Oh god, I am getting no sleep tonight...
Mar. 28th, 2005 04:16 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
clo_again... because finding somewhere to write when you have no room of your own to retreat to... *sighs* You have to wait for everyone else to go to bed and take over the sofa, which I'm sleeping on tonight anyway again. Oh the joys of decorating. ;)
Anyway, what I promised, and it's too long and too disjointed, but it's all things that had to be done and it was easier to stick them all together.
Title: Running (Halcyon 6)
Rating: NC-17
Pairing: Implied Roddick/Fish, Haas/Safin, Roddick/Federer
Summary: … The world ended. People didn’t. Not quite.
Notes: AU fic set in a hypothetical post-‘apocalyptic’ near future (I do love my apocalypses and jumping on the current AU bandwagon seemed like a good idea.) But this is one plot bunny that hasn’t had enough caffeine to sort itself out yet and I’m still sorting the threads out, so bear with me. 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 (again) refuse to speak to me after this. For scoobydumblonde who let us convert her. 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
Part Three - If Only
Part Four - Words and...
Part Five - ... Actions
(H6) Running
18th May 2011 – somewhere in South-west England
Mardy’s reached the state where the only reason he keeps walking is because stopping would involve communicating with his legs, and the part of his mind that would issue the order shut down about half an hour ago. Deep snow drags at his feet and he can’t feel his toes inside his soaked sneakers, can’t feel from his knees downwards in fact and in another time and place that would be a bad thing. The bullet hole in his shoulder stopped hurting a while back though, and he knows it’s stopped bleeding because there isn’t a constant trickle of warmth down his arm anymore. Or perhaps he’s just lost all feeling in it; he’s too cold to tell the difference. All he can do is keep walking, sticking one foot doggedly in front of the other simply because the alternative is falling over and never getting up again. And he really doesn’t want to die
“Hey,” he tries to yell but it comes out as a croak. “Tom- hey guys?” He could be talking to nothing for all he knows; the snow and night shroud everything in greyish darkness and Tommy was more concerned about helping Marat to walk than keeping an eye on Mardy. There’s a nagging fear that he’s going to wander in helpless circles until something kills him, the cold or the guards who’re probably following them or blood loss, the odds are stacked against him even if Tommy and Marat do know where they’re going. Which Mardy is beginning to doubt, given that he’s be walking for what feels like hours and nothing, not the darkness or the depth of the snow or the empty, aching silence, has changed.
He’s lost. Panic wells up and he shuts his eyes. He’s lost and Tommy and Marat left him and-
“Fish,” a deep voice murmurs in his ear and Mardy yelps, shock jerking him free of cold lethargy. The arm Marat wraps around his waist to hold him steady is strong and the big Russian already sounds better than when Tommy freed him from his cell. Warm lips brush Mardy’s ear, Marat pulling him in close to keep him upright. “We thought we’d lost you. You okay?”
“Can’t feel anything,” Mardy whispers hoarsely and wants to add that it’s okay because if he could feel the bullet hole in his shoulder he’d probably be screaming in pain, but he can’t think hard enough to form the words. “Cold.”
“I know.” Marat’s skin is warm to Mardy’s freezing, solid and steady to the American’s shakiness and Mardy huddles against him, face pressed to the big Russian’s chest. “It’s not much further. Mardy?”
“Hmm?” Mardy doesn’t lift his head, isn’t sure he has the strength for it. Marat’s arms shift so they’re pressed more comfortably together and Mardy makes a moue of appreciation for the extra warm. Marat chuckles but when he speaks he sounds deadly serious.
“Mardy listen. I need to ask… did Tommy hurt you?”
“What?” Mardy twists to look up at Marat’s face, even though it’s too dark to see the Russian’s expression. “Hurt me? No not… maybe a couple of bruises. Nothing much. Why would he hurt me?” There’s a long pause and Mardy wishes he could see Marat’s expression. “Marat? Why would he hurt me?”
“Don’t say my name.” There’s a furious hiss to the order and Mardy flinches, ducking his head as Marat continues more calmly. “Tommy has been through a lot. I found him in Berlin, must be almost two years ago now. He was on everything you could think of and more. I don’t think even his dealers knew what they were giving him half the time and he didn’t care, as long as they kept the supply constant.” He pauses and Mardy nods against his chest to show he understands. “He wasn’t Tommy, he was… he was just a shell, filled with drugs.” There’s a reluctant note to the big Russian’s tone, as if just saying the words is difficult. “I could hardly believe it was him.”
“So he’s on drugs?” Mardy remembers the wide, half-crazy eyes, being slammed back hard into a wall and threats that sounded entirely genuine. “That explains a lot.”
“No, not anymore.” Marat starts to walk again, helping Mardy through the snow. “I cleaned him up, eventually but there was something… sometimes, especially when I’m not around, he’s not Tommy. The drugs left their mark. He has… in the past, he’s hurt people. Killed people. He almost killed Roger once, when I was away for longer than I’d said I would be.”
“Roger?” Mardy whispers. The revelation about Tommy is too big to assimilate right now, so he focuses on the smaller things, news of all the people he hasn’t seen for years. He can hardly believe the names he’s hearing because in Texas nothing mattered except Andy and a few other American players they’d kept in contact with. He’d had no idea if anyone else from the tour was alive, never mind what they’d been doing. “Roger’s alive?”
“More than just alive. He runs a vast underground resistance movement.” Marat pauses and Mardy can ‘hear’ the frown in the Russian’s tone. “If you’d kept in contact with us, we could have helped you. Must you Americans always be so stupidly independent?”
“Sorry,” Mardy mumbles. “Habit.”
“Well.” Marat doesn’t sound appeased. “We’ve wasted enough time. We’ll work together now, whether Andy wants to or not. Ah, at last.” A light has appeared in front of them, flickering warm-yellow through the darkness. Mardy ignores it as he pulls away from Marat a little.
“What?” he demands. “What did you mean about Andy?”
“What?” The Russian sounds distracted, dragging Mardy through snow that’s getting swiftly shallower. “Nothing. You’ll find out in due time. Tommy?”
“Here.” The German appears beside Mardy, taking the American’s other arm and helping him over to a small fire that’s burning merrily in the middle of a rocky floor, bare of snow. With a start Mardy realises they’re in a cave; the stinging wind has vanished and his soaked clothes are starting to steam in the warmth. “I’ve sent the signal. They’ll be here for us in a couple of hours. Are we going to take it out now, or leave it for Maria?”
“Now. He’s already said our names too many times.” Marat eases the confused Mardy down onto a dry towel beside the fire and where the hell had that come from? Mardy glances around until he catches sight of some crates stacked neatly in a shadowed corner, one prised open with random items scattered around it. He doesn’t have time for a closer look before Tommy’s gently pushing him backwards, sliding a folded towel under his head for a pillow.
“Mardy?” Marat leans over him, painted golden orange by the firelight. “I’m going to take the chip out okay? They’ll trace the signal otherwise. It shouldn’t hurt for too long.”
Mardy nods, fear making him shiver. His shoulder is starting to hurt again as the fire warms him up and the chip is a painful lump at the base of his throat, stinging as he turns his head to watch Marat go through the contents of the opened crate. The knife the Russian holds up is wickedly long and sharp, and Mardy sits up suddenly, scrambling sideways away from Marat and that knife.
“On second thoughts I’d rather wait a little longer-“
“Hold him still,” Marat commands and Tommy’s hands are suddenly gripping Mardy’s shoulders, pushing him flat to the floor. Mardy writhes but Marat touches his cheek with warm fingertips.
“Mardy, hush. I’ve done this before. You’ll be okay.”
“I really don’t-“
“Sshh.” Marat leans in with a look of intense concentration, the point of the knife biting into the base of Mardy’s throat. “Stay very still.”
