Multi-part: Halcyon (NC-17 overall, various, Andy Roddick/Roger Federer) Title: Found and Lost (Halcyon 10) Rating: R Pairing: Implied Roddick/Fish, Haas/Safin, Roddick/Federer, Fish/Haas/Safin 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.
Her first thought is that everything hurts. Her hips hurts where something sharp is digging into it, her arms ache from being chained above her head for days on end and some very small, very angry people seem to have invaded her head intent on cracking her skull from the inside with pointy hammers. Mirka groans and reaches up to rub her eyes, stopping abruptly at the silence.
No clank of chains. No murmur of people. There’s what sounds like trees rustling in the wind nearby and in the far distance what sounds like a wolf howl, but there’s no plane engines, no voices. Mirka bites her lip and opens her eyes, steeling herself to see anything, almost anything at all. What she doesn’t expect to see is darkness. She thinks she’s gone blind for a brief second and panics, scrambling to sit up before she realises that she’s lying on coarse grass, only a sharp rock bruising her thigh and heavy clouds combined with the dust overhead hiding any chance of moonlight. She’s not blind. She’s just outside in the dark, with no idea how she got here.
“Roger?” she whispers helplessly, wishing her head didn’t hurt so much. As her eyes begin to adjust she can make out the faintest shadows, trees behind her and an open space in front that could be the airfield by Halcyon, though she hardly dares to hope she’d be that lucky. “Hello? Is anyone there?”
Nothing, not that she really expected an answer. Mirka draws her legs up and rests her chin on her knees, trying to huddle as small as possible against the cool night breeze. She’s been soaked to the skin for days, the dampness of the Paris holding cells sinking into her clothes until the fabric clung to her, cold and wet but now she’s dry. Her shirt could’ve dried on a relatively short flight; it’s thin and cotton but her jeans… her jeans would’ve taken hours and they’re not even damp. She must have left Paris hours, even days ago and she has no idea what happened in the time between.
“Roger, if I find out you did what they wanted, I’ll never forgive you!” she hisses. “Stupid man, always trying to save the world. Your life won’t be worth living when I get my hands on you!”
It’s an empty threat and she knows it, but it makes her feel better, having someone to blame for her helplessness and Roger’s not around to defend himself. The thought brings a lump to her throat and she frantically tries to think of something to distract herself with before she bursts into tears, because sitting on an empty airfield in the middle of the night bawling her eyes out isn’t exactly useful right now. She tries a brief check for injuries and finds only bruises and aches to accompany the headache, but as she examines her hips by touch, something crinkles in her pocket. It’s a folded piece of paper and she feels like screaming as she pulls it out, the darkness too complete for her to even see if there’s anything written on it.
Alone, on an airfield, in the middle of the night, with a note she can’t read. Oh yeah, she thinks sarcastically. Give Mirka a medal because she’s doing so well. But if there’s a note, then someone might have… She reaches cautiously out, brushing her hands through the short grass that could hide other helpful items from the mysterious note-writer. All she finds is cuts from the razor edged blades of grass before her hand lands on something small and cold, like a marble half buried in the hard ground. She digs it out with her nails and closes her hand around it thoughtfully. A marble or an out-of-shape ball bearing or a…
… a bullet. She drops it like she’s been stung and shudders, straining her eyes to see out across the field. The darkness forms shadows that could be people, snipers lying in wait and she turns and runs without thinking, following almost unconscious instincts even in mid-panic and heading towards where Halcyon should be, if this is really Basel’s airfield. Her shoes are long gone, lost in some Parisian dungeon and she yelps as her foot lands on a sharp rock, hopping a few steps before she makes it into the trees and the softness of last year’s dead leaves. It’s worse than being in open ground surrounded by imagined snipers taking aim, trailing branches tickling her face and bare arms like fingers, snagging in her hair and ripping her shirt. She’s desperate by the time she reaches open ground again, throwing herself clear of the thick darkness of the woods and rolling across soft, cool grass until she stops, pressing her face to the ground and gasping for breath. She knows she’s made it without looking because only Halcyon’s grounds have grass this soft and rubble-free, only Halcyon…
… has twelve foot high walls all around the grounds that, logically, she should’ve run headlong into about ten seconds ago. The thought has her off her feet again and looking desperately around but there’s the reassuring shadow of a wall only a few feet away. Mirka blinks at it then looks back the way she’s come, through what seems to be a huge gap, bricks scattered in pieces around the hole. She’d leapt the rubble on instinct and not even noticed.
