takes a deep breath, stilling the rocking of his hips against Roger’s.
“Well he did, only he left out the part where he told you. He’s been using your people to set up his plan, using your passwords and codes. I think that’s why you haven’t been getting many reports lately. They’ve been sending them to Marat instead.”
Roger stares at him in wordless shock, feeling as if someone’s punched him in the stomach. He’d thought everyone was still lying low after the mission to blow up corporate offices in Berlin a few months ago. He blamed not getting many reports from abroad on lack of safe communication channels. “So I wasn’t getting reports from America, from Texas…”
“Because Marat talked your people over there into working for him instead, trying to find me.” Andy sounds miserable, rolling off the Swiss as Roger sits up. “He made me promise not to tell you. He threatened Mardy. But,” and the first tears trickle down Andy’s face. “It’s not fair, he shouldn’t have done it and it’s not like he’ll know I’ve told-“
“Ssshh.” Roger comforts him automatically even though he’s almost trembling with rage, drawing the American into a hug. Andy leans into it, wiping his tears away with the back of his hand. “It’s okay. Thank you for telling me.”
“I had to, because it’s not fair and you’re planning something stupid, I can tell and Mardy’s not dead after all and-“ Andy’s stream of words become muffled as he buries his face in Roger’s shoulder and the Swiss strokes his hair, confusion dispelling his anger.
“Andy, what’s wrong?” He gets an incoherent mumble in reply. “What?”
There’s the drone of a plane overhead and Roger glances up, sees Yves banking in to land. He ignores it, still stroking Andy’s hair and dropping a light kiss on the American’s temple. “Andy?”
The American turns his head slightly, freeing his mouth. “I don’t know what to do,” he says in a rush. “Because I love Mardy, I know I do and I’m supposed to but just when I thought he was dead and you were there and now I don’t know what to do because there’s two of you and-“
“Andy, whoa.” Roger blinks. Over on the field Yves is just coming in to land and he knows they’ll have to be quick because the corporation will almost certainly be watching the airport but he ignores that, tightening his arms around the distressed American. “Slow down. Tell me slowly.”
Andy shakes his head, scrubbing angrily at wet eyes. “I can’t ‘cause I don’t know how.” He glances over at the plane slowing to a halt and turns in Roger’s arms, pressing a hard, wet kiss to the Swiss’ mouth. Roger shuts his eyes in surprise and leans into it, tasting tears and Andy and it hurts that he has to let this go. He knows that a second longer and he’d be on that plane, refusing to let go of Andy all the way to Texas so it’s almost a relief when the American breaks the kiss, leaning back just enough to speak with his lips brushing Roger’s.
“I love you,” he whispers. “Don’t do anything stupid without me okay?”
And he lets go, scrambling to his feet and half-running across the field to the waiting plane. Roger stares after him in shock and disbelief, one hand going to his mouth to touch wet lips.
“Don’t do anything stupid without me okay?”
“I’m sorry,” Roger murmurs reluctantly after a long few minutes, watching the plane take off and disappear into the glare of the sun. “I have to.”
19th August 2011, somewhere between Bern and Lausanne, Switzerland
Before dawn the next day Roger’s driving, admiring the handling of the brand new off-roader he’s ‘borrowed’ from Andrew’s collection for the trip. He misses his cars more than most things from his old life and it’s wonderful to feel the speed of driving again, racing himself down empty roads through the Swiss countryside. It’s almost enough to make him feel like Roger Federer, number one tennis player again, until he remembers he’s effectively a wanted fugitive, planning to drive a stolen car all the way down through France. It’s enough to make him keep his head down as far as possible when he passes any towns and village that are still inhabited.
Another reminder is the car itself; he chose the off-roader over the lure of the sports cars he once owned twins of, sitting silent and polished in their underground garage, because the roads over Europe can be tricky now they’ve fallen into disrepair. People from the cities don’t often travel and corporate officials nearly always fly, so demand for roads without a regular supply of petrol is almost non-existent. For which Roger is very grateful, since it means although he may have to navigate a few holes and craters, he won’t pass many people who could report him.