It hurts a lot and Mardy makes a strangled whimpering sound, arcing up off the rocky floor in pain. Marat hisses through his teeth, twists the knife and Mardy’s just about to scream when something pops free and bounces across the floor with a plastic rattle. Mardy screws his eyes shut and whimpers, blood trickling warmly down his chest before a hand – Marat’s he assumes – wipes it away with something soft and a bottle is pressed to his lips.
“Mardy,” the Russian says gently. “Drink. It will help.”
Mardy opens his mouth and whiskey floods in, strong enough to make him choke as the liquor burns his tongue. He takes another gulp before Marat moves the bottle away and sighs, letting himself go limp as the whiskey eases the pain from his throat and shoulder. The towel-pillow is slid back under his head and a blanket is draped over him, rough and itchy but warm. Mardy snuggles into it without opening his eyes. He’s warm and almost comfortable for the first time in what feels like years and even the sharp stab of pain as Tommy starts to dress his bleeding throat can’t jerk him from his sleepy daze. Murmuring wordlessly to himself, he turns over when Tommy finishes and starts to drift into sleep, everything tingling from a mixture of warmth and whiskey.
He’s not home, and he knows he’s still got a long way to go to get there, but for the first time he feels like he’s safe. It’s a relief to let sleep take him, Marat and Tommy talking in hushed voices a short distance away. Mardy tries to listen but he’s tired, so very tired and he can’t concentrate properly. He catches a few snippets that if he was awake and not dizzy from blood loss would worry him, but as it is nothing can penetrate the haze of almost-safety.
“He still might die,” Marat was saying urgently. “We should contact Roddick now, make the offer.”
“I told you, we can’t find him. No one in Texas knows where he went.” Tommy sounds frustrated. “And the rest of us aren’t ready yet. We need to wait Marat. If we move too fast it’ll ruin everything.”
“I know love, I know.” The soft, breathy sound of a kiss is almost enough to make Mardy sit up because until now he hadn’t realised Marat and Tommy were that close. Which when he thinks about it is stupid because suddenly Tommy’s desperation to get to Marat makes sense, as does the story Marat told him outside. What Mardy doesn’t understand, is what they mean by an ‘offer’. What do they want with Andy?
He’s too tired to form the words, exhaustion is creeping through him and making his legs and arms feel like lead. It won’t be important. He can ask in the morning. Mardy mentally dismisses it and turns over to let the fire warm his back as he drifts off to sleep.
The last thing he hears is Marat sigh and say resignedly; “Well he isn’t going anywhere soon. If Roddick is looking for him, he’ll either have to show himself or come looking for his Fish. Either way we’ll get him.”
~~~
17th August 2011, Paris Airport, France
Roger straightens up, wiping his bloody hand on his shirt with a sigh. The guard he left to watch the airport is crumpled at his feet, blood pooling beneath him on the smooth grey tiles. Roger liked the man, trusted him with his life. The airport guards must’ve surprised him and not too long ago from the look of the fresh blood.
“Is he dead?” Andy asks from a few feet away where he’s leaning against the wall to stay upright. His voice is still a little breathless and rough but the counter-drugs are working. Roger is still furious with himself for being taken in by someone drugging the water within his own house but he’s pushed the problem to the back of his mind. Right now they have to get back to Basel and the only one of them who could pilot a plane has just been shot. They’re fast running out of options.
“Yes. Don’t suppose you can fly a plane?”
“Sorry. I think I skipped class that day.” Andy ignores Roger’s exasperated look and pushes off the wall, shuffling over to the Swiss. Roger catches him around the waist as he stumbles, standing steady as Andy’s arms go around his neck and the American’s mouth comes within inches of his. There’s a brief moment when their eyes meet and Roger catches his breath. He wants it, wants it badly enough to taste the want like something tangible, like a memory of Andy’s lips on his and the press of a wet tongue…
The airport alarm going off is almost a relief and Roger pulls free of the half-embrace, steadying Andy at arms length. “They know where we are.” He glances out the window of the small side room they’re hiding in, studying the planes taxiing past. “We’ll have to steal something small enough for us to manage. Can you see-“
“Roger.” Andy’s hand settles on his shoulder, holding him back. “Roger, we can’t go on doing this.”
“Not now.” Roger snaps then bites his lip as a look of hurt flashes across Andy’s face. “I didn’t- please Andy.” The alarm is still blaring overhead, echoing around the room and making it hard to hear each other. “Later. I promise.”
“Alright.” Andy tries to smile. “But I meant it when I said I can’t fly a plane Roger and unless you have hidden talents, I suspect you can’t either. Don’t you have this big, secret network or something? Can’t you call for help?”
Roger hesitates. He does have a network and some of them are even around the Paris area. Some of them even fly planes. “We’d have to be very lucky, to get someone here at this exact moment.“
“We’re still alive aren’t we?” Andy flashes him another smile that’s almost steady enough to be his usual grin. “I’d say that means luck is working in our favour today.”
Roger has to smile back, even though his heart is racing and the knowledge that hundreds of guards are probably running towards them right now isn’t helping him to think. “It’s worth a shot. Only, we’d have to call from the control room.” He glances out the window again, towards the tower at the far end of the field. The glass-walled room on top may as well be on Mars because there’s no way they’ll make it across all that open ground, most of which is probably being watched by snipers. “There’s no other way… no wait, there is. Come on.” He grabs Andy’s hand and drags the American to the door, taking a quick look around it to check the corridor is clear. “Cross your fingers, because if this works we’ll officially be the luckiest men alive.”
“Well alive is good right?” Andy jokes weakly. “I think like this plan. What is it again?”
“Follow me, keep your head down and whatever you do, don’t get shot.” Roger decides the corridor is definitely clear and makes a break for it, Andy gasping for breath as he tries to keep up. They pause briefly at next intersection while Roger checks the signs printed helpfully across the walls then go left, finding the stairs and descending swiftly to the outer doors. Roger halts with one hand on the handle, glancing back at Andy.
“Can you use a knife?”
“Yeah, sort of. Mar-“ Andy’s voice catches and he swallows, trying again. “Mardy was the expert.”
“Then here.” Roger bends, produces a short flick knife from a hidden pocket in his boot and tossing it over to him. Andy opens his mouth but Roger shrugs, not waiting for the question. “A trick Tommy taught me – there’s a way to line the pocket so the knife doesn’t show up on scanners. I’ll be distracted for a minute when I make the call. Can you handle anyone who tries to stop us?”
“Um. Yeah.” Andy examines the knife, testing the tip against his finger. “I can try.”
“Don’t try, do it. If you try, we’re dead.” Roger turns the handle and takes a deep breath. “Now keep up.”
They’re shot at within seconds of leaving the building, even though they’re simply skirting the edges. Roger keeps one eye on Andy and the other on the bright orange emergency call box just a few metres away, ignoring the sniper’s bullets ricocheting from the ground around their feet. One grazes his shoulder and he hears a stifled hiss from Andy but they reach the box in seconds, ducking behind it. Roger snatches up the receiver and presses the ‘outgoing’ button.
“Mayday, mayday, this is R eight three zero eight two F requesting backup at Paris Airport.” There’s a shout behind him and he glances round to see Andy wrestling with a guard, dispatching him after a few tense seconds with a neat flick of the knife. Roger breathes out the breath he didn’t know he’d been holding and repeats the call. “This is R eight three zero-“
There’s a crackle from the receiver in his hand and a wave of dizzy relief hits him as an incredulous voice asks in German “Roger? What the hell is going on?”
“Yves!” Roger leans against the side of the box, closing his eyes briefly and thanking their luck which must be working overtime. “I could kiss you right now. We need a ride. Where’s your plane?”
“Just taxiing to the runway, the one with the yellow tail. If you run, I’ll pick you up before I leave the ground. Quickly,” and Yves’ tone turns urgent. “You’ve got about three minutes.”
“Shit. We’ll be there.” Roger drops the receiver and turns, just in time to see Andy stumble backwards, gripping his left arm. “Andy!”