It’s not reassuring because something big crashed through that wall and with a start she remembers the attack on the estate, the plans she’d heard to break through the many-layered defences. Roger may not have even come back here after he escaped from Paris, he may be in another part of Europe entirely and the thought makes her tremble, wrapping her arms around herself for warmth in the suddenly cold air. She was counting on the house being intact, on there being kind and friendly staff to let her in and feed her and maybe give her something to help with the headache that her mad run hasn’t made any better. If the walls are in this state, then the house itself…
“Nothing to do but go look,” she mumbles and sets off across the gardens, trying not to trip in the dark. The main bulk of the house looks intact as she approaches but as she gets closer she can see the silhouette of the roof with a gaping hole in the east wing, the huge library windows reduced to glass scattered across the stone that glints in the faint light. She tiptoes around it and hesitates at the front door, tracing the lines of it by touch. It’s charred; she can feel the pieces of burnt wood flake away beneath her fingertips. When she pushes it open, it creaks loudly in the silence and Mirka flinches, staring at the revealed blackness inside.
Roger always kept a good torch in the cupboard just down the hallway from here, along with matches and candles. He was nothing if not well-prepared, though she’d always referred to it as obsessive, and right now it might save her life, or at least keep her sane until morning. A shiver runs down her back at the gaping blackness inside but it’s in and out, grab the torch and leave. Ten steps to the cupboard, five second to crouch and open the door. Two to locate the torch, grab it and stand up, ten steps back out again. With her teeth sunk deep into her bottom lip, she closes her eyes and sprints into the house.
One two three… she catches her foot on some rocks, stumbles and keeps going. On the ninth step her shin hits something wooden and box-shaped; she drops to her knees with a gasp of relief and feels for the door handle. As her hand closes around the hard plastic of the torch inside, she vows never to make fun of Roger’s caution again.
Halcyon creaks around her, the unique non-silence of a half ruined building and she’s about as freaked as it’s possible to get. Praying to anything and anyone that might be listening for it still to work, she flicks on the torch and the light illuminates a pair of eyes, watching her from the shadows. She’s out the door and running across the grounds too fast to even scream and the owl that scared her takes off in a soft, affronted hoot, winging its way out the hole in the roof.
Outside Mirka collapses against a tree, gasping for breath again. Fuck she wouldn’t go back in that house if you paid her but she’s got what she wanted, torchlight shining around her feet in a pool of warm, yellow light. Feeling through her pocket again she pulls out the piece of paper that looks like it’s been ripped from some official corporation stationery, Property of CityNet, Paris embossed in one corner. The writing is a hasty scrawl and she has to squint to make it out.
‘Roger is obsessively cautious. Think about it. Wait there for a call. C.’
Riddles. She bites back a stream of curses aimed at the mysterious ‘C’ and frowns, trying to get the point. Of course Roger is obsessively cautious, she’s holding proof of it in her other hand. If they mean somewhere in the house then they can think again; she’s not going back in there. She re-reads the cramped handwriting, admiring the elegant curl of the C. Obsessively cautious… it has to be somewhere with a phone because otherwise it’d be pointless. The thought takes a second to sink in and then she’s running again, this time with purpose because she knows exactly where she’s supposed to wait.
The bunker is as deserted as the main house as she descends the ladder and flicks on the light but there’s at least signs of recent habitation, a blanket folded neatly over the chair in front of the complicated computer in the corner, clean plates and cutlery tided away along the shelves with boxes and tins of food beside it. It’s got Roger written all over it and she smiles, locking the trapdoor behind her as she curls up in the armchair, wrapping herself in the blanket. The phone is within reach on it’s shelf and she lets herself doze.
She fought with Roger over building this bunker. She called him every name she could think of and invented some new ones to go with it, thinking it was a waste of time, effort and resources when the main house was supposedly so impenetrable anyway. She’s never been happier to be proven wrong. She smiles as she lets herself drift sleepily for the first time since she was caught in Paris and huddles deeper under the blanket. Someone seems to be looking out for her and she only hopes ‘C’ calls soon so she can thank him. And demand to know what’s going on but mainly to thank him.
