So very unedited...
Mar. 10th, 2005 04:00 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
clo_again... and no doubt I will die of shock tomorrow when I realise how badly this needs it, but it's 4am and I promised to get it up, so editing can happen tomorrow (...today). The far-to-heavy-angst may knock everyone unconscious before the end anyway, so I guess that would stop any complaints. ;)
Oh and I finally got round to working out dates. Backdating will be added to the first two parts at some point, but it's mainly important to keep track of everything from here I think.
Finally continuity? Happens to other people. Actually this is still being sorted out in my head and there will be a major editing bash to make the things that don't quite fit, fit when it's done. In the meantime... don't let them bother you too much?
~
Title: If Only (Halcyon 3)
Rating: R (for now)
Pairing: Fish/Roddick (for now, implied), very faint hints of Roddick/Federer, and… a surprise. :)
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. Centred mainly around Roger’s POV with side trips into... well that would be telling. ;)
Disclaimer: Hasn’t… um, won’t happen to my knowledge, the various tennis players own themselves. Blame the plotbunnies. They started it.
Dedications: For![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
liroa15, who may refuse to speak to me after this. For scoobydumblonde who let us convert her and kept begging for this next part. For everyone who encouraged me with this. It may have been a bad idea. :)
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.
halcyon - adj 1: idyllically calm and peaceful; suggesting happy tranquillity; "a halcyon atmosphere".
Part One - The Wasteland
Part Two - Living on Promises
18th May 2011 – somewhere in South-west England
Firstly, ouch. Secondly-
“Fucking ouch!” Mardy groans as consciousness painfully reasserts itself. His throat feels like someone attacked it with sandpaper and the arm he’s lying on is numb. He starts to roll over and freezes at the clank of chains. They’re heavy around his ankles and wrists, metal colder than ice against his skin. At that thought he realises he’s still wearing only his jeans and his teeth are chattering with cold.
“You get used to it,” a gloomy voice remarks. There’s a hint of an accent, maybe German. “Usually just before it kills you.”
“Used to what?” Mardy tries to ask but his throat hurts too much and he breaks off into a harsh gasp. The speaker seems to understand anyway.
“The weather. It’s why it’s such a good place to send us. If anyone ever tries to run, where’ll they go? Die of exposure before they get ten steps.”
Mardy decides there’s no point putting it off any longer and cracks an eye open. He has to blink several times before his vision clears, even the dim light painfully bright. He must’ve been out for a while if everything hurts this much. He opens the other eye and turns his head, finding the man who’d been speaking sitting next to him. He’s short and has rattails of very blond curls with grey eyes in a lined face. Mardy doesn’t recognise him and his heart sinks a little further. So. Definitely not home then.
“Where?” he manages to get out with a great effort. The man frowns.
“American are you? Well I guess you’re a long way from Britain over there, so you wouldn’t have heard too much about the quarries. I couldn’t say exactly where we are. Rumour says England, probably the south, south west but no one really knows. Could be right next to Edinburgh for all we know.”
Mardy closes his eyes against the crushing wave of disappointment and more than a little fear. Even in Texas they heard stories about the rock quarries, scattered across the glacier that used to be Britain. It was where the corporations sent people who were too much trouble to ignore or kill outright and once you were there, you didn’t leave. It was like a death sentence, only slower. If the work didn’t kill you, the cold would.
That guy back in the cell may as well just have killed him. Mardy wasn’t going anywhere from here.
“Who?” he croaks, starting to sit up with difficulty. The guy helps him to get upright and leant back against the wall, the movement making his neck hurt worse. Mardy touches it and finds a fresh scar in the hollow at the base of his throat, rough and hot under his fingertips.
“I’m Niels, from Holland.” There’s an impatient sound and Mardy’s hand gets slapped away from the scar. “Don’t poke it, it looks infected.”
“Just what I wanted to hear.” Mardy finds he can just about talk if he keeps the words quiet and doesn’t move his mouth too much. His tongue feels twice its usual size, his lips cracked and split. What the hell had been in that drug? “Mardy. Texas.”
“A Texan.” Niels sounds grudgingly impressed. “You’d be from that big raid we heard about then? They really didn’t like you, if it was big enough for even us to hear about it. What’d you do?”
“Me?” Mardy attempts a smile. “Loved the wrong person. You?”
“The usual.” Niels grimaced. “Our village started to get self-sufficient. Grew our own food, made our own clothes. So the Corporation comes along, tries to make us take their food in exchange for ours like we were supposed to, that disgusting tasteless shit that they make. We turned ‘em down, said thanks but no thanks. Next thing we know we’re deported here.”
Mardy’s heard it before. The corporations have their own cities, glistening metropolises in a sea of dust, New York, Paris, Tokyo. The elite few living like royalty at the expense of the rest of the world; Mardy’s seen New York now, rebuilt and repopulated, a shining oasis surrounded by blasted wasteland for miles around. He and Andy had managed to sneak past the first two checkpoints for a closer look, Andy daring to saunter right past the guards with a bold grin and jaunty stride. They’d hit the third checkpoint and had to run for their lives amidst a shower of bullets. They’d laughed about it later but Mardy still wakes up sometimes with gunshots echoing through his mind, an image of Andy stumbling as a bullet clipped his ankle. He still has a limp from it and Mardy shudders every time he remembers the long, agonising trek back to Texas, Andy barely able to walk. God they’d done some stupid stuff. Thinking about it, he’s amazed he didn’t end up somewhere like this sooner.
At least Andy’s luck still seems to be going strong, since Mardy’s here and he’s not. Mardy smiles a little at the thought and glances around, taking in the bare walls and cracked stone floor. It looks like nothing more than a rectangle of four walls and a roof, silent people chained together in rows along the walls with Mardy and Niels being at the end nearest the doors. Most of the captives seem to be sleeping through Mardy catches few curious eyes directed his way. Everything is grey, everyone looks half frozen and his heart sinks even further.