“I’m fine, the bastard just clipped me.” Andy looks back, face pale and shirt sprayed with crimson, most of which Roger hopes isn’t his. “We got a ride?”
“Yes, but we have to get there.” Roger hooks an arm around the American’s waist and takes off, sprinting across the field with his head down and dragging Andy with him. He can see the plane with the yellow tail straightening ready for takeoff, the emergency steps raising sparks as they touch the ground. Another bullet whistles past his head and Andy’s ragged breathing in his ear isn’t at all comforting. He can hear the yells of the guards behind them and beyond that the airport alarms still shrieking, but before he can think they’re up the steps and falling through the door of the plane, the door hissing closed behind them. Andy’s still clinging to him and Roger drags them both upright, his arms around the gasping American. “Ssshhh Andy, it’s okay. We made it.”
“Hang on,” Yves’ voice comes over the intercom. “Taking off.”
“Did we really make it?” Andy rasps out, his face buried in Roger’s shoulder as the engines roar to life and the plane tilts beneath them. The Swiss tightens his grip and lets himself press a kiss to Andy’s forehead.
“We really did.” There’s something sticky under his hand and he glances down, wincing at the spreading patch of red on Andy’s sleeve. “I thought part of the plan was not to get shot?”
“Yeah well, you know me.” Andy’s shoulders shake and Roger tightens his grip in fear before he realises the American is laughing. “I’ve never been good at following orders.”
~~~
“Okay Roger, what’s going on?”
“What do you mean?” Roger glances across at Yves from the co-pilot’s seat. Andy had gone to test out the onboard shower and look for some clean clothes, which Yves assured him he’d find. Apparently they’d effectively hijacked the luxury private jet of the Zurich governor and Roger can hardly believe they’re over a mile off the ground without the weight of all the luxury features dragging them down. Yves looks at him for a long moment with a tiny smile.
“Come on Roger, I’ve seen the way you look at him. Is it requited or are you working on it?”
“I don’t know what-“ Roger cuts himself off, knowing that he’s never been able to fool the other Swiss. “He just lost Mardy. I can’t… It would be taking advantage and I won’t do that. Not to him.”
“Fuck,” Yves swears softly in English. “Do you love him?”
“I don’t know.” Roger leans back in his seat and rubs a hand tiredly through his tangled hair. “Maybe. Maybe not. I just won’t take advantage of him, not right now.”
“Roger, you both nearly died just an hour ago remember?” Yves’ hands stay steady on the controls but his tone turns fierce. “We don’t have time for 'not right now'. You said they’ve attacked the estate, so no doubt you could die when we land there. You could both die tomorrow, or the day after or in the next hour. We don’t have time for 'not right now', not anymore Rog. If he wants it and from the way he looks at you I’d say he does, then don’t wait. It’s not worth it.”
“If you mention Marat I may have to hit you, dramatic rescue or not,” Roger says tiredly. Yves shrugs.
“You just mentioned him for me. You know what happens when you put things off because you think it’s the right thing to do. Go to your Andy and…”
“I’m not going to fuck him.” Roger shuts his eyes and bites his lip, wishing he didn’t have to hear this. It’s temptation and encouragement when he doesn’t need it and if he hadn’t been friends with Yves so long he’d have told him to jump out the plane by now. “It’s not what he wants, he just thinks it is.”
“Andy Roddick has always known exactly what he wants,” Yves remarks dryly. “And right now Rog, that’s you. Stop being such a stubborn bastard and go talk to him.”
“No.” Roger shakes his head. Andy’s still fragile, on the edge and if Roger does anything to knock him off he’ll never forgive himself. “I can’t-“
“Roger, go and talk to him or I turn this plane right back around.” Startled, Roger glances over and meets Yves’ eyes. The other Swiss is completely serious. “I mean it.”
There’s a battle of will for several long minutes and Roger loses, glancing down. “Fine.” He unsnaps his seatbelt and stands, stalking stiffly out the cockpit. “But don’t think I’m just doing it because you told me to.”
Yves sighs and reaches over to turn the intercom off as the door slams shut behind Roger. This is one thing he’s pretty damn sure the pair of them need a little privacy for.
~~~
Andy is curled against the side of the shower when Roger finds him, shirtless and trying to wrap a bandage one-handed around his arm with little success. Roger silently sits next to him and takes over, intent on the task but still aware of Andy’s eyes on him.
“Roger,” the American says softly. Roger takes a deep breath and ties off the bandage, sliding his hand down Andy’s arm. The American lets him twine their fingers together, frowning slightly.
“Roger we need to talk. About what happened earlier and before that and…”
“I know.” Roger shuffles himself until he’s sitting more comfortably on the cold, tiled floor. He keeps his eyes down, away from Andy’s stare. “You first.”
“Okay.” Andy rubs the heel of his hand over his eyes, tiredness and confusion in the gesture. “I guess… Rog, I don’t what it is, I don’t know if it’s losing Mardy or my life being threatened on a daily basis or insanity or love or some subconscious thing I don’t understand.“ Andy’s voice cracks and his hand tightens on Roger’s. “But I’m sick of fighting and I’m sick of killing people and I’m sick of corporations and lying and getting shot at.” He leans against Roger’s shoulder, his free hand going around the Swiss’ waist and Roger catches his breath because Andy’s all warm skin, slightly damp from his shower and wet black hair already fading back to blond, soaking Roger’s shirt. “Please Roger… if you push me away again I swear, I’ll jump out this goddamn plane.” He gets his free hand under the Swiss’ chin, tilts if up so their eyes meet and leaning in until they’re almost close enough to call it a kiss. “Please, Rog…”
Roger can’t think of anything to say. He’s wanted Andy almost since the American arrived and at the back of his mind is a long ago time when he held a racquet and trophies instead of knives and guns, when he wistfully watched a bouncy, blond American when no one was looking. Not so long ago he bided his time with Marat, like he’s been doing with Andy, and he lost the big Russian to Tommy. Even though he’s confused and he knows he still has a million things to do when they land, find the traitor, rebuild the mess Halcyon is probably in, contact Mirka… none of it matters. Pushing it all to one side, he leans forward the final inch and lets himself kiss Andy, the American’s breath warm against his lips. Andy makes a soft sound of relief that echoes the way Roger feels and pushes his tongue into Roger’s mouth, deepening the kiss enough to make the Swiss shiver.
It isn’t like the last time they kissed or any time they’ve been close, because Roger isn’t thinking about pulling away or how he shouldn’t be doing this. Andy is softer than the last time, rubbing his tongue across Roger’s with an almost lazy enjoyment and Roger makes a tiny sound, deep in his throat. No matter what he said to Yves he wants Andy and doesn’t this plane have a bedroom or something softer than tiles? The thought has him pulling Andy to his feet and dragging him towards the door, but Andy resists, breaking the kiss.
“Roger if you stop now, I swear I will-“
“Would you rather do this on a bed or on the floor?” Roger demands. Andy’s fury vanishes.
“Oh.”
“Exactly.” Roger drags the American willingly a short way down the tiny corridor and tries a random door, delighted to find what is clearly the governor’s compact but luxurious bedroom on the other side. There’s a fairly sizable bed that takes up most of the room and Andy’s pushing him towards it before he can think, hands busy unbuttoning Roger’s shirt far enough to tug it over his head and toss it aside. Their lips meet again and Andy moans into the kiss, the sound shivering through Roger and making him harder than he thought possible, his jeans achingly tight. His hands go to his belt but Andy’s already there without breaking the kiss, pushing Roger back onto the bed. The Swiss goes willingly as Andy strips him of his jeans and briefs, running calloused hands up and down Roger’s thighs.
“Fucking beautiful,” he whispers, letting his hands run over Roger’s chest. The Swiss whimpers, bucking up into Andy as the American sits across his legs, Roger’s cock rubbing against Andy’s stomach as he leans down.
“Want top or bottom?” he breathes against Roger’s mouth. Roger swallows, grazing Andy’s bottom lip with his teeth.