She’s almost asleep by the time the phone rings, maybe hours later and she picks it up without thinking about it, too sleep-fuddled to form a greeting. A second later she gets a spate of Russian down the phone line, loud, furious and from what she knows of Russian, highly insulting. She listens in disbelief for a second.
“What the fuck is wrong with you?” she snaps, reverting to Swiss-German since she doesn’t speak Russian very well and she’s too asleep and annoyed to concentrate anyway. “Fuck off and grow up!” The phone makes an emphatic bing as she slams it down and shuts her eyes, trying to go back to sleep.
The impact of what she’s just done dawns upon her slowly and she cracks an eye open, staring at the silent phone. Quite possibly, she just hung up on her only lifeline.
“Shit.”
~~~
26th August 2011, underground resistance camp, somewhere in South-west England
Mardy limps into Marat’s ‘office’ well ahead of the other two who had to pause to get dressed. He’s sore, he’s sticky with come under his clothes and tears are fighting to escape.
He’s just royally fucked up and he desperately hopes Andy is alive even just for the other American to hit him like he deserves. That reminds him of Marat and Mardy glances down at the blood on his hand, none of it his. He’s a little surprised by his own daring; in a fair fight, Marat would beat him, no question. He was just so mad at being manipulated like that-
Marat tried to tell you more than once, a niggling little voice whispers at the back of his mind. You’re the one who threw yourself at him.
Mardy squashes it. He doesn’t want to listen to it because knows it’s half right and that makes it worse. He can’t cope with this being his fault. He drops into the nearest chair which creaks under his weight and sighs heavily. He should have known better.
“Please Andy,” he whispers. “Be alive. I’m so sorry.”
“Mardy?” Marat is standing hesitantly by the door, Tommy leaning against him. “Are… I want to say-“
“Forget it,” Mardy growls, gesturing angrily at the phone. “Just call.”
Marat eases Tommy down onto a chair near the door and crosses silently to the phone, dialing from memory before offering the handset to Mardy who takes it, surprised. He isn’t sure what he’s planning to say to whoever answers but this was his idea. He ignores Marat standing motionless as he listens to the ring at the other end. Someone snatches it up abruptly on the fourth ring.
“Ja?! Hello?!”
Mardy blinks. It’s a woman with a German accent, who sounds familiar. He can’t quite place it though. “Hello?”
“Fuck it’s good to hear that.” She sounds as relieved, even over the slightly crackly connection. “Who is that?”
“Who’s that?” Mardy demands instead of answering. There’s a startled pause.
“It’s Mirka. Who is this?”
“Mirka?!” Mardy blinks, glancing up at Marat. “Apparently it’s-“
“I heard.” Marat grabs the phone, disbelief on his face. “Mirka it’s Marat. What the hell is going on? Why aren’t you in Paris?”
Even Mardy can hear the long silence from the other end of the phone and for a moment he thinks they’ve been disconnected. Then he hears Mirka whisper something and Marat’s expression softens as he sinks down to sit on the floor.
“It really is me. It’s a long story but I’m okay. Tommy too.” He listens for a moment then looks across the room at Tommy, huddled on his chair with his face hidden in his hands. Mardy follows the direction of his gaze and sighs, gesturing for the alarmed Marat to stay put as he gets up and crosses the room. Tommy doesn’t even move at his approach, mumbling to himself in German under his breath.
“Tommy,” Mardy says gently. “Tommy look at me.” He crouches beside the chair, resting a hand on the German’s thigh. “What’s wrong?”
“It’s my fault,” Tommy whispers and the heartbreak in his voice is enough to make Mardy want to hug him. He restrains himself, barely, settling for soothingly stroking Tommy’s thigh.
“What is?”
“You’re leaving,” Tommy says miserably, voice muffled with his hands still pressed to his face. “I made you sleep with me and Marat and now you’re going to leave, and I didn’t mean to only everyone wanted to and no one would do anything about it so-“
“Whoa, Tommy, shhh,” Mardy stands up to hug the German but Tommy flinches away with a cry in German and hurt, Mardy pulls back. “Tommy don’t do this. It’s not your fault I’m leaving.”
“Liar.” Tommy spits the word like acid, glaring through his fingers at Mardy. “Lying to me, telling me you love me when you don’t and you’re going, so just go. I don’t care. I don’t CARE.” His voice rises as Mardy tries to get close enough to stroke his cheek. “I don’t CARE, I don’t, I don’t-“
“Tommy!” Marat is suddenly beside the German, catching him as he loses his balance and starts to slide off the chair. “Tommy calm down.” He catches the German’s chin, forces him to look up, meeting the tearful eyes directly. “Ssshhh, it’s okay. Calm down, understand?”