Even worse, there’s no one he recognises. He hasn’t been completely on his own for years and there’s never been a time Andy hasn’t been more than a phone call away. Mardy can feel the separation like a physical ache and he has to blink back tears. He’d give anything, anything at all for a familiar face right now. It doesn’t even have to be Andy’s-
The thought gets cut short by a crash from the doors being flung open. Mardy gasps as a freezing wind knifes through him, icy and laced with the sting of driven snow. It must be dark outside because the only light is artificial yellow and he narrows his eyes against the wind to catch sight of massive floodlights, illuminating the patch of trampled snow the doorway limits his vision to. There’s two guards trying to hold a kicking, swearing man and for a moment Mardy goes dizzy in the warring waves of joy and fear because it could be Andy-
- but it’s not because Andy doesn’t speak German at all and this guy’s shrieking in it, a long list of insults that make the more German-literate Mardy blush. Niels is gaping in open-mouthed shock, obviously catching even more of the curses than Mardy. The guards throw the writhing German guy in, helping his progress with a hefty kick so that he flies several feet, rolling when he lands.
“Need to chain the bastard,” Mardy hears one of the guards comment. His partner gives him an incredulous look.
“Get near that thing again, not fucking likely! Let him try and escape. I’d love an excuse to put a bullet in his head. Crazy fucker almost bit my finger off, look!” The doors slam shut and there’s the sound of a bolt being shot across but Mardy doesn’t hear it. He’s too busy staring at the newcomer who’s rolled into a crouch, staring directly at him. Joy drives Mardy forward, smiling properly for the first time in days, maybe weeks.
“Tom-“
Tommy Haas leaps at him, slamming him back into the wall and clamping a hand to his mouth. Mardy tastes dirt and salty blood on the German’s palm, shock making him tremble and fear rising underneath it because Tommy looks nothing like the Tommy he remembers, once soft brown hair hanging over his face, lip split and an impressive bruise spreading across one cheek. Mardy flinches as the German leans down because he looks as crazy as the guards said he was but Tommy only puts his mouth beside Mardy’s ear, rough lips brushing Mardy’s skin as he hisses in breathless, almost inaudible English.
“Quiet. One word and we’re both dead.”
~
14th August 2011 – Halcyon Estate, Switzerland
Roger climbed the stairs towards his room reluctantly. The bracelet in his left hand had been warmed by his tight grip all the way back from Basel, the engraving rough against his fingertips.
“They didn’t take him directly to the quarries like everyone else.” Andrew Murray, Roger’s British link in Basel, had sounded grim as he said exactly the words Roger didn’t want to hear. “They knew exactly who he was. They took him to Paris Roger. The bracelet’s the only trace of him we could find.”
Paris. Roger shivers at the thought because while on the surface corporate Paris is a sparkling jewel, clean and beautiful and safe, behind closed doors it’s the centre for corporate experimentation. Roger doesn’t know exactly what goes on – Paris has the tightest security of any of the Headquarters and most of his inside information comes from Zurich but he’s heard enough to know it’s the worst place Mardy could’ve ended up. Really, he’d have preferred the rock quarries.
“We’re checking Britain but fuck, a lot of people have passed through the quarries in the last three months. We could be looking right at him and miss him in the crowd.” Andrew had shaken his head, regret and worry making him look twice his age. “Trying to find one guy who might not have even been sent there is bloody futile Roger. You know that.”
He knows it. He’s known it since he first promised to help Andy and he can’t help feeling he’s been stupid to lead the American on. The bracelet is a glaring reminder of just what Mardy meant to Andy and Roger pauses at the top of the stairs, torn.
For a fleeting moment he’s tempted to throw it away. Never tell Andy what he’s learnt and let the American’s hope fade slowly rather than destroying it today, taking away everything that’s keeping him going with one small, finely crafted piece of jewellery. For the briefest of moments, Roger is truly tempted.
Then he thinks of how he’d feel in Andy’s place; of how he’d felt when Marat disappeared. The waiting was worse than the knowing, the torment of wondering if he’d turn up one day out of nowhere with a wicked smile and bright eyes like nothing had changed. If he stalls Andy again, indefinitely, he won’t be doing the American a favour. He’ll just be killing him slowly rather than quickly.
Roger closes his eyes for a second, steeling himself. Better get this over with.
Andy’s asleep when Roger enters the room, curled up under the mountain of blankets he uses to keep warm, regardless of the August sun shining through the window. Roger crosses to the bed and sits on the edge, his eyes on Andy’s sleeping face. The marks of the drugs are still there in the shadows under his eyes and the faint shivers, even in his sleep but they’re getting better. The last few days have been almost happy; Roger had forgotten what it was like to have company, someone he could talk to openly without being afraid and Andy’s nice to be around, even though worry about Mardy always lurks in his eyes. Roger doesn’t want to shatter the fragile friendship they’ve rebuilt. Doesn’t want to, but he has to.
God he wishes he didn’t have to do this. Andy should’ve come to him sooner, Roger should’ve been keeping a closer eye on Texas, they might have had time to…
…to what? To break into Paris? To go charging in, guns blazing and get themselves killed? A lot of good that would have done Mardy. Bitter regret for ‘if only’ makes Roger grit his teeth, hands clenching so the bracelet cuts into his palm. If only. If only he was still just a tennis player; if only he wasn’t sitting here, waiting to tell Andy that his lover isn’t coming back. If fucking only. He’s so deep in bitter thought that he doesn’t see Andy’s sleepily open his eyes.
“Roger?”
Roger flinches, suddenly wishing he’d taken more time to think of what to say. Even when before, when Andy was just a rival on the other side of the net, Roger could see how much of his confidence was just an act. Deep down Andy’s always been insecure and fragile, the brash, confident exterior nothing but a shell and Roger knows nothing’s really changed. There’re many ways Andy could take this news and Roger doesn’t think any of them will be good.