That it lets him go zooming down the motorways at over a hundred miles an hour without fear of getting pulled over is also a bonus. God he’s missed the speed of driving.
Unfortunately the long drive also gives him time to think. He tries singing softly to himself at first as a distraction, struggling to remember half-forgotten songs and when that doesn’t work moves on to counting, houses that he passes, trees that he passes, the goddamn holes in the road that he often doesn’t see until he’s hit them and is halfway thrown out his seat. It works for the first couple of hours but eventually, as he crosses the border into France, the empty border control booths looking lonely and forlorn, he has to think about Andy.
“I love you.”
Roger knows Andy can’t mean it, must just be confused because he loves Mardy. Love for Mardy brought him halfway around the world on a desperate, slender chance for help and now it’s sent him back again, to carry out someone else’s plans. Love for Mardy is what kept him going, far more than the drugs over the last three months and Roger just happened to be in the way when Andy thought Mardy was dead, when he was looking for someone to help him forget for a while. And now Mardy’s alive, almost miraculously and Roger’s going to be tossed aside, he knows he is. He expected it really, so he shouldn’t even be thinking about it this much. He should move on, or at least leave Andy and Mardy in peace and hopefully rescue Mirka at the same time. He was just the rebound guy. No one important.
It doesn’t make it any easier to stop thinking about Andy. The American refuses to get out of his head all the way down through France, making Roger pace with restless energy back and to when he stops to refuel from the hidden caches his – now Marat’s he supposes and that still hurts too – network uses when they need to drive anywhere. He’s leaning against the side of the car at the fourth stop, staring at the brown fields in the late afternoon sun when finally, in sheer frustration, he lets himself admit it.
“Fine!” he yells to the empty French countryside, throwing his arms out wide. “I love him! Are you fucking happy now?”
There’s no answer of course, not that he was expecting one, and he smirks bitterly at nothing.
“Didn’t fucking think so.”
He climbs back in the car and keeps driving.
~~~
He crosses the border into Andorra over eleven hours after he started and exhaustion is beginning to kick in, along with a stiff neck from jolting through all the potholes in the roads. Sant Julia de Loria, the town he’s been aiming for, is almost deserted but he ignores the empty streets and parks, heading unerringly along the winding valley. He stops outside a large, battered stone building which has nothing to suggest it’s out the ordinary except for the candles burning welcomingly in every window, despite the late sun still shining through the mountains and turning the grey stone of the house into gold. He’s only been here a couple of times before but it’s more than comforting to see nothing has changed. He wasn’t looking forward to finding out Nadal had packed up and moved on, leaving Roger with an eleven hour drive back home again and worse, with no idea what to do next.
Inside it’s still the same, rich carpet soft beneath his worn shoes and he idly wishes he knew where Nadal got his materials from before he remembers the connections that brought him here. Of course Nadal gets the best. Roger mentally kicks himself and politely refuses to give his jacket to the scantily clad girl who tries to take it with a broad smile.
“Thank you, no,” he refuses, trying again in French when blank confusion crosses her face at the English. She nods understanding the second time and he sighs in relief. “I’m looking for Rafael? Is he home?”
“Oui, oui.” She nods vigorously and disappears behind a red velvet curtain, embroidered with what looks like- and yes, on closer inspection Roger realises, naked people in seductive poses. He blushes, turning to stare out the window.
“What’s the matter Roger?” a voice asks in heavily accented English. “Don’t you like my decorating?”
“It’s a little gaudy for my taste,” Roger admits, turning again to find his arms abruptly full of tanned, muscular Spaniard. “Whoa Rafa, have you missed me that much?”
“I miss everybody,” Rafael says in a muffled voice, pressing his face into Roger’s shoulder. Roger hugs him, carefully avoiding the bare arms and soft, shining hair. Nadal only ever needed the slightest hint of an excuse to seduce someone and Roger’s really not in the mood for casual sex right now, not that he ever is. There’s something a little desperate about the Spaniard’s hug though and Roger tightens his grip, worried. Rafael always loved company but Roger can’t remember the last time one of his spies from the old tour passed through Andorra. Roger knows Rafael had been all but ordered to find somewhere quiet to settle out of sight, but the Spaniard thrives on companionship and close relationships. Roger wouldn’t be surprised if he was lonely and Rafael’s next words confirm it.