“Yes,” Tommy mumbles obediently and Mardy is silently amazed. When he’s willing to be patient, Marat can do wonders with the German, even in states like the one he was working himself up to just now. He watches Marat study Tommy a moment longer then lean in for a soft kiss, releasing his tight grip on the German’s chin.
“That’s my beautiful Hasi. Now Mirka wants to talk to you. Will you?”
“Okay.” Tommy lets himself be helped up still without looking at Mardy but as Marat turns towards the phone, the German slips free from his tight grip and drops down beside Mardy, throwing his arms around the American and burying his face against Mardy’s neck. Surprised, Mardy tentatively hugs him back.
“Don’t go,” Tommy begs. “I didn’t mean to be bad. Please Mardy, stay at least until we find Andy.” Tears splash hot and wet on Mardy’s skin, trickling down his neck. “Please Mardy.”
“Okay.” Mardy swallows, shutting his eyes. “I’ll stay Tommy. I’m not mad at you.”
“Do you promise?” Tommy whispers. Mardy couldn’t turn down the trembling, apologetic German if he wanted to.
“I promise Tommy. I’ll stay.”
“Okay.” Tommy sniffles and Mardy hugs him tighter, kissing the soft brown hair. He can and will blame himself and Marat for what happened but he could never blame Tommy. He lets Marat help him untangle himself from Tommy enough to stand up, all three of them stumbling back to the phone. Marat drops into the chair and Tommy curls up on his lap, one hand still tangled tightly with Mardy’s. The American stares at their intertwined fingers, lost in thought.
“Hey Mirka,” Tommy says into the phone, still a little hoarse with tears. “Did you miss me?”
~~~
28th August 2011, Paris holding cells, France
Roger’s starting to forget what it’s like to sleep lying down. The most he gets now is twenty minute naps, snatched in between interrogations or, very occasionally, up to an hour when they actually leave him alone for no discernible reason. He’s tried to work out their pattern, to find flaws he could exploit but the fact of the matter is, he’s chained to a wall with no key, no lock picks and apparently no working back up plan. He hasn’t seen Andy yet and he’s refused to tell them anything until he does, though he’s more working on the idea that to take him to see Andy, they’ll have to unlock the chains. Once out the cell he’ll have more of a chance to get free and lose himself in the labyrinth of tunnels until he can get Andy out too but unless he does something quickly, he’s not going anywhere.
So much for Carlos. He remembers Rafa’s sleeping face, the Spaniard murmuring his lover’s name in his sleep and sighs. At least he’d tried.
“So Roger, are you going to be helpful today or are you going to disappoint me again?” The man in the suit - who Roger alternatively refers to as ‘corporation-man’ or ‘fucking bastard’ when he’s had a particularly bad question session - is now balancing a knife horizontally on his finger, checking the balance. Roger shakes his head, ignoring the implied threat.
“I want to see Andy.”
“Have you thought that maybe he doesn’t want to see you?” Corporation-man walks across the cell, flipping the knife and catching it by the hilt. “All he has to do is ask. I’m a little surprised he hasn’t actually. It seems he’d rather have a certain Mr Fish.”
For a moment Roger feels himself go dizzy and then the cold point of the knife, pressed hard against his bare shoulder, grounds him. He bites his lip as the man starts to draw lines with the knife point, making a pattern.
“That’s right,” he said conversationally, answering Roger’s unspoken question. “Mardy Fish. I questioned him a few months ago. Pretty though a little dense if you ask me. Can’t imagine why Andy would want him over you.” He changes the direction of the knife, drawing short lines vertically downwards, scratching the skin just enough to draw blood. Roger swallows and leans back against the wall for support, ignoring the pain which is no more than an annoyance compared to some things in the last few days. He knows the man’s lying but it’s hard to believe it when he remembers Andy first arriving at Halcyon, a filthy, desperate wreck.
“They took Mardy.”
It’s possible, just possible that Andy has been asking for Mardy instead of him. What makes it worse is that the corporation-man knows how to manipulate him so easily and Roger swallows a cry of mixed pain and fury as the pressure behind the knife increases fractionally on the last line.