Maybe he should-
“It’s Mardy isn’t it?” Andy’s struggling to sit up, tossing aside blankets and pillows in excitement. “Have you found him? That’s why you’re here right, to say-“
Roger can’t meet the hazel eyes, bright with excitement. He can’t even speak past the lump in his throat. Even without looking, he can picture the happiness on Andy’s face dissolving, the American’s excitement fading until Roger can almost taste his palpable fear, bitter and metallic on the air. “Roger?” he asks in an odd, tight voice and Roger holds out his hand, still mute. Andy pries open his fingers which have cramped around the bracelet, Roger barely feeling it as he stares at the floor, unable to think of anything to say. He knows the moment Andy recognises it, hears the sharp intake of breath and warm metal is lifted off his palm by trembling fingers. He finally gets the courage to glance up and sees a blank mask across Andy’s expression, the identity bracelet lying innocently in his hand. The sunlight glints off the engraved fish symbol around the word ‘love’, the design Andy described in minute detail for Roger four days ago when telling him what to look for in the search for Mardy. It’s sweet and simple and if going back in time was an option, if he could change his mind and destroy or ‘lose’ that bracelet before having to show it to the American, Roger would. Anything to stop Andy looking like that.
“Roger?” The same tiny, somehow muffled tone and Roger tries not to flinch from it. He’d expected tears or screams, not this weird, numb calm. “Could- could I be alone for a little while?”
“Of course.” Roger’s voice sounds strange even to him, too calm, too rational for the situation. “Do you need anything?”
“No. Thank you.” Andy lies back down, rolling over so all Roger can see is his back, the curve of one slightly hunched shoulder. “Just…”
He trails off and Roger nods, standing up. It hurts a little that Andy doesn’t want his support but at the same time Roger understands, knows that there’s nothing he could say that would change anything. He pauses by the door, glancing back. Andy’s hidden beneath the mound of blankets.
“Andy-“ he starts softly, not really sure where he’s going with it. Sorry maybe but it feels like an empty word. Andy cuts him off before he can work it out, voice muffled and rough.
“Don’t Roger. Please just- don’t.”
“Okay.” Roger swallows and turns to leave, letting the door swing shut behind him. Just before it closes he whispers, “I’m sorry,” but quietly, so Andy can’t hear him. It wouldn’t help if he did.
~
It’s over an hour later that Roger realises what he’s done. Hadn’t he been telling himself literally as he gave Andy the bracelet how fragile the American was? Hadn’t part of the idea behind keeping him here been to stop him doing anything stupid?
And Roger had left him, after the worst news possible, alone and in a room filled with sharp objects, enough alcohol for a small town to pass out on and a window…
… leading out onto a third floor balcony. That Andy had been admiring the drop from only yesterday.
Roger swears out loud, startling the ever-present guards. He’s running towards the stairs before they can even react, taking the steps three at a time and skidding down the hallway at the top, legs burning with the effort and a stream of curses that he’s too out of breath to voice in his mind. He half-falls through the door into his room, glancing towards the bed and finding it – as expected – empty. The doors out onto the balcony are open, the breeze billowing through the gauzy drapes. Roger halts on the threshold, terrified he’s too late but a mixture of relief and shock hit him as he sees Andy, crouched on the stone wall around the edge. Teetering over the drop to the very hard ground a long way below. Roger puts a hand out to stop himself falling, the world swaying dizzily. If he says anything at all wrong now, it’ll be his fault. His own, damn stupid fault for leaving Andy alone.
“I thought you’d stop me.” Andy sounds calm, calmer than Roger would have thought possible. He’s balanced on the very edge of the wall, arms half-spread as he looks down. Roger makes a wordless sound of fear. “It’s okay Rog, it’s not your fault. You tried.”
“I’m still trying.” Roger can’t manage more than a whisper. “It’s just a bracelet Andy; they probably took it off him and you can give it back when we find him. It doesn’t mean-“
“Of course it means he’s dead.” Andy’s crying, Roger can hear it in his voice. “He’s probably been dead all along and I’ve just been wasting everyone’s time. Stupid Andy Roddick, never knows when to quit. Well I guess I finally worked it out. It’s right now.”
“Andy for fuck’s sake.” Roger takes a deep breath. He’s always worked well under pressure but this is pushing it to the limits. This isn’t about a match point or a trophy or another title that’ll sit pretty on his profile. This is about Andy not ending up very dead on the hard stone below. “Andy get down. This isn’t-“
“Isn’t what?!” Andy half turns in anger and Roger bites back a cry of warning as the movement makes him wobble precariously. “Isn’t worth it? Isn’t accomplishing anything? Isn’t the right thing to do? Well of course you’d know all about that wouldn’t you Roger, with your perfect mansion and your perfect fucking sellout job. At least me and Mardy fought for what we believed in. You turned tail and joined the enemy. You’re a fucking sellout Roger, so don’t give me the spiel about right and wrong, or if it’s worth it because you have no fucking idea!”
There’s something rising to swamp the numbness, something that a surprised Roger identifies as anger. Andy Roddick with his flare for the dramatic, Andy Roddick yelling abuse at umpires, Andy Roddick managing somehow to get everyone’s attention and after all that’s changed, Andy hasn’t. He’s still got the fucking nerve-
“You really are stupid aren’t you?” There’s icy fury in every word, Roger gripping the edge of the door hard enough to leave the marks of his nails deep in the wood. It’s obviously not what Andy’s expecting to hear because the American glances back in obvious surprise, face streaked with tears. “You run around, fight your little private war. Think you’re making a difference and you have no goddamn clue what you’re doing.”
“That’s not-“
“You blow things up, you shoot a few officials, oh yes you make a little difference. For five minutes. What do you do in the long term?” Roger so furious now he can hardly focus, the words spat out as if they taste bad. He can’t stop because he’ll lose it, lose the fragile grip he has on Andy’s attention. “You play at your little war while the rest of us do the big things, accomplish the major victories which are made all the more difficult by you and your goddamn vigilantes getting in the way, making everyone suspicious and careful. You fuck things up for everyone else then have the nerve to tell me I have no idea?”
