![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
http://lost-spook.livejournal.com/325603.html
Paradox, Christian King, Rebecca Flint, help (can ignore the finale or fix it!)
Fandom: Paradox
Characters: Christian King, DI Flint
Gen, c. 4000 words
Rebecca had never really seen herself as the hospital-visiting type. A duty visit, yes. Drop off a quick card for a colleague, exchange a few pleasantries, offer to stand them a pint when they got back on their feet; that was fair enough. Repeat visits, though – sitting by a bedside, and providing companionship during convalescence – that wasn't her style at all. So what was it that had suddenly changed?
"Oh. Hi," said Christian, when she entered the room. He was in a private ward, even though he was no longer at death's door, a luxury that she assumed came courtesy of his employers – that or he had a vast personal fortune, and the science thing was just a hobby. By now it no longer surprised her that she still didn't know.
"Hi," she replied in turn, in a decidedly more cheerful tone of voice than his. Either he was resigned to her continuing presence, or he wasn't particularly bothered whether she came or not. Yet another thing that she was still trying to figure out. Flashing him a brief smile as she sat down beside his bed, she fell back into the awkward, meaningless chat that had become a habit. "What's up? You expecting somebody else? Girlfriend? Boyfriend? Old Auntie Sue?"
"I don't have an Aunt Sue." He frowned at the question, looking faintly baffled. For somebody who was easily the most intelligent man she had ever met, and was quite likely the most intelligent man that she ever would meet, he could be remarkably dense at times. As on so many other occasions when she had attempted a joke, she didn't bother to explain. Instead she settled herself as comfortably as she could against the chair's familiar, hard back, and regarded him speculatively.
"So how are you today?"
"Much the same as yesterday." As always he was polite, at least after a fashion, but it was perfectly clear that he was not in the mood for conversation. He never was. Rebecca was hardly a master of small talk herself, but even she was a professional compared to him. It was strange. As a general rule she would rather grill the toughest of criminals than attempt a casual chat – and yet here she was, coming back day after day, to chat with him. She couldn't even get cross with his aloofness; it wasn't as though he had asked her to come. All the same, as she sat beside him, looking at his dark head on those snow white pillows, she couldn't regret making the effort. He looked absurdly young lying there, and the emptiness of the room was so very noticeable. There was never anybody else around to break the silence; nobody save the medical staff of course. As far as she knew he had no other visitors. He had never mentioned a family, and his private life was most decidedly that. She summoned a breezy smile, and folded her arms.
"And there are no flashbacks? No nightmares? The police have some pretty good victim support groups, if you're interested." He shot her a sidelong glance that spoke volumes, and made her want to laugh. "No, maybe not. Group therapy probably isn't your thing."
"I just want to get out of here." His frustration was painfully obvious, although to her he still looked far too pale. "I'm not allowed any work, and I have projects back at my lab that are lying about doing nothing. So much time is being wasted. There's nobody monitoring my satellites, my telescope feeds, my computer projections..." He sighed, and rubbed disconsolately at his beardless chin. The stubble that he generally wore had been sheared away by the hospital barber, and he clearly had not got used to its absence. "They won't even let me see my medical charts."
"You don't need a medical chart to know that you've got a hole in your stomach," she pointed out. He glared.
"I haven't. Not anymore. Not much of one anyway. Moving about isn't particularly uncomfortable, as long as I don't do it too much."
"You're probably high on morphine."
"No, that was horrible. You can't think properly when you're on painkillers." He stared at the door, as though including the entire hospital beyond it in a familiar, dark-eyed glower. "I'm sure I could do some work, even if it's just collating raw data. I'm not suggesting leaving the hospital." His voice hinted that he probably had suggested just that, and most likely more than once. "I can't just lie around here. I'm not accomplishing anything."
"You're getting better."
"You try it," was the heartfelt rejoinder, his voice little more than a growl. She raised her eyebrows.
"If I ever get shot in the stomach at point blank range, I think I probably will. In fact I think I'd be glad to be lying around in bed getting bored. Things could have ended very differently, you know. For all of us."
"I know." For a moment she thought that she detected something else in his voice; something beyond the perpetual lack of emotion. It reminded her of the day that he had disappeared, not so very long ago, after witnessing the death of Jaz Roy. That was as open and honest as she suspected that anybody had ever seen Christian King. Right now, with him staring at the door, it was even harder to gauge his expression than usual, and not for the first time she found herself frustrated by his near permanent avoidance of eye contact. She might not know why she was here, or what kept bringing her back, but she did know that she wanted to help him. Always supposing she could ever figure out what sort of help he might need; or even if he needed it at all. The thought inspired resolution, and she decided to approach the issue head on.