“So Roger? What do you say to being helpful today hmm?”
Roger turns his head to glare at the man, refusing to flinch from the knife point only inches from his face. “I want to see Andy.”
The man sighs. “I thought as much.” He looks down at the crisscross pattern of four lines he’s cut into Roger’s shoulder. “Would you like to be noughts or crosses?”
“Sir!” There’s a guard at the door, clearly nervous. “Lord Moya is here, to see the prisoners. He… requests an immediate viewing, if it is convenient.”
Roger tries not to jump ecstatically up and down, managing to contain his relief to a barely perceptible smirk. The corporation-man hisses in annoyance, producing a white handkerchief to clean the knife as he turns towards the door.
“You mean he’s demanded instant access, sworn at a few guards and generally made himself an annoyance, as usual. I suppose we’d better give him what he wants if only to keep him quiet. I want four of our guards escorting him understand? Let me know when he leaves - I’ll be in my office.”
“Yessir!” The guard salutes, obviously relieved and disappears down the hallway. Corporation-man turns back with a small frown.
“I hope he doesn’t hurt you too much when I’m not here,” he murmurs thoughtfully to Roger. “I’ll be disappointed in someone else makes you scream first. Feel free to bite him if you get the chance though. I’ve heard he can be marvelously inventive.”
“Run away like a good little underling now,” Roger says softly in reply. “Maybe one day you won’t have to jump when Lord Moya tells you to. Maybe.” He lets himself smile. “But I doubt it.”
Before he can think to move, the man’s across the room and the knife point is half an inch deep in Roger’s shoulder, pushing in another millimetre as the Swiss flinches in pain. The corporation-man leans in, increasing the pressure.
“I could kill you Federer,” he hisses. “Without a second thought. Speak to me like that again and I will, understand?”
Roger keeps his teeth gritted shut, knowing he’ll whimper if he opens his mouth. The man stares at him a moment longer then pulls away with a sound of disgust, tossing the bloodied knife aside as he strides towards the door.
“Living on borrowed time Federer, I swear. Even more so than your boyfriend.”
Roger doesn’t let go of the breath he’s holding until the man’s footsteps fade down the corridor and then he sighs, long and relieved. He takes a second to assess the damage to his shoulder and decides it’s barely worth worrying about, more surface damage than anything. More footsteps outside have him tensing again but when the door slams open dramatically, Roger can’t help but smile. Carlos always did love a dramatic entrance. Though he’d been pushing his luck with the pause beforehand this time.
“Guillermo?” the Spaniard says casually over his shoulder as three other guards file in behind the Argentine, also dressed in the black guard uniform. Silently Roger swears, clenching his fists as he remembers the Argentine shooting Mirka from the plane. Unaware of Roger’s fury Coria tilts his head, listening.
“Yes?”
“Left or right?”
“Right, please.”
“Of course.”
And in seconds there are only three live people left in the room, Carlos taking out the French guard on the left while Coria dispatched the two on the right. Roger wonders if he’d blinked and missed something but Carlos hurries across the room and starts to unlock the chains without raising any alarms or protests, so he decides with more than a little amazement that the two men must just be faster than he thought.
“Nice,” he comments, gesturing to the fallen guards with the hand Carlos has just released. Coria comes over to hold Roger up as the Spaniard releases the other manacle, easing Roger’s arm down slowly. The Swiss winces, painfully stiff after days in the same position but he brushes the Argentine off coldly anyway. As soon as he can move properly, he’s going to break every finger in the hand that pulled the trigger on Mirka, one by one.
“Sorry it took me so long,” Carlos apologises brusquely, interrupting Roger’s plans for revenge. “Marat and that Mirka of yours started planning and brought the whole mission forward a week to coincide with breaking you out. It’s been chaos these last two days getting it all ready.”
Roger frowns, confused. “I’m sorry,” he says softly. “I thought you said Mirka?”
“I did.” Carlos’ frown clears as he takes a long look at Roger. “You didn’t know,” he says, clearly shocked as he glances at Coria. “No one’s told him?”
“No.” Coria slides an arm around Roger’s waist to keep him steady, holding the Swiss’ dark eyes with his own. “Roger, I didn’t shoot her. I would never do such a thing. I aimed close enough to look like I had, but I missed, by a good margin. She’s fine.”