“You don’t.” Andy sways and Roger almost loses his train of thought in the fear, forcing himself not to leap forward and drag Andy to safety. He’s just as likely to send him tumbling the other way and he’d never forgive himself. “You don’t know what it feels like; don’t know what Mardy was like-“
“Don’t know how it feels?” Roger stares at him in open-mouthed shock. “I don’t know- how- Let me answer a question you asked me before.” Confusion flashes across Andy’s face but Roger ignores it. “Who was it that I sent into Headquarters to get ripped to pieces? Well we started with Gaston because you know, young, innocent, inconspicuous. You’d think he’d be perfect right?”
“Roger-“ There’s a flicker of uncertainty in Andy’s tone but Roger’s still talking.
“Apparently not because he lasted two days. My people picked the pieces up afterwards. Pieces. Do you have idea what that’s like Andy? To know that it’s all your fault and have the proof in a goddamn box in front of you?”
“I don’t-“
“Well of course not, why would you? So we planned and we trained and Marat went, thinking he knew exactly what to do. Listening to me when I said we were prepared this time. I guess it made a difference because after all, two weeks is better than two days right?”
Andy’s turned round completely now, eyes huge and shadowed in his white face. He’s gripping the edge of the wall and if Roger was calm enough to notice, he’d see him shivering but he’s still too angry, eyes locked with Andy’s. The American swallows, opens his mouth.
“Roger, please don’t-“
“Please don’t what Andy?” Roger hisses the words like weapons, every one razor edged. “Don’t tell you that you don’t understand what it’s like? To never actually know if they killed him or not because all I get is a necklace in an envelope left on my doorstep? To never know if they’ve still got him locked up somewhere, wondering if I’ll ever find him? To never know if she-“
Shock flashes across Andy’s tearstained face even though Roger cuts the words off, turning away to rub a hand fiercely over his eyes. There’s a pause that feels like a lifetime before there’s the sound of bare feet brushing stone and Andy’s hand settles on Roger’s shoulder.
“Roger?” he says tentatively. “I’m sorry. I didn’t know.”
“I know.” Roger resists Andy’s attempt to turn him round, staring blankly at the floor with dry eyes. He doesn’t cry, doesn’t think he can. “I shouldn’t- I shouldn’t be yelling at you, I’m sorry.”
There’s a laugh that’s half-sob from Andy. “Yell all you want. It’s better than sympathy.” His arms go around Roger from behind and he hangs on, regardless of Roger’s resistance. “I didn’t know,” he repeats, softer this time. “About Mi-“
“Don’t.” Roger’s hand is over his mouth before the name is barely started, the Swiss twisting in Andy’s arms in panic. “Don’t ever say her name. If just one bug or spy hears it, just one-“
“There’s only us here,” Andy insists softly but agrees with a nod, tightening his grip around Roger’s waist. Roger leans into him and Andy presses a kiss to his forehead, an easy move because they’re so close and Roger closes his eyes.
“I didn’t send her you know,” he whispers and feels Andy frown.
“Then why did she…”
“Because she wanted to.” Roger’s arms come up to hold Andy back, needing to feel something other than empty space and Andy’s the best thing, warm and comforting. The mouth on Roger’s forehead moves to his temple, and Roger shivers because it’s been too long since anyone touched him like that. Andy drags the damp kiss downwards until he reaches Roger’s ear and breaks the contact to ask “And?”
“And.” Roger swallows, forgetting Andy’s mouth as he remembers the note in Mirka’s handwriting, briefly apologetic and to the point. She’d already said goodbye before she left, even if he didn’t notice at the time. “And because I couldn’t stop her.”
~
14th August 2011 – Unknown
The bed’s impossibly comfortable. Mirka wonders idly how it’s done, since she never remembers beds being this perfect even in the many five star hotels they stayed at. This bed is just the right tension and softness, springs balanced so the heavier weight of the man next to her doesn’t make her part of the bed slant at all. It’s probably stuffed with a single golden hair from a hundred thousand virgins are something. It sounds like something her husband would get a kick out of.
Husband. She lifts her hand to examine the ring, sparkling in even the faint – fake, all the outside views here are artificial so she has no idea where they really are this time - moonlight through the window. She always wanted to get married but the ring glitters accusingly and she tucks her hand down again, out of sight under the covers. No point in thinking ‘if only’ because she doesn’t have time for daydreaming. This is more important than that, more important than something that might have been back when nothing mattered so much. When choosing jewellery or clothes was all she had to think about and everything was… simpler.
However ‘if onlys’ aren’t worth risking her life over, so she rolls over and slides an arm around her husband’s waist, snuggling in close. He murmurs sleepily but doesn’t stir and she closes her eyes.
‘If only’ she thinks with a trace of disgust and forces it out her mind as she falls asleep.
~~~
Part Two|Part Four
Was the angst better than last time? :)Melodrama, whee!
Oh and I finally got round to working out dates. Backdating will be added to the first two parts at some point, but it's mainly important to keep track of everything from here I think.
Finally continuity? Happens to other people. Actually this is still being sorted out in my head and there will be a major editing bash to make the things that don't quite fit, fit when it's done. In the meantime... don't let them bother you too much?
~
Title: If Only (Halcyon 3)
Rating: R (for now)
Pairing: Fish/Roddick (for now, implied), very faint hints of Roddick/Federer, and… a surprise. :)
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. Centred mainly around Roger’s POV with side trips into... well that would be telling. ;)
Disclaimer: Hasn’t… um, won’t happen to my knowledge, the various tennis players own themselves. Blame the plotbunnies. They started it.
Dedications: For
liroa15, who may refuse to speak to me after this. For scoobydumblonde who let us convert her and kept begging for this next part. For everyone who encouraged me with this. It may have been a bad idea. :) 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.
