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Aug. 18th, 2007 05:07 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
somedaybitchi need to finish this fic. it's deplorable, really. i need to finish what it leads to. story undone for 5 years; things to move on from, and put away. things to complete because i need to know that i can. i'm relating to Adam, disturbingly - august is always difficult, though this one less so finally - and really, i shouldn't. the maudlin is fine buried where it is thankyouverymuch. the coworker thing tripped the ronny and tiffany thing, tripped conversations in kitchens in the dark, lives begged for and said goodbye to.
anyway. i posted two small parts of this...sort of prequel, forever ago and i'm reposting them here, as one, to get them back in my veins, under my fingers. so, you know, feel free to follow the jedi mojo and move along. for those too silly to be temporarily weak-minded, it's an LaFemmeNikita/Spooks crossover. Adam and Michael loose in my head. there's a match made in Freud.
Spooks pre-301, but with spoilers for 410. LFN pre-the series.
He listened to the call to prayers drifting mournfully on the dawn mist, as soft shafts of dusted light filtered through the slatted windows and fell across his hand. He stared at it rested against a thigh, flexed it, studied the angry red bands encircling his wrist where the ropes had bitten so tightly they'd cut. Images flashed; Farook's fists, a length of pipe, Amal screaming, time slowing so he could follow the graceful arcing of his blood as it splattered against sweat-soaked shirts. His mouth was still dry and heavy with the aftertaste of copper and the bitter tang of drugs. The musical rhythm of the muezzin's second call penetrated and focused his thoughts. His contact was late. The window for extraction was short, maybe an hour if he was wickedly lucky, but luck didn't seem to be a lady interested in Adam Carter anymore.
He shifted stiffly, trying to ignore the broken ribs and dislocated shoulder, the eyes still swollen almost shut on a face that more closely resembled hamburger than man, and the raging headache punctuated by searing spikes of pain. He didn't have to close his eyes to see Amal in that warehouse, eyes huge and locked on him, terror warring with guilt warring with rage, honed to a deadly edge by strength. Her husband and his friends had nearly beaten Adam to death, and forced Amal to watch. Syrian intelligence officers having their wives played were like that.
He checked that thought. If Sukkareih had known Adam was MI-6, he’d be a corpse rotting in an alley right now...if he was very, very lucky. Farook merely believed his wife was unfaithful and used her lover to remind her whose property she really was. He could have killed them both; spoke volumes about the man that he didn't, disturbingly. Maybe luck still fancied Adam after all.
It had been close to a week since it happened. The first few days were a drug-induced blur; soft speech, Euro accents, needles and field-rigged intravenous lines, weapons he'd only ever seen photos of and op chatter that wasn't his. Adam couldn't remember how he'd gotten to what was obviously a safe house, who got him there, or even when the beating had actually stopped. One agonizing moment he was staring into Amal's eyes, willing her to know that he loved her - and was so horribly sorry he'd been sloppy - and the next Farook was cracking yet another rib and Adam was screaming. Somewhere in the haze of pain, he remembered more men, angry shouts, and then Farook seeming to lose all reason, wielding the pipe in his hand like a cricket bat. Adam's next fully conscious thought was gut-wrenching panic. When they told him Amal was still with Farook it had taken several of them to force Adam back down into the bed long enough to get a sedative into him. One of the poor bastards earned a concussion. He felt vaguely bad about that.
Adam checked his watch and tried to slow his breathing, suppress the panic that threatened to rise up and choke him. Amal was still alive. He could get her out but he had to do it right; had to, because as surely as he knew his own name, he knew that Farook wouldn't rest until she was dead. The problem, however, was that Adam couldn't do it alone, and not just because of his injuries. Amal's value as an asset was blown. As far as Vauxhall Cross was concerned then, she was useless, and they wouldn't risk anyone's life to extract her. Not even his. As far as Adam was concerned, the only way he'd leave her behind was if he left Syria in a body bag.
"How do you feel?"
Adam hadn't even heard the door open. He looked up at the voice he recognized. The man walking towards him was about his age, French, or possibly Belgian by the accent, and moved with a dancer's grace, sleek in all black. Obviously dangerous to anyone that knew the signs.
"Where is she?" Adam demanded, shocked at the hoarse and wounded sound of his own voice.
"Michael." A woman entered the room behind the man she called Michael, handing him a file and she continued forward to stop next to Adam's bed. Her eyes softened as she reached for his wrist carefully to take his pulse.
"Out of reach for the moment," Michael replied quietly. He moved to the other side of the bed and gave Adam the file.