“No thanks to your ineptness,” Carlos mumbles as Roger is dealing with the shock. Coria glares at him.
“I left her the note didn’t I?!”
“Yes and then forgot the number to call the poor girl to tell her what was going on,” Carlos snaps. “Not to mention not explaining to Marat clearly what had happened-“
“I’d like to see you explain something that complicated in a twenty second call,” Coria snaps back. “You know the trace limit Carlos, don’t act like it was my fault. I got her out and she’s safe, which is what matters. Now will you-“ He breaks off as Roger starts to collapse, both men rushing to catch him. “Whoa Rog. Take it easy.”
“Mirka’s alive?” Roger whispers, leaning heavily on Carlos for support. “You’re sure?”
“Positive. She’s spent the last few days helping Safin, Haas and the Fish that caused all this bring the plan forward. I’ve heard she’s amazing with computers.” He helps Roger across to the door, stepping cautiously over the dead guards. “Now Roger listen carefully. Andy is on the other side of the cell network, a good five minute walk through the tunnels. Guillermo knows the way and he’ll show you. Get Andy and get out, as fast as humanly possible. In about…” he checks his watch. “A minute, this entire complex will be thrown into chaos when the charges I’ve set go off. Don’t worry,” he adds as Roger glances worriedly around the room. “There’s nothing to hear us in here. The Corporation likes to keep what they do to their prisoners private.”
“So this is Marat’s plan you’re carrying out?” Roger struggles to keep up. He’s exhausted and every part of him hurts, muscles, skin, bones. He forces himself to focus. “I thought he wanted to take out people, not buildings?”
“He does. The charges are to confuse and create panic, not to destroy.” Carlos flashes him a sharp smile. “Which is why I can’t go with you. I have an appointment with a certain official in his office. I’d hate to disappoint him and be late. Now go on.” He opens the door and glances out, checking it’s clear. “The charges won’t destroy the entire building but some walls and ceilings are going to come down. It’ll be better if you’re out of here in the next half hour, understand?”
“But-“ Roger breaks off, still working it through. “Doesn’t he need Andy too?”
“Nope. Andy set it all up for him and all Marat had to do was make a call and it all went into action over there.” Carlos sighs. “Roger I’ll be happy to explain this. Later. Okay?”
“Yes,” Roger mumbles, his mind still moving at snail’s pace. “But Carlos-“
“No time.” The Spaniard is already halfway down the corridor, glancing back once. “Good luck. I’ll see you up top when it’s over.”
Coria pulls Roger impatiently out into the corridor, letting the Swiss lean heavily on him despite his lack of height. “I can’t believe you thought I’d shot her,” he says, sounding a little hurt. “You should know me better than that.”
“I’m sorry, I wasn’t exactly thinking clearly.” Roger stumbles and has to let Coria drag him back upright again. “How’s Andy?”
“Fine. They seemed to think you were the one in charge, so they mostly focused on questioning you. They still put him through some nasty stuff, so we’ll have to be careful, getting you both out.” Coria wraps his arm tighter around Roger’s waist and drew his gun as the first boom sounds overhead, the vibrations shivering through the floor. “Keep up and follow me. Oh and wave if you see a camera. We might have an audience.”
~~~
28th August 2011, underground resistance camp, SW England / hidden bunker, Halcyon estate, Switzerland
“I’ve got them.” Mirka allows herself a smug smile as she watches the computer screen, hitting keys to jump from camera to camera to follow Roger and Coria through the tunnels. On the other end of the phone Marat sighs in relief.
“Carlos?”
“He went towards the upper levels,” Mirka replies, freezing anxiously for a moment as Coria is forced to shoot a guard. Her months as a spy did come in useful, with every corporation password, code and security system memorised, most with sneaky backdoors built in for things exactly like this. She flicks cameras briefly, just checking. Carlos flashes past the screen on his way to the main offices and she jumps back to Roger and Coria, satisfied. “He’s on his way.”
“Good.” At the other end of the phone Marat paces anxiously back and to, rubbing his hands nervously. Mardy watches him from the battered, sagging couch they moved beside the phone so someone would always be in reach over the last few days, Mardy spending most nights sleeping on it. Tommy is sitting in his lap and leaning against him, arms wrapped tight around him and lips pressed lightly to Mardy’s neck. He’s the picture of calm in comparison to Marat. Mardy can’t remember ever seeing the Russian quite this nervous, not in the last three months and not even before a match when they mattered. If Marat was any more tense he’d be vibrating.
