Who: Burmilla, open Where: Calais, his quarters above the flowershop When: Sunday evening What: Another sleepless night ahead
Ben had slept badly since the raid on Project Noir. Not only that, but he'd slept alone. Both events were rare with him, especially over the period of time that had elapsed.
It had been hard giving his report. He even considered leaving out details of just who it was he'd seen. After all, he could have been vague and just mentioned having seen a figure. But that wasn't Ben. He might not be the most approachable or affable of people, but he was honest. At least, he was honest when it mattered. And Ben couldn't think of any occasion when it might matter more.
If it wasn't Persia then it was his identical twin brother. And that, while not impossible, was definitely improbable. He was fairly certain that he'd know about the existence of such a family member.
It bothered him.
It bothered him in more ways than one. Why would it be Persia? What had happened to make him act in the way he had? Why the fuck hadn't Ben tried to take him down?
Actually, that was the main one; the one that'd made sure Ben's sleep had been disturbed every night since the mission. Oh sure, he'd done his job. He'd patched up whoever needed it and continued care where it was necessary. He'd breathed a sigh of relief when Pawn showed definite signs of improvement and kept an eye on her progress via daily telephone calls.
But this was digging at him. Not eating at him, at least not yet. But digging. He'd handled it completely wrongly. He should have at least tried to take Persia into custody... but he hadn't.
And he didn't know why, except the thought kept niggling at him that he'd been too afraid to, and he wouldn't entertain that thought since it was crap.
So he'd watched TV, listened to music, read... anything to try and take his mind off it. After all, his report had been made and if anyone wanted any more information from him they knew where he was - shit he'd even kept himself close to the flower shop if not inside it. He was even there now.
Yeah. He did his damndest to distract himself from that thought. That he'd been scared of his own boss. Even if his boss was fighting with the enemy and, besides, was dead.
He poured himself a large glass of Chivas Regal and downed it in two large gulps, grimacing slightly at the burn. Then he poured another, equally large. What the hell? After all, he'd process it quickly enough and be fit to attend any call-outs he might get.
He sighed and turned his attention back to the TV that he'd "borrowed". Women's football really wasn't anywhere near as compulsive as men's, but it was something else he could try at least. He settled down in his chair, swigged a little more whisky, and forced his mind clear as he resumed watching the match.