Adam flipped through its contents, fighting to regain some of his usual control as he absorbed what he saw. Surveillance photos from inside Farook's compound. Amal was in every shot, and so was Farook. Adam dropped his head back against the pillows, feeling his last bits of energy drain with his hope. "How did you get these?"
Michael and the woman - Simone, Adam thought her name was Simone - shared a look before Michael answered. "We have someone inside. She's never out of his sight now."
Michael's words rang in Adam's head.
We have someone inside.
The implications made him dizzy, or maybe the drugs were wearing off. He lifted his head from the pillow, looked again at the surveillance photos and tried to reach for his discipline; the separation, disconnection, compartmentalization that allowed him to function. God, he was so tired.
Amal.
He allowed a fingertip to brush her image as he slid the pictures back in the folder and closed it. "Who's we?" His fatigue had a bit of an edge to it now, Adam was pleased to hear. The spy was clawing his way to the surface. He glanced up in the ensuing silence and caught a look between Michael and Simone. She'd crossed the room, was coming back with what could be bandages. A lifted eyebrow. The barest nod in answer. And something else. He filed it away in the box marked "Later".
"Section One," Michael answered finally.
The spookiest spooks. Trans-national anti-terrorists so covert much of The Community didn't even know of their existence; they worked through intermediaries, under aliases, often posing as other intelligence agencies. These guys made Sivitar and Mace look like sweet, spinster aunts. In the exceptionally small circle of those in the know, the Sections were the bogeyman. Adam had seen things working for Sivitar, heard stories; stories he never wanted confirmed, euphemisms that gave the euphemistic pause. These were not hands he wanted to be in. He thought about the safe house, the extent of his injuries.
"Where is this?" Adam referenced the room with his eyes and a small lift of the chin.
Michael answered after the smallest hesitation. "Near the eastern gate."
Old Damascus. They hadn't gone very far.
They hadn't gone very far.
Adam narrowed his eyes, his voice going flat. "You're on Farook."
Another pause. Another look.
"Indirectly."
Simone was now standing next to the bed, her bundle set aside on the small stand adjacent. She rested a hand lightly on his injured shoulder, the gesture slow and careful, and pitched her tone to match her movements, a woman staring down a very cornered, very dangerous animal. "I need to check your bandages."
Adam's gaze was locked on Michael for several long moments before he finally nodded once tightly, his eyes meeting hers briefly, an almost apology between them, and then she was cutting and there was nothing in his head but the pain. His vision was starting to narrow and he could feel his skin going clammy. Michael was at his right side then, a syringe in his hand. It was all Adam needed to focus. His good arm shot out and gripped Michael's wrist, twisting hard. The sudden jarring to his ribs nearly did him in. He was under no illusions that Michael couldn't easily break free but they both knew it wasn't about that. Adam vaguely registered Simone's sharp intake of breath as her hand stilled, scissors poised to cut the last of the wrap from his shoulder.
"It's just a painkiller," Michael said softly, making no movement whatsoever.
Adam would come to know the tone as the other man's default speaking voice.
"Your ribs are broken, your shoulder might be, and you have a concussion," Michael continued, still motionless under Adam's grasp. "You're going to pass out anyway."
He wasn't sure, but Adam thought he caught the tiniest smile, amused but understanding, both of the corner they had backed him into and of his need to try and maintain control. "You stopped it happening?" He didn't try to hide his surprise as he slid that piece into place.
Michael nodded, testing Adam's hold with the slightest shift.
Adam gripped tighter, his knuckles starting to go white, along with the rest of him. "Why?" His fear came back full force. "What's she to you?"
"Nothing," Michael answered mildly. "It served our purpose."
"Indirectly," Adam threw back with as much sarcasm as he could muster. He let go then, nothing left in him as the pain took over again. Dropping his head back on the pillow, he watched Michael find a vein and then give him the shot. Simone had finished his shoulder and was making her way through the bandages wrapping his ribs. "You gave him an asset, didn't you?"
"We moved up a timetable. Made it look like he was betrayed. It gave him something better to do."
Adam was sick at the thought, and by how grateful he was; his life had been traded for someone else's. Not just his, his increasingly fuzzy brain tossed back. Amal's as well. "Why?" He heard the confusion and the grief. The drug was taking over. He couldn't feel Simone's hands.
"It wasn't our concern until your file came back."
Adam blinked at that. They didn't care until they knew who he was. They had his file. They had a file, or they had his file? He could feel himself starting to go under. "When...did you..."
Michael's voice was getting softer, further away. "A team saw the lift. Sent the images back. It took awhile to analyze."