“Fuck me?” he asks, almost begs and Andy’s smile is bright, the answering kiss he presses to Roger’s mouth hard and wet. Somehow during it he manages to wriggle out his own jeans and Roger’s left gasping as Andy gently pushes his legs apart, crouching between them. The American fists one hand around Roger’s cock, rubbing lightly as he glances around the room.
“What do you think Rog? Where would the old man keep his essentials?”
“Second drawer, nightstand,” Roger grits out, thrusting up into Andy’s hand with another whimper. Andy leans over to check and comes up with lube, condoms and a broad grin.
“Someday Roger, you’ll have to explain how you know these things to me.” He tightens his grip a little, grin widening at Roger’s choked cry. “Roger?”
Roger frowns, glancing up worriedly because the American’s tone sounds suddenly serious. Andy is watching him with a tiny frown. “What? Fuck, stop it for a minute, Andy – what’s wrong?”
“What made you change your mind?” Andy asks softly, obediently loosening his grip on Roger’s cock. “Just this morning you wouldn’t even touch me.”
Regret twists like a knife in Roger’s chest and he sits up, wrapping his arms around Andy and resting their foreheads together. Andy’s as hard as he is and they both moan slightly when their cocks touch.
“I thought I was doing the right thing,” Roger says softly, watching the confusion in Andy’s eyes, blurred this close. “I didn’t want to hurt you.”
“You wouldn’t.” The assurance is confident and Andy smiles, mouthing a wet kiss across Roger’s lips. “You couldn’t.” He presses Roger back down, opening a condom with one hand and licking his way down Roger’s chest, sliding the condom on with a smoothness that suggests long practise. Roger moans and arcs up into Andy’s hands, flinching at the first touch of cold lube.
“Sorry,” Andy mutters but keeps going, sliding in a second finger after a minute and Roger bites down a gasp. “Fuck Rog, when did you last do this?”
“Can’t remember,” Roger mutters and does gasp as the third finger pushes in. “For godssake Andy, just fuck me!”
“I don’t want to hurt you either,” Andy insists and keeps going, stretching and scissoring his fingers until Roger’s writhing under his hands, begging in half German, half English. He can’t believe it took him so long to do this, not since Andy seems to be handling it fine. He loses all rational thought as Andy withdraws the fingers and starts to slide into him, the burn of the stretch lost in the pleasure. God it’s been too long he thinks and locks his ankles around Andy’s waist, pushing up into the American with something a little like relief and a lot like happiness.
They move together for a to few moments until they find a rhythm and Roger groans deep in his throat, already feeling his orgasm start to build. Andy leans down to kiss him, hard and hot and laced with teeth. Roger cries Andy’s name into it and bucks up, spilling over his stomach and Andy’s chest, the American’s hand rubbing up and down his cock until he’s finished. They keep moving, Andy sliding in and out of Roger with stifled moans until he stills, hands tightening on the Swiss’ shoulders, hard enough to leave marks. Roger looks up and watches Andy’s face as he comes, the lines and tension melting into loose-limbed pleasure. His lips form something, a name and Roger reads it, knows with an abrupt stab of hurt and guilt what Andy’s saying before he’s even finished.
“Mardy.”
~~~
The walls of Halcyon are heaps of rubble in the distance as they jog silently through the forests at the edge of it, Roger searching for a particular, marked tree. Andy keeps up easier now, the untainted water from the plane having done them both good and the first thing Roger intends to do is find the traitor and subject them to interesting and inventive punishments for endangering Andy. That is, the first thing after he finds the damn bunker… he spots the tree with the kingfisher emblem carved into it and sighs with relief, counting the paces from it to the hidden trapdoor. Andy silently helps him lift it, hand lingering on Roger’s as they let it fall back with a clang.
Andy still has no idea whose name he said earlier and Roger hasn’t been able to tell him. Afterwards they’d showered together and Andy had seemed so happy that Roger couldn’t ruin it, couldn’t do anything but pretend not to be hurt. Yves had given him a long, searching look and sighed before they left him to fly the plane to a less noticeable spot, giving Roger a half hug of comfort.
“He loves you,” the other Swiss had whispered to him. “Just let him work it out.”
I was, Roger thinks bitterly. And look where that got us.
He doesn’t have time to think more before he notices the light in the bunker is on and he jumps down the hole, ignoring the ladder. There’s a flash of movement in front of him and instantly he’s got someone pinned to the wall, a knife to the man’s neck. It takes a moment for it to register that he’s about to slit the throat of Andrew Murray and he hastily lets go, leaning back.
“Sorry Andrew. Wasn’t expecting you.”
“Couldn’t bloody tell,” Andrew gasps, one hand gingerly rubbing his throat. “Remind me never to sneak up on you.” He grins over at Andy, who climbed more sedately down the ladder. “Hey Andy.”
“Andrew.” Andy blinks. “What the hell are you doing here?”
“Got a message for you.” Andrew frowns and digs through the pockets of his well-patched denim jacket. “Fuckit, where did I put the damn thing… ah.” He produces a battered white envelope with something written across the front. Roger’s stomach ties itself in knots when he sees his name written in the distinctive, curled hand and he almost rips the envelope apart in his haste to open it. Something falls out, fluttering innocuously to the ground and Roger bends to pick it up, hesitating with his fingertips on the paper.
He knows he won’t like what’s on the other side of this note. He knows just from the writing on the envelope that at least part of it will be good news, but the rest… He glances up at Andrew. “Who’s it from?”
“Someone via Tim. He wouldn’t tell me who. Said you should be the first to know.” Andrew watches curiously as Andy moves to Roger’s side, resting a comforting hand on the Swiss’ shoulder. “Aren’t you going to read it? The suspense has been killing me.”
Roger swallows. Might as well get it over with. He picks up the note and straightens, leaning against Andy as he reads. A second later he’s glad for the support, because otherwise he’d almost certainly be on the floor.
The note reads in Marat’s distinct cursive, R. Am alive, lack of contact for security. Tell Roddick that his Fish is alive and safe with us but if he wants him back, he’ll have to cooperate. Ring the number below. Be talking to you soon, I hope. MS
Andy is reading over Roger’s shoulder and Roger can feel the exact moment he reaches the part about Mardy. There’s a choked gasp and he flinches as if physically hit, leaning so heavily on Roger that the Swiss has to brace himself on the wall.
“What?” Andrew demands. “What is it?”
“It’s Mardy,” Roger whispers, because although Andy is making tiny choked sounds, he can’t seem to speak. Roger doesn’t blame him because none of it makes sense and he pulls the shaking American closer, wrapping his arms around him. “Mardy’s alive. And the bastards are holding him hostage.”
~~~
Part Five|Part Seven
*coff*convinientplotdeviceswayhey!*coff* ;)
Ngh. I need to start posting fic when I'm not about to pass out from tiredness. *yawns*
Night!
Clo
Anyway, what I promised, and it's too long and too disjointed, but it's all things that had to be done and it was easier to stick them all together.
Title: Running (Halcyon 6)
Rating: NC-17
Pairing: Implied Roddick/Fish, Haas/Safin, Roddick/Federer
Summary: … The world ended. People didn’t. Not quite.
Notes: AU fic set in a hypothetical post-‘apocalyptic’ near future (I do love my apocalypses and jumping on the current AU bandwagon seemed like a good idea.) But this is one plot bunny that hasn’t had enough caffeine to sort itself out yet and I’m still sorting the threads out, so bear with me. 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 (again) refuse to speak to me after this. For scoobydumblonde who let us convert her. 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
Part Three - If Only
Part Four - Words and...