“No one ever comes to see me anymore.”
“I’ve heard you get quite a lot of well-paying corporate officials dropping by,” Roger suggests carefully but Rafael only growls in disgust.
“Pigs, the lot of them. Treating us all like dirt.” He lets go of Roger, stepping back and checks he hasn’t smudged his heavy eyeliner in a nearby mirror before sitting in one of the many armchairs. Roger takes one facing it, sinking into the soft cushions with a sigh of relief. It’s nice to know that no matter how screwed up he gets, no matter that Halcyon is in ruins and he’s in love with a crazy American who really loves someone else, some things never change.
More beautiful men and women, all wearing very little in the way of clothes, bring them coffee. Roger savours the half-forgotten smell while ignoring the over-friendly touches from serving hands. One settles on his thigh and he removes it with an apologetic smile, not bothering to check if it belongs to a man or a women. He can see Rafael smirking at him and merely raises an eyebrow in reply.
“Don’t you like them Roger? They’ve been asking when you were coming back.”
“They’re wonderful,” Roger replies, knowing the compliment will raise smiles from ‘them’ all without having to look. “But I’m sorry, I’m not interested. No offense meant.”
“None taken.” Rafael kisses the hand of the young man who hands him his coffee and gestures towards the door, giving a quick command in Spanish that Roger doesn’t catch. The crowd of whores leaves the room with plenty of giggling and backward glances. Roger holds back his sigh until the door swings shut behind them.
“Don’t disapprove Roger.” Rafael glares at him across the small table that was brought for their coffee. “They’re all wonderful people and I won’t have you sneering at them.”
“I’m not, I promise.” Roger sighs again. “It’s just…”
“Ah.” With a broad grin, Rafael pounces on the unfinished sentence. “Love, I see. Is that why you’re here? Need some company to take your mind off it?”
“No.” Roger surprises himself with the vehemence of his refusal and Rafael looks surprised, a little hurt. “I’m sorry Rafa, I didn’t mean that like it- It’s not why I’m here. I need your help.”
“My help?” Rafael frowns thoughtfully. “Since when did Roger Federer need my help? Can’t your spies do it for you?”
“Not my spies anymore,” Roger says a little bitterly and catches the flash of shock in the Spaniard’s eyes. “I need to know something Rafa, and I need you not to ask why. It’s complicated.”
“Ask away.” Rafael eyes him thoughtfully and Roger remembers those dark eyes across the net from him, sending shivers down his spine while they played. He never could stand up to Nadal, not when the young Spaniard looked at him like that. “You know I’ll try to help Roger.”
“This is a big thing to ask though.” Roger takes a deep breath. “I need to know where Carlos is and I need to know how to contact him.”
Rafael wasn’t expecting that, Roger can tell. Pure shock flashes across the tanned face and the Spaniard is shaking his head emphatically as the words leave his mouth. “No. I can’t do that.”
“Please.” Roger hates to beg but he really needs this. It’s his one hope. “Please Rafa, this is important. I swear, I just need to call in a favour. Carlos won’t be in danger.”
Rafael leans back in his chair, tangling his fingers around his coffee cup. Roger keeps quiet, knowing the young Spaniard is fighting with his loyalties and not daring to interrupt the internal conflict. When Rafael finally speaks, his tone if decisive and final.
“Sleep next to me tonight and I’ll tell you. No sex,” he adds hastily as Roger starts to protest. “I just- I need someone familiar to hang on to for a while, si? I miss you, I miss Carlos, I miss everyone from the tour. Please, it’s not… it’s not a lot to ask, not in return for what you want.”
Roger takes another deep breath, steadying himself after the unexpected request. He knows Nadal will seduce anything that moves on two legs but he also trusts the Spaniard’s word. It isn’t a lot to ask.
“Okay.” He sees the relief cross Rafael’s expression and leans forward, determined not to let the younger man forget the deal. “So Rafa. Carlos? Where and how?”