Analyze. Using him. "Amal...I'm not..." It was his last conscious thought.
Michael met Simone's eyes briefly across the bed before pressing a hand to Adam's good shoulder. "Sleep, Adam."
###
anyway. i posted two small parts of this...sort of prequel, forever ago and i'm reposting them here, as one, to get them back in my veins, under my fingers. so, you know, feel free to follow the jedi mojo and move along. for those too silly to be temporarily weak-minded, it's an LaFemmeNikita/Spooks crossover. Adam and Michael loose in my head. there's a match made in Freud.
Spooks pre-301, but with spoilers for 410. LFN pre-the series.
He listened to the call to prayers drifting mournfully on the dawn mist, as soft shafts of dusted light filtered through the slatted windows and fell across his hand. He stared at it rested against a thigh, flexed it, studied the angry red bands encircling his wrist where the ropes had bitten so tightly they'd cut. Images flashed; Farook's fists, a length of pipe, Amal screaming, time slowing so he could follow the graceful arcing of his blood as it splattered against sweat-soaked shirts. His mouth was still dry and heavy with the aftertaste of copper and the bitter tang of drugs. The musical rhythm of the muezzin's second call penetrated and focused his thoughts. His contact was late. The window for extraction was short, maybe an hour if he was wickedly lucky, but luck didn't seem to be a lady interested in Adam Carter anymore.
He shifted stiffly, trying to ignore the broken ribs and dislocated shoulder, the eyes still swollen almost shut on a face that more closely resembled hamburger than man, and the raging headache punctuated by searing spikes of pain. He didn't have to close his eyes to see Amal in that warehouse, eyes huge and locked on him, terror warring with guilt warring with rage, honed to a deadly edge by strength. Her husband and his friends had nearly beaten Adam to death, and forced Amal to watch. Syrian intelligence officers having their wives played were like that.
He checked that thought. If Sukkareih had known Adam was MI-6, he’d be a corpse rotting in an alley right now...if he was very, very lucky. Farook merely believed his wife was unfaithful and used her lover to remind her whose property she really was. He could have killed them both; spoke volumes about the man that he didn't, disturbingly. Maybe luck still fancied Adam after all.
It had been close to a week since it happened. The first few days were a drug-induced blur; soft speech, Euro accents, needles and field-rigged intravenous lines, weapons he'd only ever seen photos of and op chatter that wasn't his. Adam couldn't remember how he'd gotten to what was obviously a safe house, who got him there, or even when the beating had actually stopped. One agonizing moment he was staring into Amal's eyes, willing her to know that he loved her - and was so horribly sorry he'd been sloppy - and the next Farook was cracking yet another rib and Adam was screaming. Somewhere in the haze of pain, he remembered more men, angry shouts, and then Farook seeming to lose all reason, wielding the pipe in his hand like a cricket bat. Adam's next fully conscious thought was gut-wrenching panic. When they told him Amal was still with Farook it had taken several of them to force Adam back down into the bed long enough to get a sedative into him. One of the poor bastards earned a concussion. He felt vaguely bad about that.
Adam checked his watch and tried to slow his breathing, suppress the panic that threatened to rise up and choke him. Amal was still alive. He could get her out but he had to do it right; had to, because as surely as he knew his own name, he knew that Farook wouldn't rest until she was dead. The problem, however, was that Adam couldn't do it alone, and not just because of his injuries. Amal's value as an asset was blown. As far as Vauxhall Cross was concerned then, she was useless, and they wouldn't risk anyone's life to extract her. Not even his. As far as Adam was concerned, the only way he'd leave her behind was if he left Syria in a body bag.
"How do you feel?"
Adam hadn't even heard the door open. He looked up at the voice he recognized. The man walking towards him was about his age, French, or possibly Belgian by the accent, and moved with a dancer's grace, sleek in all black. Obviously dangerous to anyone that knew the signs.
"Where is she?" Adam demanded, shocked at the hoarse and wounded sound of his own voice.
"Michael." A woman entered the room behind the man she called Michael, handing him a file and she continued forward to stop next to Adam's bed. Her eyes softened as she reached for his wrist carefully to take his pulse.
"Out of reach for the moment," Michael replied quietly. He moved to the other side of the bed and gave Adam the file.
Adam flipped through its contents, fighting to regain some of his usual control as he absorbed what he saw. Surveillance photos from inside Farook's compound. Amal was in every shot, and so was Farook. Adam dropped his head back against the pillows, feeling his last bits of energy drain with his hope. "How did you get these?"