“Marat relax. We’ve set it all up and there’s nothing we can do now but watch. Sit, for fuckssake. You’re making me dizzy.”
Marat sits but leaps up again a second later and starts to pace again. Mardy groans and reaches out to grab Marat’s wrist as the Russian passes, dragging him down onto the couch. Marat collapses against Mardy’s side with a muffled whimper and Mardy strokes his hair helplessly.
“If this goes wrong, if people get killed-“
“It’s the right thing to be doing,” Mardy consoles him. “Think of what people will accomplish without the corporations running their lives. It’s amazing what you’ve accomplished. Don’t you dare regret it.”
“I do,” Marat says quietly. “I regret hurting Roger.” He pauses, then softer. “I regret hurting you.”
Mardy catches his breath. “That wasn’t entirely your fault,” he allows himself to admit for the first time. “I wasn’t exactly pushing you away.”
“You would’ve done though, if you’d known?” Marat kisses Mardy’s forehead when he doesn’t answer, his silence damning enough, “I’m sorry Mardy.”
“I’m sorry too,” Tommy whispers, curling his hand through Mardy’s and squeezing. Mardy takes a second to catch his breath before squeezing back, leaning into Marat’s solid warmth at his side.
“I’m sorry too.”
There’s a long moment of silence when they’re all lost in their own thoughts, Mardy sandwiched between the other two. It’s strange; he’s hugged Maria, fallen asleep with Tommy curled around him and had sex with both of the men snuggled against him but nothing he’s done in the last three months has felt this… comfortable is the only word he can think of. He’s content to sit here, letting Tommy fall asleep with his head on Mardy’s shoulder and Marat slowly relaxing against him. He wants to mull it over but there’s a tactful cough from Mirka and Mardy winces as remembers they’re on the speaker phone.
“I hate to interrupt,” she says hesitantly and Marat clears his throat, sitting up a little straighter.
“It’s okay Mirka. What’s going on?”
“They’ve found Andy.”
~~~
28th August 2011, Paris holding cells, France
Roger catches his breath as they finally step through the cell door, now hanging crookedly by one hinge. Andy is curled in the corner, his chains longer than Roger’s and the Swiss is crouched next to him without remembering crossing the room, sinking to his knees. Andy’s asleep, grey-blue shadows of exhaustion under his eyes blending with the purple bruise along his cheekbone from the corporation man punching him at Basel airfield. He looks young and small, seemingly pressed as tightly into the corner as he can and Roger aches to wrap him up in something soft and fluffy and keep him safe. But at least they’re almost out he tells himself and reaches out to shake the American’s shoulder.
Abruptly he hesitates, a quiver of fear running through him. Andy’s pale, much paler than he should be and Roger can’t tell if it’s the bad light or if he’s more than just asleep. His mouth is open to yell for Coria when Andy stirs and Roger wraps his arms around the American with a whimper of relief.
“Rog?” Andy croaks, wriggling away far enough to check it really is the Swiss before throwing himself into Roger’s hug, hastily lessening his grip at Roger’s sharp gasp. “Are you okay? They wouldn’t let me see you and he kept telling me you’d tricked me into getting caught but I knew he was lying. Rog-“ Andy’s voice cracks and he sounds close to tears. “It’s all my fault. He didn’t care what Marat was doing, he just wanted me.”
“What?” Roger frowned, pulling back a little. “Why you?”
“We- well you know, you said it when I first got to Halcyon.” Andy wipes his eyes with the back of his hand. “My snipers shot some corporate officials getting off a plane last year remember?”
Roger nods, rubbing his hands soothingly up and down Andy’s back, surreptitiously checking for any major injuries at the same time. “Yes.”
“One of them was his brother.” Andy tightens his grip around the Swiss again. “He said he was going to shoot you so I knew how it felt. He said-“
“Sssssh, love.” Roger decides the American is basically intact and tilts Andy’s chin up, pressing a soft kiss to rough lips. “He can’t hurt you or me anymore. Come on.” He helped Andy up, unlocking the chains with the master key Coria had given him. “We need to get out quick.” Another blast overhead made them stumble, a few small stones clattering down from the roof. “Normally I’d trust Carlos with- well, my life if I was feeling generous, but Spaniards and explosives shouldn’t mix. I’m glad he didn’t bring Rafa.” The next blast almost throws all three of them to their knees as they meet Coria by the door. “He didn’t bring Rafa right?”