25th August 2011, Paris holding cells, France
Mirka’s sick of being chained to a wall. She’s sick of icy water trickling down her back from said wall and she’s sick of being at the mercy of the disgusting bastard who takes great delight in pointing out that she’s still his wife. She’s sick of water that tastes like it’s been laced with tranquilizers and she’s sick of the horrible chunks of tasteless gunk they call food. She wants to go home. She isn’t sure where home is anymore, but she’d at least like the chance to try and find it.
“Going on a trip today sweetheart,” her husband drawls from the doorway, twirling the key to her chains between his fingers. She fixes her eyes on it, knowing there’s her freedom in one tiny piece of metal, and knowing it’s completely out of her reach. “It’s a big day for you. Might even be sleeping without chains tonight, if Federer is a good little boy. He won’t be next to you of course, he’ll be having a nice interrogation session. Possibly involving sharp objects; I’m personally fond of needles, what do you think?”
Her blood runs cold and she shivers in a way that has nothing to do with her wet clothes or the freezing cell. “What do you mean?”
“Not very quick are you? You should have been paying attention all week. We’re baiting a nice little trap for Federer, baiting it with you. And since I’m a man of my word, I’ll even let you go as my side of the bargain, if he upholds his. I think I will anyway. I’m not entirely sure I’ve finished having fun with you yet.”
“Filthy bastard,” she hisses at him and he makes a disapproving sound as he crosses the room to her side, running the tip of the key tauntingly along her nose. She snaps at his hand and gets her arm bent backwards despite the chains, her wrist strained to breaking point. He holds it there unmoving until she whimpers and he lets go, ignoring the hate in her eyes.
“Don’t push me girl. Today is important for us, so I intend to make sure you behave yourself.” He produces a needle from his pocket and it’s in her bruised arm before she can react, a hand on her waist holding her still until he steps back, tossing the empty hypodermic aside. Mirka snarls at him, feeling herself start to go dizzy.
“Roger won’t do anything you tell him to,” she insists, letting her weight hang from the chains and ignoring the screaming protests of her already-strained wrist. God, she’s so fucking tired. Her eyes start to drift closed. “He’s not… he won’t…”
“Oh but he will. For you.” There’s smug satisfaction in her husband’s voice as he unlocks her chains, catching her before she hits the ground. She struggles weakly but is too lethargic to fight enough to get away. He swings her up and over his shoulder easily, fingers digging into her side to keep her still.
“It’ll be easier on everyone if you shut up and pass out,” he remarks as she feels him move towards the door and as much as she hates to do anything he says, she doesn’t think she has a choice. Whatever he gave her is making her too tired to even open her eyes, never mind fight back and she starts to pass out with reluctance. A tiny part of her hopes Roger’s done whatever he’s supposed to do, just so she can leave and not have to deal with all of this anymore but the rest of her hates that she’d even think that, hates that she could put her life above Roger’s. She manages a final thought before she blacks out, wanting to cross her fingers for luck but her hands are numb. She settles for just wishing, as hard as she can through the drugged haze of sleep.
Don’t be there Roger. Please... Don’t you dare be there.
25th August 2011, Basel Airfield, Switzerland
Roger’s waiting at the edge of the airfield, shivering in the cold breeze that suggests summer is almost over. It’s twenty to seven in the evening and he’s early but there’s nothing else for him to do back at the estate. He’s made as many plans as he can, left an infuriating message for Marat that he’s almost glad he won’t be around to hear the response to, and given a note to Andrew to give to Andy when the American gets back. It’s about the twentieth attempt at a goodbye letter and in the end, Roger could only write a few, brief sentences.
I’m sorry I can’t be here like I promised. Look after Mirka for me. I love you too. Roger.
He almost didn’t write the last three words above his name, went back and rewrote the note countless times to leave them out, then going back and changing it again until he had to keep using fresh pieces of paper because of all the times he’d scribbled it out, then rewritten it. In the end he decided it wasn’t fair not to say them, because he’d admitted it to himself. He should at least admit it to Andy while he has the chance, even if it isn’t face to face.