Part Five - ... Actions
(H6) Running
18th May 2011 – somewhere in South-west England
Mardy’s reached the state where the only reason he keeps walking is because stopping would involve communicating with his legs, and the part of his mind that would issue the order shut down about half an hour ago. Deep snow drags at his feet and he can’t feel his toes inside his soaked sneakers, can’t feel from his knees downwards in fact and in another time and place that would be a bad thing. The bullet hole in his shoulder stopped hurting a while back though, and he knows it’s stopped bleeding because there isn’t a constant trickle of warmth down his arm anymore. Or perhaps he’s just lost all feeling in it; he’s too cold to tell the difference. All he can do is keep walking, sticking one foot doggedly in front of the other simply because the alternative is falling over and never getting up again. And he really doesn’t want to die
“Hey,” he tries to yell but it comes out as a croak. “Tom- hey guys?” He could be talking to nothing for all he knows; the snow and night shroud everything in greyish darkness and Tommy was more concerned about helping Marat to walk than keeping an eye on Mardy. There’s a nagging fear that he’s going to wander in helpless circles until something kills him, the cold or the guards who’re probably following them or blood loss, the odds are stacked against him even if Tommy and Marat do know where they’re going. Which Mardy is beginning to doubt, given that he’s be walking for what feels like hours and nothing, not the darkness or the depth of the snow or the empty, aching silence, has changed.
He’s lost. Panic wells up and he shuts his eyes. He’s lost and Tommy and Marat left him and-
“Fish,” a deep voice murmurs in his ear and Mardy yelps, shock jerking him free of cold lethargy. The arm Marat wraps around his waist to hold him steady is strong and the big Russian already sounds better than when Tommy freed him from his cell. Warm lips brush Mardy’s ear, Marat pulling him in close to keep him upright. “We thought we’d lost you. You okay?”
“Can’t feel anything,” Mardy whispers hoarsely and wants to add that it’s okay because if he could feel the bullet hole in his shoulder he’d probably be screaming in pain, but he can’t think hard enough to form the words. “Cold.”
“I know.” Marat’s skin is warm to Mardy’s freezing, solid and steady to the American’s shakiness and Mardy huddles against him, face pressed to the big Russian’s chest. “It’s not much further. Mardy?”
“Hmm?” Mardy doesn’t lift his head, isn’t sure he has the strength for it. Marat’s arms shift so they’re pressed more comfortably together and Mardy makes a moue of appreciation for the extra warm. Marat chuckles but when he speaks he sounds deadly serious.
“Mardy listen. I need to ask… did Tommy hurt you?”
“What?” Mardy twists to look up at Marat’s face, even though it’s too dark to see the Russian’s expression. “Hurt me? No not… maybe a couple of bruises. Nothing much. Why would he hurt me?” There’s a long pause and Mardy wishes he could see Marat’s expression. “Marat? Why would he hurt me?”
“Don’t say my name.” There’s a furious hiss to the order and Mardy flinches, ducking his head as Marat continues more calmly. “Tommy has been through a lot. I found him in Berlin, must be almost two years ago now. He was on everything you could think of and more. I don’t think even his dealers knew what they were giving him half the time and he didn’t care, as long as they kept the supply constant.” He pauses and Mardy nods against his chest to show he understands. “He wasn’t Tommy, he was… he was just a shell, filled with drugs.” There’s a reluctant note to the big Russian’s tone, as if just saying the words is difficult. “I could hardly believe it was him.”
“So he’s on drugs?” Mardy remembers the wide, half-crazy eyes, being slammed back hard into a wall and threats that sounded entirely genuine. “That explains a lot.”
“No, not anymore.” Marat starts to walk again, helping Mardy through the snow. “I cleaned him up, eventually but there was something… sometimes, especially when I’m not around, he’s not Tommy. The drugs left their mark. He has… in the past, he’s hurt people. Killed people. He almost killed Roger once, when I was away for longer than I’d said I would be.”
“Roger?” Mardy whispers. The revelation about Tommy is too big to assimilate right now, so he focuses on the smaller things, news of all the people he hasn’t seen for years. He can hardly believe the names he’s hearing because in Texas nothing mattered except Andy and a few other American players they’d kept in contact with. He’d had no idea if anyone else from the tour was alive, never mind what they’d been doing. “Roger’s alive?”
“More than just alive. He runs a vast underground resistance movement.” Marat pauses and Mardy can ‘hear’ the frown in the Russian’s tone. “If you’d kept in contact with us, we could have helped you. Must you Americans always be so stupidly independent?”
“Sorry,” Mardy mumbles. “Habit.”
“Well.” Marat doesn’t sound appeased. “We’ve wasted enough time. We’ll work together now, whether Andy wants to or not. Ah, at last.” A light has appeared in front of them, flickering warm-yellow through the darkness. Mardy ignores it as he pulls away from Marat a little.
“What?” he demands. “What did you mean about Andy?”
“What?” The Russian sounds distracted, dragging Mardy through snow that’s getting swiftly shallower. “Nothing. You’ll find out in due time. Tommy?”
“Here.” The German appears beside Mardy, taking the American’s other arm and helping him over to a small fire that’s burning merrily in the middle of a rocky floor, bare of snow. With a start Mardy realises they’re in a cave; the stinging wind has vanished and his soaked clothes are starting to steam in the warmth. “I’ve sent the signal. They’ll be here for us in a couple of hours. Are we going to take it out now, or leave it for Maria?”
“Now. He’s already said our names too many times.” Marat eases the confused Mardy down onto a dry towel beside the fire and where the hell had that come from? Mardy glances around until he catches sight of some crates stacked neatly in a shadowed corner, one prised open with random items scattered around it. He doesn’t have time for a closer look before Tommy’s gently pushing him backwards, sliding a folded towel under his head for a pillow.
“Mardy?” Marat leans over him, painted golden orange by the firelight. “I’m going to take the chip out okay? They’ll trace the signal otherwise. It shouldn’t hurt for too long.”
Mardy nods, fear making him shiver. His shoulder is starting to hurt again as the fire warms him up and the chip is a painful lump at the base of his throat, stinging as he turns his head to watch Marat go through the contents of the opened crate. The knife the Russian holds up is wickedly long and sharp, and Mardy sits up suddenly, scrambling sideways away from Marat and that knife.
“On second thoughts I’d rather wait a little longer-“
“Hold him still,” Marat commands and Tommy’s hands are suddenly gripping Mardy’s shoulders, pushing him flat to the floor. Mardy writhes but Marat touches his cheek with warm fingertips.
“Mardy, hush. I’ve done this before. You’ll be okay.”
“I really don’t-“
“Sshh.” Marat leans in with a look of intense concentration, the point of the knife biting into the base of Mardy’s throat. “Stay very still.”
It hurts a lot and Mardy makes a strangled whimpering sound, arcing up off the rocky floor in pain. Marat hisses through his teeth, twists the knife and Mardy’s just about to scream when something pops free and bounces across the floor with a plastic rattle. Mardy screws his eyes shut and whimpers, blood trickling warmly down his chest before a hand – Marat’s he assumes – wipes it away with something soft and a bottle is pressed to his lips.
“Mardy,” the Russian says gently. “Drink. It will help.”
Mardy opens his mouth and whiskey floods in, strong enough to make him choke as the liquor burns his tongue. He takes another gulp before Marat moves the bottle away and sighs, letting himself go limp as the whiskey eases the pain from his throat and shoulder. The towel-pillow is slid back under his head and a blanket is draped over him, rough and itchy but warm. Mardy snuggles into it without opening his eyes. He’s warm and almost comfortable for the first time in what feels like years and even the sharp stab of pain as Tommy starts to dress his bleeding throat can’t jerk him from his sleepy daze. Murmuring wordlessly to himself, he turns over when Tommy finishes and starts to drift into sleep, everything tingling from a mixture of warmth and whiskey.
He’s not home, and he knows he’s still got a long way to go to get there, but for the first time he feels like he’s safe. It’s a relief to let sleep take him, Marat and Tommy talking in hushed voices a short distance away. Mardy tries to listen but he’s tired, so very tired and he can’t concentrate properly. He catches a few snippets that if he was awake and not dizzy from blood loss would worry him, but as it is nothing can penetrate the haze of almost-safety.