Part One - The Wasteland
Part Two - Living on Promises
18th May 2011 – somewhere in South-west England
Firstly, ouch. Secondly-
“Fucking ouch!” Mardy groans as consciousness painfully reasserts itself. His throat feels like someone attacked it with sandpaper and the arm he’s lying on is numb. He starts to roll over and freezes at the clank of chains. They’re heavy around his ankles and wrists, metal colder than ice against his skin. At that thought he realises he’s still wearing only his jeans and his teeth are chattering with cold.
“You get used to it,” a gloomy voice remarks. There’s a hint of an accent, maybe German. “Usually just before it kills you.”
“Used to what?” Mardy tries to ask but his throat hurts too much and he breaks off into a harsh gasp. The speaker seems to understand anyway.
“The weather. It’s why it’s such a good place to send us. If anyone ever tries to run, where’ll they go? Die of exposure before they get ten steps.”
Mardy decides there’s no point putting it off any longer and cracks an eye open. He has to blink several times before his vision clears, even the dim light painfully bright. He must’ve been out for a while if everything hurts this much. He opens the other eye and turns his head, finding the man who’d been speaking sitting next to him. He’s short and has rattails of very blond curls with grey eyes in a lined face. Mardy doesn’t recognise him and his heart sinks a little further. So. Definitely not home then.
“Where?” he manages to get out with a great effort. The man frowns.
“American are you? Well I guess you’re a long way from Britain over there, so you wouldn’t have heard too much about the quarries. I couldn’t say exactly where we are. Rumour says England, probably the south, south west but no one really knows. Could be right next to Edinburgh for all we know.”
Mardy closes his eyes against the crushing wave of disappointment and more than a little fear. Even in Texas they heard stories about the rock quarries, scattered across the glacier that used to be Britain. It was where the corporations sent people who were too much trouble to ignore or kill outright and once you were there, you didn’t leave. It was like a death sentence, only slower. If the work didn’t kill you, the cold would.
That guy back in the cell may as well just have killed him. Mardy wasn’t going anywhere from here.
“Who?” he croaks, starting to sit up with difficulty. The guy helps him to get upright and leant back against the wall, the movement making his neck hurt worse. Mardy touches it and finds a fresh scar in the hollow at the base of his throat, rough and hot under his fingertips.
“I’m Niels, from Holland.” There’s an impatient sound and Mardy’s hand gets slapped away from the scar. “Don’t poke it, it looks infected.”
“Just what I wanted to hear.” Mardy finds he can just about talk if he keeps the words quiet and doesn’t move his mouth too much. His tongue feels twice its usual size, his lips cracked and split. What the hell had been in that drug? “Mardy. Texas.”
“A Texan.” Niels sounds grudgingly impressed. “You’d be from that big raid we heard about then? They really didn’t like you, if it was big enough for even us to hear about it. What’d you do?”
“Me?” Mardy attempts a smile. “Loved the wrong person. You?”
“The usual.” Niels grimaced. “Our village started to get self-sufficient. Grew our own food, made our own clothes. So the Corporation comes along, tries to make us take their food in exchange for ours like we were supposed to, that disgusting tasteless shit that they make. We turned ‘em down, said thanks but no thanks. Next thing we know we’re deported here.”
Mardy’s heard it before. The corporations have their own cities, glistening metropolises in a sea of dust, New York, Paris, Tokyo. The elite few living like royalty at the expense of the rest of the world; Mardy’s seen New York now, rebuilt and repopulated, a shining oasis surrounded by blasted wasteland for miles around. He and Andy had managed to sneak past the first two checkpoints for a closer look, Andy daring to saunter right past the guards with a bold grin and jaunty stride. They’d hit the third checkpoint and had to run for their lives amidst a shower of bullets. They’d laughed about it later but Mardy still wakes up sometimes with gunshots echoing through his mind, an image of Andy stumbling as a bullet clipped his ankle. He still has a limp from it and Mardy shudders every time he remembers the long, agonising trek back to Texas, Andy barely able to walk. God they’d done some stupid stuff. Thinking about it, he’s amazed he didn’t end up somewhere like this sooner.
At least Andy’s luck still seems to be going strong, since Mardy’s here and he’s not. Mardy smiles a little at the thought and glances around, taking in the bare walls and cracked stone floor. It looks like nothing more than a rectangle of four walls and a roof, silent people chained together in rows along the walls with Mardy and Niels being at the end nearest the doors. Most of the captives seem to be sleeping through Mardy catches few curious eyes directed his way. Everything is grey, everyone looks half frozen and his heart sinks even further.
Even worse, there’s no one he recognises. He hasn’t been completely on his own for years and there’s never been a time Andy hasn’t been more than a phone call away. Mardy can feel the separation like a physical ache and he has to blink back tears. He’d give anything, anything at all for a familiar face right now. It doesn’t even have to be Andy’s-
The thought gets cut short by a crash from the doors being flung open. Mardy gasps as a freezing wind knifes through him, icy and laced with the sting of driven snow. It must be dark outside because the only light is artificial yellow and he narrows his eyes against the wind to catch sight of massive floodlights, illuminating the patch of trampled snow the doorway limits his vision to. There’s two guards trying to hold a kicking, swearing man and for a moment Mardy goes dizzy in the warring waves of joy and fear because it could be Andy-
- but it’s not because Andy doesn’t speak German at all and this guy’s shrieking in it, a long list of insults that make the more German-literate Mardy blush. Niels is gaping in open-mouthed shock, obviously catching even more of the curses than Mardy. The guards throw the writhing German guy in, helping his progress with a hefty kick so that he flies several feet, rolling when he lands.
“Need to chain the bastard,” Mardy hears one of the guards comment. His partner gives him an incredulous look.
“Get near that thing again, not fucking likely! Let him try and escape. I’d love an excuse to put a bullet in his head. Crazy fucker almost bit my finger off, look!” The doors slam shut and there’s the sound of a bolt being shot across but Mardy doesn’t hear it. He’s too busy staring at the newcomer who’s rolled into a crouch, staring directly at him. Joy drives Mardy forward, smiling properly for the first time in days, maybe weeks.