Michael and the woman - Simone, Adam thought her name was Simone - shared a look before Michael answered. "We have someone inside. She's never out of his sight now."
Michael's words rang in Adam's head.
We have someone inside.
The implications made him dizzy, or maybe the drugs were wearing off. He lifted his head from the pillow, looked again at the surveillance photos and tried to reach for his discipline; the separation, disconnection, compartmentalization that allowed him to function. God, he was so tired.
Amal.
He allowed a fingertip to brush her image as he slid the pictures back in the folder and closed it. "Who's we?" His fatigue had a bit of an edge to it now, Adam was pleased to hear. The spy was clawing his way to the surface. He glanced up in the ensuing silence and caught a look between Michael and Simone. She'd crossed the room, was coming back with what could be bandages. A lifted eyebrow. The barest nod in answer. And something else. He filed it away in the box marked "Later".
"Section One," Michael answered finally.
The spookiest spooks. Trans-national anti-terrorists so covert much of The Community didn't even know of their existence; they worked through intermediaries, under aliases, often posing as other intelligence agencies. These guys made Sivitar and Mace look like sweet, spinster aunts. In the exceptionally small circle of those in the know, the Sections were the bogeyman. Adam had seen things working for Sivitar, heard stories; stories he never wanted confirmed, euphemisms that gave the euphemistic pause. These were not hands he wanted to be in. He thought about the safe house, the extent of his injuries.
"Where is this?" Adam referenced the room with his eyes and a small lift of the chin.
Michael answered after the smallest hesitation. "Near the eastern gate."
Old Damascus. They hadn't gone very far.
They hadn't gone very far.
Adam narrowed his eyes, his voice going flat. "You're on Farook."
Another pause. Another look.
"Indirectly."
Simone was now standing next to the bed, her bundle set aside on the small stand adjacent. She rested a hand lightly on his injured shoulder, the gesture slow and careful, and pitched her tone to match her movements, a woman staring down a very cornered, very dangerous animal. "I need to check your bandages."
Adam's gaze was locked on Michael for several long moments before he finally nodded once tightly, his eyes meeting hers briefly, an almost apology between them, and then she was cutting and there was nothing in his head but the pain. His vision was starting to narrow and he could feel his skin going clammy. Michael was at his right side then, a syringe in his hand. It was all Adam needed to focus. His good arm shot out and gripped Michael's wrist, twisting hard. The sudden jarring to his ribs nearly did him in. He was under no illusions that Michael couldn't easily break free but they both knew it wasn't about that. Adam vaguely registered Simone's sharp intake of breath as her hand stilled, scissors poised to cut the last of the wrap from his shoulder.
"It's just a painkiller," Michael said softly, making no movement whatsoever.
Adam would come to know the tone as the other man's default speaking voice.
"Your ribs are broken, your shoulder might be, and you have a concussion," Michael continued, still motionless under Adam's grasp. "You're going to pass out anyway."
He wasn't sure, but Adam thought he caught the tiniest smile, amused but understanding, both of the corner they had backed him into and of his need to try and maintain control. "You stopped it happening?" He didn't try to hide his surprise as he slid that piece into place.
Michael nodded, testing Adam's hold with the slightest shift.
Adam gripped tighter, his knuckles starting to go white, along with the rest of him. "Why?" His fear came back full force. "What's she to you?"
"Nothing," Michael answered mildly. "It served our purpose."
"Indirectly," Adam threw back with as much sarcasm as he could muster. He let go then, nothing left in him as the pain took over again. Dropping his head back on the pillow, he watched Michael find a vein and then give him the shot. Simone had finished his shoulder and was making her way through the bandages wrapping his ribs. "You gave him an asset, didn't you?"
"We moved up a timetable. Made it look like he was betrayed. It gave him something better to do."
Adam was sick at the thought, and by how grateful he was; his life had been traded for someone else's. Not just his, his increasingly fuzzy brain tossed back. Amal's as well. "Why?" He heard the confusion and the grief. The drug was taking over. He couldn't feel Simone's hands.
"It wasn't our concern until your file came back."
Adam blinked at that. They didn't care until they knew who he was. They had his file. They had a file, or they had his file? He could feel himself starting to go under. "When...did you..."
Michael's voice was getting softer, further away. "A team saw the lift. Sent the images back. It took awhile to analyze."
Analyze. Using him. "Amal...I'm not..." It was his last conscious thought.
Michael met Simone's eyes briefly across the bed before pressing a hand to Adam's good shoulder. "Sleep, Adam."
###