“He still might die,” Marat was saying urgently. “We should contact Roddick now, make the offer.”
“I told you, we can’t find him. No one in Texas knows where he went.” Tommy sounds frustrated. “And the rest of us aren’t ready yet. We need to wait Marat. If we move too fast it’ll ruin everything.”
“I know love, I know.” The soft, breathy sound of a kiss is almost enough to make Mardy sit up because until now he hadn’t realised Marat and Tommy were that close. Which when he thinks about it is stupid because suddenly Tommy’s desperation to get to Marat makes sense, as does the story Marat told him outside. What Mardy doesn’t understand, is what they mean by an ‘offer’. What do they want with Andy?
He’s too tired to form the words, exhaustion is creeping through him and making his legs and arms feel like lead. It won’t be important. He can ask in the morning. Mardy mentally dismisses it and turns over to let the fire warm his back as he drifts off to sleep.
The last thing he hears is Marat sigh and say resignedly; “Well he isn’t going anywhere soon. If Roddick is looking for him, he’ll either have to show himself or come looking for his Fish. Either way we’ll get him.”
Roger straightens up, wiping his bloody hand on his shirt with a sigh. The guard he left to watch the airport is crumpled at his feet, blood pooling beneath him on the smooth grey tiles. Roger liked the man, trusted him with his life. The airport guards must’ve surprised him and not too long ago from the look of the fresh blood.
“Is he dead?” Andy asks from a few feet away where he’s leaning against the wall to stay upright. His voice is still a little breathless and rough but the counter-drugs are working. Roger is still furious with himself for being taken in by someone drugging the water within his own house but he’s pushed the problem to the back of his mind. Right now they have to get back to Basel and the only one of them who could pilot a plane has just been shot. They’re fast running out of options.
“Yes. Don’t suppose you can fly a plane?”
“Sorry. I think I skipped class that day.” Andy ignores Roger’s exasperated look and pushes off the wall, shuffling over to the Swiss. Roger catches him around the waist as he stumbles, standing steady as Andy’s arms go around his neck and the American’s mouth comes within inches of his. There’s a brief moment when their eyes meet and Roger catches his breath. He wants it, wants it badly enough to taste the want like something tangible, like a memory of Andy’s lips on his and the press of a wet tongue…
The airport alarm going off is almost a relief and Roger pulls free of the half-embrace, steadying Andy at arms length. “They know where we are.” He glances out the window of the small side room they’re hiding in, studying the planes taxiing past. “We’ll have to steal something small enough for us to manage. Can you see-“
“Roger.” Andy’s hand settles on his shoulder, holding him back. “Roger, we can’t go on doing this.”
“Not now.” Roger snaps then bites his lip as a look of hurt flashes across Andy’s face. “I didn’t- please Andy.” The alarm is still blaring overhead, echoing around the room and making it hard to hear each other. “Later. I promise.”
“Alright.” Andy tries to smile. “But I meant it when I said I can’t fly a plane Roger and unless you have hidden talents, I suspect you can’t either. Don’t you have this big, secret network or something? Can’t you call for help?”
Roger hesitates. He does have a network and some of them are even around the Paris area. Some of them even fly planes. “We’d have to be very lucky, to get someone here at this exact moment.“
“We’re still alive aren’t we?” Andy flashes him another smile that’s almost steady enough to be his usual grin. “I’d say that means luck is working in our favour today.”
Roger has to smile back, even though his heart is racing and the knowledge that hundreds of guards are probably running towards them right now isn’t helping him to think. “It’s worth a shot. Only, we’d have to call from the control room.” He glances out the window again, towards the tower at the far end of the field. The glass-walled room on top may as well be on Mars because there’s no way they’ll make it across all that open ground, most of which is probably being watched by snipers. “There’s no other way… no wait, there is. Come on.” He grabs Andy’s hand and drags the American to the door, taking a quick look around it to check the corridor is clear. “Cross your fingers, because if this works we’ll officially be the luckiest men alive.”
“Well alive is good right?” Andy jokes weakly. “I think like this plan. What is it again?”
“Follow me, keep your head down and whatever you do, don’t get shot.” Roger decides the corridor is definitely clear and makes a break for it, Andy gasping for breath as he tries to keep up. They pause briefly at next intersection while Roger checks the signs printed helpfully across the walls then go left, finding the stairs and descending swiftly to the outer doors. Roger halts with one hand on the handle, glancing back at Andy.
“Can you use a knife?”
“Yeah, sort of. Mar-“ Andy’s voice catches and he swallows, trying again. “Mardy was the expert.”
“Then here.” Roger bends, produces a short flick knife from a hidden pocket in his boot and tossing it over to him. Andy opens his mouth but Roger shrugs, not waiting for the question. “A trick Tommy taught me – there’s a way to line the pocket so the knife doesn’t show up on scanners. I’ll be distracted for a minute when I make the call. Can you handle anyone who tries to stop us?”
“Um. Yeah.” Andy examines the knife, testing the tip against his finger. “I can try.”
“Don’t try, do it. If you try, we’re dead.” Roger turns the handle and takes a deep breath. “Now keep up.”
They’re shot at within seconds of leaving the building, even though they’re simply skirting the edges. Roger keeps one eye on Andy and the other on the bright orange emergency call box just a few metres away, ignoring the sniper’s bullets ricocheting from the ground around their feet. One grazes his shoulder and he hears a stifled hiss from Andy but they reach the box in seconds, ducking behind it. Roger snatches up the receiver and presses the ‘outgoing’ button.
“Mayday, mayday, this is R eight three zero eight two F requesting backup at Paris Airport.” There’s a shout behind him and he glances round to see Andy wrestling with a guard, dispatching him after a few tense seconds with a neat flick of the knife. Roger breathes out the breath he didn’t know he’d been holding and repeats the call. “This is R eight three zero-“
There’s a crackle from the receiver in his hand and a wave of dizzy relief hits him as an incredulous voice asks in German “Roger? What the hell is going on?”
“Yves!” Roger leans against the side of the box, closing his eyes briefly and thanking their luck which must be working overtime. “I could kiss you right now. We need a ride. Where’s your plane?”
“Just taxiing to the runway, the one with the yellow tail. If you run, I’ll pick you up before I leave the ground. Quickly,” and Yves’ tone turns urgent. “You’ve got about three minutes.”
“Shit. We’ll be there.” Roger drops the receiver and turns, just in time to see Andy stumble backwards, gripping his left arm. “Andy!”
“I’m fine, the bastard just clipped me.” Andy looks back, face pale and shirt sprayed with crimson, most of which Roger hopes isn’t his. “We got a ride?”
“Yes, but we have to get there.” Roger hooks an arm around the American’s waist and takes off, sprinting across the field with his head down and dragging Andy with him. He can see the plane with the yellow tail straightening ready for takeoff, the emergency steps raising sparks as they touch the ground. Another bullet whistles past his head and Andy’s ragged breathing in his ear isn’t at all comforting. He can hear the yells of the guards behind them and beyond that the airport alarms still shrieking, but before he can think they’re up the steps and falling through the door of the plane, the door hissing closed behind them. Andy’s still clinging to him and Roger drags them both upright, his arms around the gasping American. “Ssshhh Andy, it’s okay. We made it.”
“Hang on,” Yves’ voice comes over the intercom. “Taking off.”
“Did we really make it?” Andy rasps out, his face buried in Roger’s shoulder as the engines roar to life and the plane tilts beneath them. The Swiss tightens his grip and lets himself press a kiss to Andy’s forehead.
“We really did.” There’s something sticky under his hand and he glances down, wincing at the spreading patch of red on Andy’s sleeve. “I thought part of the plan was not to get shot?”
“Yeah well, you know me.” Andy’s shoulders shake and Roger tightens his grip in fear before he realises the American is laughing. “I’ve never been good at following orders.”