“Not that I know of.” Coria grins. “We’ll know when we get out intact.”
“Reassuring,” Roger mutters and Andy chuckles, leaning on Roger who is in turn leaning on the Argentine. Roger reflects with amusement that they must look ridiculous. “Which way?”
“This way.” Coria lets go of them to turn left and jog down towards the end of the corridor. Roger starts to follow but Andy hangs onto him, preventing him from moving and Roger glances back in confusion.
“Andy, we need to go.”
Andy slides his arms around the Swiss’ neck, face still damp with tears as he presses another kiss to Roger’s mouth. “Love you Rog,” he whispers. “I knew you’d rescue me.”
“Haven’t got us out yet,” Roger murmurs in reply but kisses the American back anyway. “Andy I-“
The gunshot is unbelievably loud in the confined corridor, echoing back from the rocks and Roger flinches, his shoulder stinging sharply as he moves. Andy stumbles with him and they almost fall as they turn together, Roger swaying as he feels warm wetness start to trickle down his back, pain racing through his right shoulder. Oh fuck…
The corporation-man is walking towards them from the opposite end of the corridor, still holding the gun in his hand. Roger knows without looking that Coria is too far away to help and Carlos is probably still upstairs. Andy’s unarmed and the gun Roger took from a dead guard is slung over his left shoulder, completely useless since he can’t move his right arm around to reach it. The corporation-man smiles, bright and pleasant.
“How does it feel Roddick? It’s cliché but for me it feels very sweet indeed.”
“What the hell do-“ Andy breaks off, stiffening against Roger as the trickling blood reaches the American’s hand where it rests on Roger’s waist. The Swiss tries to make a sound of reassurance but he’s dizzy, his shoulder throbbing and balance suddenly seems like too much to ask. He staggers and Andy barely catches him with a stifled sound of horror.
“Rog, don’t do this to me, come on Rog please…” Andy sounds like he’s in tears and Roger wishes the ground would stop moving so he could hug the American. “Rog?”
“Still here,” Roger mutters, though it’s half a lie. He can’t focus properly and his entire right side hurts now. “Just got to sit for a minute.” He sags towards the ground, ignoring Andy’s desperate cries.
“Roger!” Andy is forced to ease him down, the Swiss like a dead weight dragging at his arms. “Roger please-“
“Awful, isn’t it?” the corporation-man says softly. Roger blinks to try and clear his vision, seeing Andy take a step toward the man only to freeze as the gun comes up.
“Ah!” A warning note enters his voice. “Stay right there Roddick. I still need to shoot you, any moment now…”
Andy crouches slowly, eyes on the gun but he turns when he’s kneeling, running his hands through Roger’s hair and over his face. Roger tilts his head into the touch and murmurs something almost incoherent as Andy kisses him but he knows the American gets the message. A second later the strap of the gun is eased off his shoulder and slide to within easy reach of the American yet hidden behind Roger.
“Isn’t he dead yet?” the corporation-man sounds frustrated and he points his gun at Andy without waiting for an answer, the American flinching away. There’s the click of a safety catch but it’s a different gun and the man turns, Carlos’ shot missing by centimetres. The man’s laughing when he turns and Andy shoots him instead, knocking him clear off his feet and backwards. He rolls a few feet when he lands and lies still, Carlos pausing to check it was a lethal shot as he comes down the corridor from upstairs.
Andy ignores him, tossing the gun aside and grabbing Roger, shaking him gently but desperately as the Swiss’ eyes slide closed. “No stay awake Roger. Come on, stay with me, please.” He leans in to kiss the Swiss’ forehead and mouth, letting go of Roger’s shoulders to grip his hands. “Roger please, I need you love. Come on, stay awake babe. That’s it.” He smiles through his tears as Roger opens his eyes again, leaning in to kiss the Swiss’ lips. “It’ll be ok, we’ll find doctors and Carlos probably knows what to do, you’ll be fine.”
“Optimist,” Roger whispers, his throat feeling dry and rough. “Andy?”
“Yeah?” The American leans in close, hazel eyes wet and anxious. Roger manages a smile and leans fractionally forward for a kiss, heaving a sigh against Andy’s mouth.