“Tom-“
Tommy Haas leaps at him, slamming him back into the wall and clamping a hand to his mouth. Mardy tastes dirt and salty blood on the German’s palm, shock making him tremble and fear rising underneath it because Tommy looks nothing like the Tommy he remembers, once soft brown hair hanging over his face, lip split and an impressive bruise spreading across one cheek. Mardy flinches as the German leans down because he looks as crazy as the guards said he was but Tommy only puts his mouth beside Mardy’s ear, rough lips brushing Mardy’s skin as he hisses in breathless, almost inaudible English.
“Quiet. One word and we’re both dead.”
~
14th August 2011 – Halcyon Estate, Switzerland
Roger climbed the stairs towards his room reluctantly. The bracelet in his left hand had been warmed by his tight grip all the way back from Basel, the engraving rough against his fingertips.
“They didn’t take him directly to the quarries like everyone else.” Andrew Murray, Roger’s British link in Basel, had sounded grim as he said exactly the words Roger didn’t want to hear. “They knew exactly who he was. They took him to Paris Roger. The bracelet’s the only trace of him we could find.”
Paris. Roger shivers at the thought because while on the surface corporate Paris is a sparkling jewel, clean and beautiful and safe, behind closed doors it’s the centre for corporate experimentation. Roger doesn’t know exactly what goes on – Paris has the tightest security of any of the Headquarters and most of his inside information comes from Zurich but he’s heard enough to know it’s the worst place Mardy could’ve ended up. Really, he’d have preferred the rock quarries.
“We’re checking Britain but fuck, a lot of people have passed through the quarries in the last three months. We could be looking right at him and miss him in the crowd.” Andrew had shaken his head, regret and worry making him look twice his age. “Trying to find one guy who might not have even been sent there is bloody futile Roger. You know that.”
He knows it. He’s known it since he first promised to help Andy and he can’t help feeling he’s been stupid to lead the American on. The bracelet is a glaring reminder of just what Mardy meant to Andy and Roger pauses at the top of the stairs, torn.
For a fleeting moment he’s tempted to throw it away. Never tell Andy what he’s learnt and let the American’s hope fade slowly rather than destroying it today, taking away everything that’s keeping him going with one small, finely crafted piece of jewellery. For the briefest of moments, Roger is truly tempted.
Then he thinks of how he’d feel in Andy’s place; of how he’d felt when Marat disappeared. The waiting was worse than the knowing, the torment of wondering if he’d turn up one day out of nowhere with a wicked smile and bright eyes like nothing had changed. If he stalls Andy again, indefinitely, he won’t be doing the American a favour. He’ll just be killing him slowly rather than quickly.
Roger closes his eyes for a second, steeling himself. Better get this over with.
Andy’s asleep when Roger enters the room, curled up under the mountain of blankets he uses to keep warm, regardless of the August sun shining through the window. Roger crosses to the bed and sits on the edge, his eyes on Andy’s sleeping face. The marks of the drugs are still there in the shadows under his eyes and the faint shivers, even in his sleep but they’re getting better. The last few days have been almost happy; Roger had forgotten what it was like to have company, someone he could talk to openly without being afraid and Andy’s nice to be around, even though worry about Mardy always lurks in his eyes. Roger doesn’t want to shatter the fragile friendship they’ve rebuilt. Doesn’t want to, but he has to.
God he wishes he didn’t have to do this. Andy should’ve come to him sooner, Roger should’ve been keeping a closer eye on Texas, they might have had time to…
…to what? To break into Paris? To go charging in, guns blazing and get themselves killed? A lot of good that would have done Mardy. Bitter regret for ‘if only’ makes Roger grit his teeth, hands clenching so the bracelet cuts into his palm. If only. If only he was still just a tennis player; if only he wasn’t sitting here, waiting to tell Andy that his lover isn’t coming back. If fucking only. He’s so deep in bitter thought that he doesn’t see Andy’s sleepily open his eyes.
“Roger?”
Roger flinches, suddenly wishing he’d taken more time to think of what to say. Even when before, when Andy was just a rival on the other side of the net, Roger could see how much of his confidence was just an act. Deep down Andy’s always been insecure and fragile, the brash, confident exterior nothing but a shell and Roger knows nothing’s really changed. There’re many ways Andy could take this news and Roger doesn’t think any of them will be good.
Maybe he should-
“It’s Mardy isn’t it?” Andy’s struggling to sit up, tossing aside blankets and pillows in excitement. “Have you found him? That’s why you’re here right, to say-“
Roger can’t meet the hazel eyes, bright with excitement. He can’t even speak past the lump in his throat. Even without looking, he can picture the happiness on Andy’s face dissolving, the American’s excitement fading until Roger can almost taste his palpable fear, bitter and metallic on the air. “Roger?” he asks in an odd, tight voice and Roger holds out his hand, still mute. Andy pries open his fingers which have cramped around the bracelet, Roger barely feeling it as he stares at the floor, unable to think of anything to say. He knows the moment Andy recognises it, hears the sharp intake of breath and warm metal is lifted off his palm by trembling fingers. He finally gets the courage to glance up and sees a blank mask across Andy’s expression, the identity bracelet lying innocently in his hand. The sunlight glints off the engraved fish symbol around the word ‘love’, the design Andy described in minute detail for Roger four days ago when telling him what to look for in the search for Mardy. It’s sweet and simple and if going back in time was an option, if he could change his mind and destroy or ‘lose’ that bracelet before having to show it to the American, Roger would. Anything to stop Andy looking like that.
“Roger?” The same tiny, somehow muffled tone and Roger tries not to flinch from it. He’d expected tears or screams, not this weird, numb calm. “Could- could I be alone for a little while?”
“Of course.” Roger’s voice sounds strange even to him, too calm, too rational for the situation. “Do you need anything?”