“Okay Roger, what’s going on?”
“What do you mean?” Roger glances across at Yves from the co-pilot’s seat. Andy had gone to test out the onboard shower and look for some clean clothes, which Yves assured him he’d find. Apparently they’d effectively hijacked the luxury private jet of the Zurich governor and Roger can hardly believe they’re over a mile off the ground without the weight of all the luxury features dragging them down. Yves looks at him for a long moment with a tiny smile.
“Come on Roger, I’ve seen the way you look at him. Is it requited or are you working on it?”
“I don’t know what-“ Roger cuts himself off, knowing that he’s never been able to fool the other Swiss. “He just lost Mardy. I can’t… It would be taking advantage and I won’t do that. Not to him.”
“Fuck,” Yves swears softly in English. “Do you love him?”
“I don’t know.” Roger leans back in his seat and rubs a hand tiredly through his tangled hair. “Maybe. Maybe not. I just won’t take advantage of him, not right now.”
“Roger, you both nearly died just an hour ago remember?” Yves’ hands stay steady on the controls but his tone turns fierce. “We don’t have time for 'not right now'. You said they’ve attacked the estate, so no doubt you could die when we land there. You could both die tomorrow, or the day after or in the next hour. We don’t have time for 'not right now', not anymore Rog. If he wants it and from the way he looks at you I’d say he does, then don’t wait. It’s not worth it.”
“If you mention Marat I may have to hit you, dramatic rescue or not,” Roger says tiredly. Yves shrugs.
“You just mentioned him for me. You know what happens when you put things off because you think it’s the right thing to do. Go to your Andy and…”
“I’m not going to fuck him.” Roger shuts his eyes and bites his lip, wishing he didn’t have to hear this. It’s temptation and encouragement when he doesn’t need it and if he hadn’t been friends with Yves so long he’d have told him to jump out the plane by now. “It’s not what he wants, he just thinks it is.”
“Andy Roddick has always known exactly what he wants,” Yves remarks dryly. “And right now Rog, that’s you. Stop being such a stubborn bastard and go talk to him.”
“No.” Roger shakes his head. Andy’s still fragile, on the edge and if Roger does anything to knock him off he’ll never forgive himself. “I can’t-“
“Roger, go and talk to him or I turn this plane right back around.” Startled, Roger glances over and meets Yves’ eyes. The other Swiss is completely serious. “I mean it.”
There’s a battle of will for several long minutes and Roger loses, glancing down. “Fine.” He unsnaps his seatbelt and stands, stalking stiffly out the cockpit. “But don’t think I’m just doing it because you told me to.”
Yves sighs and reaches over to turn the intercom off as the door slams shut behind Roger. This is one thing he’s pretty damn sure the pair of them need a little privacy for.
Andy is curled against the side of the shower when Roger finds him, shirtless and trying to wrap a bandage one-handed around his arm with little success. Roger silently sits next to him and takes over, intent on the task but still aware of Andy’s eyes on him.
“Roger,” the American says softly. Roger takes a deep breath and ties off the bandage, sliding his hand down Andy’s arm. The American lets him twine their fingers together, frowning slightly.
“Roger we need to talk. About what happened earlier and before that and…”
“I know.” Roger shuffles himself until he’s sitting more comfortably on the cold, tiled floor. He keeps his eyes down, away from Andy’s stare. “You first.”
“Okay.” Andy rubs the heel of his hand over his eyes, tiredness and confusion in the gesture. “I guess… Rog, I don’t what it is, I don’t know if it’s losing Mardy or my life being threatened on a daily basis or insanity or love or some subconscious thing I don’t understand.“ Andy’s voice cracks and his hand tightens on Roger’s. “But I’m sick of fighting and I’m sick of killing people and I’m sick of corporations and lying and getting shot at.” He leans against Roger’s shoulder, his free hand going around the Swiss’ waist and Roger catches his breath because Andy’s all warm skin, slightly damp from his shower and wet black hair already fading back to blond, soaking Roger’s shirt. “Please Roger… if you push me away again I swear, I’ll jump out this goddamn plane.” He gets his free hand under the Swiss’ chin, tilts if up so their eyes meet and leaning in until they’re almost close enough to call it a kiss. “Please, Rog…”
Roger can’t think of anything to say. He’s wanted Andy almost since the American arrived and at the back of his mind is a long ago time when he held a racquet and trophies instead of knives and guns, when he wistfully watched a bouncy, blond American when no one was looking. Not so long ago he bided his time with Marat, like he’s been doing with Andy, and he lost the big Russian to Tommy. Even though he’s confused and he knows he still has a million things to do when they land, find the traitor, rebuild the mess Halcyon is probably in, contact Mirka… none of it matters. Pushing it all to one side, he leans forward the final inch and lets himself kiss Andy, the American’s breath warm against his lips. Andy makes a soft sound of relief that echoes the way Roger feels and pushes his tongue into Roger’s mouth, deepening the kiss enough to make the Swiss shiver.
It isn’t like the last time they kissed or any time they’ve been close, because Roger isn’t thinking about pulling away or how he shouldn’t be doing this. Andy is softer than the last time, rubbing his tongue across Roger’s with an almost lazy enjoyment and Roger makes a tiny sound, deep in his throat. No matter what he said to Yves he wants Andy and doesn’t this plane have a bedroom or something softer than tiles? The thought has him pulling Andy to his feet and dragging him towards the door, but Andy resists, breaking the kiss.
“Roger if you stop now, I swear I will-“
“Would you rather do this on a bed or on the floor?” Roger demands. Andy’s fury vanishes.
“Oh.”
“Exactly.” Roger drags the American willingly a short way down the tiny corridor and tries a random door, delighted to find what is clearly the governor’s compact but luxurious bedroom on the other side. There’s a fairly sizable bed that takes up most of the room and Andy’s pushing him towards it before he can think, hands busy unbuttoning Roger’s shirt far enough to tug it over his head and toss it aside. Their lips meet again and Andy moans into the kiss, the sound shivering through Roger and making him harder than he thought possible, his jeans achingly tight. His hands go to his belt but Andy’s already there without breaking the kiss, pushing Roger back onto the bed. The Swiss goes willingly as Andy strips him of his jeans and briefs, running calloused hands up and down Roger’s thighs.
“Fucking beautiful,” he whispers, letting his hands run over Roger’s chest. The Swiss whimpers, bucking up into Andy as the American sits across his legs, Roger’s cock rubbing against Andy’s stomach as he leans down.
“Want top or bottom?” he breathes against Roger’s mouth. Roger swallows, grazing Andy’s bottom lip with his teeth.
“Fuck me?” he asks, almost begs and Andy’s smile is bright, the answering kiss he presses to Roger’s mouth hard and wet. Somehow during it he manages to wriggle out his own jeans and Roger’s left gasping as Andy gently pushes his legs apart, crouching between them. The American fists one hand around Roger’s cock, rubbing lightly as he glances around the room.
“What do you think Rog? Where would the old man keep his essentials?”
“Second drawer, nightstand,” Roger grits out, thrusting up into Andy’s hand with another whimper. Andy leans over to check and comes up with lube, condoms and a broad grin.
“Someday Roger, you’ll have to explain how you know these things to me.” He tightens his grip a little, grin widening at Roger’s choked cry. “Roger?”
Roger frowns, glancing up worriedly because the American’s tone sounds suddenly serious. Andy is watching him with a tiny frown. “What? Fuck, stop it for a minute, Andy – what’s wrong?”
“What made you change your mind?” Andy asks softly, obediently loosening his grip on Roger’s cock. “Just this morning you wouldn’t even touch me.”
Regret twists like a knife in Roger’s chest and he sits up, wrapping his arms around Andy and resting their foreheads together. Andy’s as hard as he is and they both moan slightly when their cocks touch.
“I thought I was doing the right thing,” Roger says softly, watching the confusion in Andy’s eyes, blurred this close. “I didn’t want to hurt you.”