Besides, he’ll probably never get to say them out loud again. It helps him with what he’s doing, to know that he’s at least told Andy. Too late to be of any use of course, but maybe that way Andy can go back to Mardy and they can both get on with their lives.
There’s the drone of a plane overhead and Roger glances up, shudders. He’s always hated that noise. It’s not what he’s waiting for because it fades into the distance and he sighs, half relieved, half annoyed. He just wants this over with.
Quarter to seven. He rubs his arms to warm them up and grits his teeth. Why can’t the bastards be early when he wants them to be?
He’s still not quite sure how he’s going to talk his way out of not having Andy but he’s hoping they’ll accept a straight trade, himself for Mirka. If they refuse his backup plan will still work, only with her instead of him. Hopefully it won’t come to that; he’d rather she was safe back at Halcyon – or what’s left of it – than locked up in some corporate cell. There was never really a question of whether or not he’d give them Andy; even if the American had been here, Roger would have found some way to keep him safely locked up until it was too late. The Swiss paces nervously in a circle and tucks his cold hands into his pockets, feeling the crumpled note he’d found a week ago in his pocket. Bring Roddick to the Basel airfield at 7pm on August 25th. Come alone and unarmed, or your spy Miroslava dies. Well he’s alone and unarmed. He desperately hopes he can convince them not to hurt Mirka with no Andy to trade.
Ten to seven. He can’t remember ever feeling this terrified. There’s the sound of another plane in the distance and he glances up, listening. It sounds like it’s coming this way.
“Roger?!”
Roger tells himself he’s imagining it, knowing in utter terror that he isn’t. There is no possible way Andy could have got back without him knowing, no way they could have landed the plane or…
“Roger, what the hell is going on?”
Apparently Roger missed something when he was making sure Andy couldn’t be here. He turns slowly, hoping desperately that he’s just going crazy and hearing things.
Andy almost knocks him over backwards and the kisses he rains down on Roger’s mouth are certainly real enough, fierce grip on Roger’s arms enough to make the Swiss wince. Andy pulls back after the first, frantic moment, relief and fury mixing in his expression.
“Roger, what the hell is the meaning of this?” He brandishes Roger’s note, half shredded, balling it up and throwing it aside. “You were what, just going to disappear? Just going to do something insanely stupid and leave me wondering why you weren’t here when I got back? Is that it?”
“No Andy, don’t-“ Roger glances frantically up, sees the plane starting to descend. “Andy you have to leave. Now.”
The hurt that flashes through the American’s eyes at the order almost makes him sorry but Andy’s here and the plane overhead is getting ever closer. “Andy, I’m serious, you can’t be here. Please. Leave.”
“NO!” Andy almost shakes him, hands locked around Roger’s arms and the Swiss can’t wriggle free. “Not until you tell me what the fuck is going on and why is there a plane…”
“Andy.” Roger puts all his desperation into his tone, shaking loose of the American’s grip with an immense effort. “Run, for fuckssake! You can’t be here.”
“And you can?” Andy is watching the landing plane like a rabbit caught in headlights, with a wide, stunned look. “Roger, what were you planning to do?”
“Nothing, now run.” Roger pushes him away, stumbling and almost falling himself. Andy catches him but Roger fights against it, struggling to get free of the encircling arms. “Andy I’m ordering you to run away, right now.” The plane’s landed; he can hear the change in the engines as they wind down. “Andy, please-“
Finally Andy gets the message and turns to run but he tries to drag Roger with him. There’s a moment when Roger gets dragged a few, resisting steps across the dusty ground before Andy stops short, Roger slamming into him at the unexpected move and still fighting to get free. “Andy-“
“Roger,” Andy says quietly and something in his voice makes Roger pause, glance up. There’re two guards in front of them, both casually holding what Roger’s terrified mind can only, somewhat inanely, identify as Really Big Guns. Andy backs up a few steps, wrapping his arms around Roger as he turns and a smooth, entirely corporate voice from beside the now-silent plane makes Roger shiver. He’s too late and it’s all gone so very wrong.
“Mr Roddick, Mr Federer,” the voice drawls slowly. “I hope you weren’t thinking of going anywhere. After all, you wouldn’t want to let Miroslava down now, would you?”