“No. Thank you.” Andy lies back down, rolling over so all Roger can see is his back, the curve of one slightly hunched shoulder. “Just…”
He trails off and Roger nods, standing up. It hurts a little that Andy doesn’t want his support but at the same time Roger understands, knows that there’s nothing he could say that would change anything. He pauses by the door, glancing back. Andy’s hidden beneath the mound of blankets.
“Andy-“ he starts softly, not really sure where he’s going with it. Sorry maybe but it feels like an empty word. Andy cuts him off before he can work it out, voice muffled and rough.
“Don’t Roger. Please just- don’t.”
“Okay.” Roger swallows and turns to leave, letting the door swing shut behind him. Just before it closes he whispers, “I’m sorry,” but quietly, so Andy can’t hear him. It wouldn’t help if he did.
~
It’s over an hour later that Roger realises what he’s done. Hadn’t he been telling himself literally as he gave Andy the bracelet how fragile the American was? Hadn’t part of the idea behind keeping him here been to stop him doing anything stupid?
And Roger had left him, after the worst news possible, alone and in a room filled with sharp objects, enough alcohol for a small town to pass out on and a window…
… leading out onto a third floor balcony. That Andy had been admiring the drop from only yesterday.
Roger swears out loud, startling the ever-present guards. He’s running towards the stairs before they can even react, taking the steps three at a time and skidding down the hallway at the top, legs burning with the effort and a stream of curses that he’s too out of breath to voice in his mind. He half-falls through the door into his room, glancing towards the bed and finding it – as expected – empty. The doors out onto the balcony are open, the breeze billowing through the gauzy drapes. Roger halts on the threshold, terrified he’s too late but a mixture of relief and shock hit him as he sees Andy, crouched on the stone wall around the edge. Teetering over the drop to the very hard ground a long way below. Roger puts a hand out to stop himself falling, the world swaying dizzily. If he says anything at all wrong now, it’ll be his fault. His own, damn stupid fault for leaving Andy alone.
“I thought you’d stop me.” Andy sounds calm, calmer than Roger would have thought possible. He’s balanced on the very edge of the wall, arms half-spread as he looks down. Roger makes a wordless sound of fear. “It’s okay Rog, it’s not your fault. You tried.”
“I’m still trying.” Roger can’t manage more than a whisper. “It’s just a bracelet Andy; they probably took it off him and you can give it back when we find him. It doesn’t mean-“
“Of course it means he’s dead.” Andy’s crying, Roger can hear it in his voice. “He’s probably been dead all along and I’ve just been wasting everyone’s time. Stupid Andy Roddick, never knows when to quit. Well I guess I finally worked it out. It’s right now.”
“Andy for fuck’s sake.” Roger takes a deep breath. He’s always worked well under pressure but this is pushing it to the limits. This isn’t about a match point or a trophy or another title that’ll sit pretty on his profile. This is about Andy not ending up very dead on the hard stone below. “Andy get down. This isn’t-“
“Isn’t what?!” Andy half turns in anger and Roger bites back a cry of warning as the movement makes him wobble precariously. “Isn’t worth it? Isn’t accomplishing anything? Isn’t the right thing to do? Well of course you’d know all about that wouldn’t you Roger, with your perfect mansion and your perfect fucking sellout job. At least me and Mardy fought for what we believed in. You turned tail and joined the enemy. You’re a fucking sellout Roger, so don’t give me the spiel about right and wrong, or if it’s worth it because you have no fucking idea!”
There’s something rising to swamp the numbness, something that a surprised Roger identifies as anger. Andy Roddick with his flare for the dramatic, Andy Roddick yelling abuse at umpires, Andy Roddick managing somehow to get everyone’s attention and after all that’s changed, Andy hasn’t. He’s still got the fucking nerve-
“You really are stupid aren’t you?” There’s icy fury in every word, Roger gripping the edge of the door hard enough to leave the marks of his nails deep in the wood. It’s obviously not what Andy’s expecting to hear because the American glances back in obvious surprise, face streaked with tears. “You run around, fight your little private war. Think you’re making a difference and you have no goddamn clue what you’re doing.”
“That’s not-“
“You blow things up, you shoot a few officials, oh yes you make a little difference. For five minutes. What do you do in the long term?” Roger so furious now he can hardly focus, the words spat out as if they taste bad. He can’t stop because he’ll lose it, lose the fragile grip he has on Andy’s attention. “You play at your little war while the rest of us do the big things, accomplish the major victories which are made all the more difficult by you and your goddamn vigilantes getting in the way, making everyone suspicious and careful. You fuck things up for everyone else then have the nerve to tell me I have no idea?”
“You don’t.” Andy sways and Roger almost loses his train of thought in the fear, forcing himself not to leap forward and drag Andy to safety. He’s just as likely to send him tumbling the other way and he’d never forgive himself. “You don’t know what it feels like; don’t know what Mardy was like-“
“Don’t know how it feels?” Roger stares at him in open-mouthed shock. “I don’t know- how- Let me answer a question you asked me before.” Confusion flashes across Andy’s face but Roger ignores it. “Who was it that I sent into Headquarters to get ripped to pieces? Well we started with Gaston because you know, young, innocent, inconspicuous. You’d think he’d be perfect right?”
“Roger-“ There’s a flicker of uncertainty in Andy’s tone but Roger’s still talking.
“Apparently not because he lasted two days. My people picked the pieces up afterwards. Pieces. Do you have idea what that’s like Andy? To know that it’s all your fault and have the proof in a goddamn box in front of you?”
“I don’t-“
“Well of course not, why would you? So we planned and we trained and Marat went, thinking he knew exactly what to do. Listening to me when I said we were prepared this time. I guess it made a difference because after all, two weeks is better than two days right?”
Andy’s turned round completely now, eyes huge and shadowed in his white face. He’s gripping the edge of the wall and if Roger was calm enough to notice, he’d see him shivering but he’s still too angry, eyes locked with Andy’s. The American swallows, opens his mouth.