“You wouldn’t.” The assurance is confident and Andy smiles, mouthing a wet kiss across Roger’s lips. “You couldn’t.” He presses Roger back down, opening a condom with one hand and licking his way down Roger’s chest, sliding the condom on with a smoothness that suggests long practise. Roger moans and arcs up into Andy’s hands, flinching at the first touch of cold lube.
“Sorry,” Andy mutters but keeps going, sliding in a second finger after a minute and Roger bites down a gasp. “Fuck Rog, when did you last do this?”
“Can’t remember,” Roger mutters and does gasp as the third finger pushes in. “For godssake Andy, just fuck me!”
“I don’t want to hurt you either,” Andy insists and keeps going, stretching and scissoring his fingers until Roger’s writhing under his hands, begging in half German, half English. He can’t believe it took him so long to do this, not since Andy seems to be handling it fine. He loses all rational thought as Andy withdraws the fingers and starts to slide into him, the burn of the stretch lost in the pleasure. God it’s been too long he thinks and locks his ankles around Andy’s waist, pushing up into the American with something a little like relief and a lot like happiness.
They move together for a to few moments until they find a rhythm and Roger groans deep in his throat, already feeling his orgasm start to build. Andy leans down to kiss him, hard and hot and laced with teeth. Roger cries Andy’s name into it and bucks up, spilling over his stomach and Andy’s chest, the American’s hand rubbing up and down his cock until he’s finished. They keep moving, Andy sliding in and out of Roger with stifled moans until he stills, hands tightening on the Swiss’ shoulders, hard enough to leave marks. Roger looks up and watches Andy’s face as he comes, the lines and tension melting into loose-limbed pleasure. His lips form something, a name and Roger reads it, knows with an abrupt stab of hurt and guilt what Andy’s saying before he’s even finished.
“Mardy.”
The walls of Halcyon are heaps of rubble in the distance as they jog silently through the forests at the edge of it, Roger searching for a particular, marked tree. Andy keeps up easier now, the untainted water from the plane having done them both good and the first thing Roger intends to do is find the traitor and subject them to interesting and inventive punishments for endangering Andy. That is, the first thing after he finds the damn bunker… he spots the tree with the kingfisher emblem carved into it and sighs with relief, counting the paces from it to the hidden trapdoor. Andy silently helps him lift it, hand lingering on Roger’s as they let it fall back with a clang.
Andy still has no idea whose name he said earlier and Roger hasn’t been able to tell him. Afterwards they’d showered together and Andy had seemed so happy that Roger couldn’t ruin it, couldn’t do anything but pretend not to be hurt. Yves had given him a long, searching look and sighed before they left him to fly the plane to a less noticeable spot, giving Roger a half hug of comfort.
“He loves you,” the other Swiss had whispered to him. “Just let him work it out.”
I was, Roger thinks bitterly. And look where that got us.
He doesn’t have time to think more before he notices the light in the bunker is on and he jumps down the hole, ignoring the ladder. There’s a flash of movement in front of him and instantly he’s got someone pinned to the wall, a knife to the man’s neck. It takes a moment for it to register that he’s about to slit the throat of Andrew Murray and he hastily lets go, leaning back.
“Sorry Andrew. Wasn’t expecting you.”
“Couldn’t bloody tell,” Andrew gasps, one hand gingerly rubbing his throat. “Remind me never to sneak up on you.” He grins over at Andy, who climbed more sedately down the ladder. “Hey Andy.”
“Andrew.” Andy blinks. “What the hell are you doing here?”
“Got a message for you.” Andrew frowns and digs through the pockets of his well-patched denim jacket. “Fuckit, where did I put the damn thing… ah.” He produces a battered white envelope with something written across the front. Roger’s stomach ties itself in knots when he sees his name written in the distinctive, curled hand and he almost rips the envelope apart in his haste to open it. Something falls out, fluttering innocuously to the ground and Roger bends to pick it up, hesitating with his fingertips on the paper.
He knows he won’t like what’s on the other side of this note. He knows just from the writing on the envelope that at least part of it will be good news, but the rest… He glances up at Andrew. “Who’s it from?”
“Someone via Tim. He wouldn’t tell me who. Said you should be the first to know.” Andrew watches curiously as Andy moves to Roger’s side, resting a comforting hand on the Swiss’ shoulder. “Aren’t you going to read it? The suspense has been killing me.”
Roger swallows. Might as well get it over with. He picks up the note and straightens, leaning against Andy as he reads. A second later he’s glad for the support, because otherwise he’d almost certainly be on the floor.
The note reads in Marat’s distinct cursive, R. Am alive, lack of contact for security. Tell Roddick that his Fish is alive and safe with us but if he wants him back, he’ll have to cooperate. Ring the number below. Be talking to you soon, I hope. MS
Andy is reading over Roger’s shoulder and Roger can feel the exact moment he reaches the part about Mardy. There’s a choked gasp and he flinches as if physically hit, leaning so heavily on Roger that the Swiss has to brace himself on the wall.
“What?” Andrew demands. “What is it?”
“It’s Mardy,” Roger whispers, because although Andy is making tiny choked sounds, he can’t seem to speak. Roger doesn’t blame him because none of it makes sense and he pulls the shaking American closer, wrapping his arms around him. “Mardy’s alive. And the bastards are holding him hostage.”
Part Five|Part Seven
*coff*convinientplotdeviceswayhey!*coff* ;)
Ngh. I need to start posting fic when I'm not about to pass out from tiredness. *yawns*
Night!
Clo
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
OH....
Date: 2005-03-28 03:47 am (UTC)*kicks Marat for being an idiot*
Re: OH....
Date: 2005-03-28 03:50 am (UTC)Don't worry, Marat has his evil plan and everyone else is part of it. *pets his evil little Russian socks* He knows what he's doing. I'm not saying Andy or Mardy will like it though. ;)
no subject
Date: 2005-03-28 04:06 am (UTC)*pets Roger and Andy*
Oh and Maria? *perks up*
no subject
Date: 2005-03-28 07:53 am (UTC)*pets Andy* Poor thing got shot... eeep.
*snuggles Roger* Eeeek.
Eeeeeep!!! I want more. More now!!! I beg you!!! Please???
no subject
Date: 2005-03-28 11:05 am (UTC)I love that you pick up on the tiny little things I drop in every so often. *giggles* Yes, Maria indeed. ;)
no subject
Date: 2005-03-28 11:09 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2005-03-28 11:10 am (UTC)More sometime later this week hopefully. *grins* Am open to fic bribes... *coff*notthatI'measilybribedoranything...*coff* But no, Friday it looks like at the moment for part 7.
no subject
Date: 2005-03-28 11:11 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2005-03-28 11:14 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2005-03-28 11:19 am (UTC)But still, pretty. *pets her too*
no subject
Date: 2005-03-28 11:24 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2005-03-28 11:38 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2005-03-28 11:50 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2005-03-28 04:49 pm (UTC)Re: OH....
Date: 2005-03-28 06:41 pm (UTC)Re: OH....
Date: 2005-03-28 11:18 pm (UTC)Re: OH....
Date: 2005-03-29 12:49 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2005-03-29 12:56 am (UTC)Nope!
*oggles*
no subject
Date: 2005-03-29 02:14 am (UTC)I give you bribes... Seeeee... *points towards my lj* Pretty fic... will post bearskin rug sex right now if it'll get me more Halcyon!!!! Please, please, please, please, please!!!
Re: OH....
Date: 2005-03-31 12:31 pm (UTC)Eeeeevil. :p
no subject
Date: 2005-03-31 12:31 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2005-03-31 12:32 pm (UTC)Bribes are gooooooooood. *snuggles them* And bearskin rug sex? Best. Bribery. Ever!
Re: OH....
Date: 2005-03-31 04:16 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2005-03-31 04:27 pm (UTC)LOL... Well, I'll just have to keep that in mind. ;-)