“Roger, please don’t-“
“Please don’t what Andy?” Roger hisses the words like weapons, every one razor edged. “Don’t tell you that you don’t understand what it’s like? To never actually know if they killed him or not because all I get is a necklace in an envelope left on my doorstep? To never know if they’ve still got him locked up somewhere, wondering if I’ll ever find him? To never know if she-“
Shock flashes across Andy’s tearstained face even though Roger cuts the words off, turning away to rub a hand fiercely over his eyes. There’s a pause that feels like a lifetime before there’s the sound of bare feet brushing stone and Andy’s hand settles on Roger’s shoulder.
“Roger?” he says tentatively. “I’m sorry. I didn’t know.”
“I know.” Roger resists Andy’s attempt to turn him round, staring blankly at the floor with dry eyes. He doesn’t cry, doesn’t think he can. “I shouldn’t- I shouldn’t be yelling at you, I’m sorry.”
There’s a laugh that’s half-sob from Andy. “Yell all you want. It’s better than sympathy.” His arms go around Roger from behind and he hangs on, regardless of Roger’s resistance. “I didn’t know,” he repeats, softer this time. “About Mi-“
“Don’t.” Roger’s hand is over his mouth before the name is barely started, the Swiss twisting in Andy’s arms in panic. “Don’t ever say her name. If just one bug or spy hears it, just one-“
“There’s only us here,” Andy insists softly but agrees with a nod, tightening his grip around Roger’s waist. Roger leans into him and Andy presses a kiss to his forehead, an easy move because they’re so close and Roger closes his eyes.
“I didn’t send her you know,” he whispers and feels Andy frown.
“Then why did she…”
“Because she wanted to.” Roger’s arms come up to hold Andy back, needing to feel something other than empty space and Andy’s the best thing, warm and comforting. The mouth on Roger’s forehead moves to his temple, and Roger shivers because it’s been too long since anyone touched him like that. Andy drags the damp kiss downwards until he reaches Roger’s ear and breaks the contact to ask “And?”
“And.” Roger swallows, forgetting Andy’s mouth as he remembers the note in Mirka’s handwriting, briefly apologetic and to the point. She’d already said goodbye before she left, even if he didn’t notice at the time. “And because I couldn’t stop her.”
~
14th August 2011 – Unknown
The bed’s impossibly comfortable. Mirka wonders idly how it’s done, since she never remembers beds being this perfect even in the many five star hotels they stayed at. This bed is just the right tension and softness, springs balanced so the heavier weight of the man next to her doesn’t make her part of the bed slant at all. It’s probably stuffed with a single golden hair from a hundred thousand virgins are something. It sounds like something her husband would get a kick out of.
Husband. She lifts her hand to examine the ring, sparkling in even the faint – fake, all the outside views here are artificial so she has no idea where they really are this time - moonlight through the window. She always wanted to get married but the ring glitters accusingly and she tucks her hand down again, out of sight under the covers. No point in thinking ‘if only’ because she doesn’t have time for daydreaming. This is more important than that, more important than something that might have been back when nothing mattered so much. When choosing jewellery or clothes was all she had to think about and everything was… simpler.
However ‘if onlys’ aren’t worth risking her life over, so she rolls over and slides an arm around her husband’s waist, snuggling in close. He murmurs sleepily but doesn’t stir and she closes her eyes.
‘If only’ she thinks with a trace of disgust and forces it out her mind as she falls asleep.
Part Two|Part Four
Was the angst better than last time? :)Melodrama, whee!
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
no subject
Date: 2005-03-10 04:33 am (UTC)*splutters*
*whimpers*
*stabs...
Date: 2005-03-10 04:56 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2005-03-10 04:57 am (UTC)Poor Andy. Poor Roger. Poor Mardy. Poor Tommy. Poor... everyone!!! *whimpers*
You. Are. Evil. I love it!
no subject
Date: 2005-03-10 07:25 am (UTC)I can't wait to see where you're going with it all, especially with the new Tommy and Mirka developments.
no subject
Date: 2005-03-10 02:20 pm (UTC)Re: *stabs...
Date: 2005-03-10 02:24 pm (UTC)*giggles* Yay for still being talked to and yay for loving it! Fluff Highway... it's still in the distance I think. I have to get through the slums of Angsty Exposition first, and a couple of others places. ;) We'll get there... I think.
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Date: 2005-03-10 02:25 pm (UTC)I know, I am mean to everyone. I'll make it up to them, I think. :)
no subject
Date: 2005-03-10 02:26 pm (UTC)Ah, I know where I'm going... sort of. ;)
Re: *stabs...
Date: 2005-03-10 03:56 pm (UTC)Re: *stabs...
Date: 2005-03-10 06:03 pm (UTC)I know, I'm so sorry. Someone had to be a martyr and he was unlucky enough to be it. *looks suitably guilty and pathetic*
no subject
Date: 2005-03-10 08:45 pm (UTC)Re: *stabs...
Date: 2005-03-10 10:11 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2005-03-11 01:31 am (UTC)Not quite. Almost though.
*staggers off to try and recover*
no subject
Date: 2005-03-11 02:52 pm (UTC)Re: *stabs...
Date: 2005-03-11 02:59 pm (UTC)And hey, did you just threaten to get my friends to mutiny... o_O *hides*
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Date: 2005-03-11 03:01 pm (UTC)Re: *stabs...
Date: 2005-03-11 03:48 pm (UTC)Re: *stabs...
Date: 2005-03-11 06:54 pm (UTC)Re: *stabs...
Date: 2005-03-11 07:47 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2005-03-12 12:54 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2005-03-13 11:39 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2005-03-13 09:42 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2005-03-14 01:22 pm (UTC)And make it happy! ;) *snuggles Mardy* He's so cute and angsty he deserves a happy ending.
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Date: 2005-03-14 09:04 pm (UTC)I'm trying to make everyone get a happy ending... we'll see.