"Look, it's okay to take it easy, you know. You were shot. Most people would want to relax for a bit after something like that. It's a traumatic experience. You might even need to talk it through with somebody." Good grief, was she really suggesting that? The closest she usually got to sharing anything was when she offered Ben one of her chocolate Hob Nobs – and even then it only happened when they had been working an especially long shift. Christian shot her a sidelong glance that, even with his natural impassivity as a barrier, still spoke volumes.
"There's not a lot to discuss. It hurt. Now it's over. It's not like I got knocked off my bike. Getting shot isn't something that's likely to happen again."
"It might, in our line of work."
"Ah." For once he held her gaze, and she got an uncanny feeling that she was having her soul searched. "So that's why you're here. You want to make sure that I'm not thinking of quitting the project? Well I'm not. There are far too many unanswered questions. I have no intention of walking out."
"That's not why I'm here. I—" But she still didn't really know why she was here, so it was not at all easy to proceed. "You're on my team. In a very real sense, that makes you my responsibility, whether you like it or not." It was true, but it still didn't explain what kept bringing her back to this quiet little room, and its unfathomable occupant. Christian didn't look convinced either.
"I'm not one of your detectives," he told her. That at least she had an answer for.
"I don't know. We're both trying to figure out the same puzzles, aren't we? Our methods are a little different, but that's all." She tried out a smile, but he was looking away again, probably at least as uncomfortable with the conversation as she was. "You're not an easy man to help. Did anybody ever tell you that?"
"The subject doesn't tend to crop up in many conversations." He glanced back at her again. "Why are you here? Don't you have work you should be doing? I... It's not that I don't... I'm sure you think that you're helping, but I don't want to be keeping you from anything important."
"Actually, right now I don't have a whole lot to do." She leaned back into the unforgiving embrace of the hard chair, wondering, not for the first time, why a private wing couldn't see its way clear to providing more comfort for visitors. Much more of this 'helping', and she was going to be in need of physiotherapy. "As a matter of fact, I'm not sure that I'm all that welcome down at the station. Things have been a little crazy since you've been in here."
"Oh?" The fact that he was showing interest in the conversation hinted at just how glad he was that he was no longer the subject of it. She almost smiled. Almost.
"Callum has gone AWOL. There's... it's complicated. I probably shouldn't be talking about it. But with my DC in trouble, and you getting yourself shot on my watch, I'm nobody's favourite detective just lately. Besides, I was assigned to your case. And with you in here, that particular investigation no longer exists."
"There aren't any pictures to work on? I thought that the Ministry would have been all over my equipment, with me safely out of the way."
"They may well have been. All I know is that everything has been quiet since you were shot. It's as though whoever or whatever is sending those pictures is waiting for you to get back to work."
"You're sure? The Ministry isn't just hiding things from you?"
"No. I don't trust them, but on this I think they're telling the truth. They asked one of your colleagues to monitor things while you're gone, but he thinks it's pointless. He said something about being asked to waste all of his time watching dead space."
"Interesting." She could practically see the cogs in his brain ticking, as he mulled this development over. "I wonder what the hold up is."
"Like I said, maybe whoever is sending them is waiting for you."
"Or maybe there aren't any more pictures. Maybe it's all over. I mean, if they have information about the future, and lives that need saving, why quibble over who they communicate with?"
"Maybe they don't trust the Ministry either," suggested Rebecca. That earned her something very like a smile.
"Maybe." He frowned then, looking back at her with renewed interest. The sudden enthusiasm gave his face a boyish glow, making her think once again about his age. She still didn't really know even that much about him. "If they are waiting for me, I wonder how they know."
"Maybe they read a newspaper," she suggested. His frown deepened.
"Maybe. Although the pictures don't originate on Earth."
"They must do," she reminded him. "They're of Earth subjects. Originally they must come from here. They just... end up..." her hand waved helplessly in the air. "doing something improbable. At some point."
"Precisely." His fingers drummed on his sheets. "What sort of phone do you have?"
"Phone?" Caught out by the sudden change of tack, she reached instinctively for her pocket, before freezing. "Why?"
"Because I have a compelling urge to ask that of everybody I meet. Please?"
"It's just your basic smart phone. Work issue, so I don't suppose it's as good as it could be." She pulled it out, and then, after a moment's probably too hasty consideration, passed it across to him. He took it like a castaway reaching for water. "Who do you want to call?"
"The International Space Station." He was already at work, his fingers skidding across the touch screen with such speed that she was reminded of a concert pianist playing his heart out on the stage. A second later he paused, and glanced up at her with a gleam in his eyes that she had never seen before. "Don't worry. It won't count as a long distance call."
"Do they even have phones up there?" she asked, but he was busy again, and didn't seem to hear her. "Are you doing something illegal with the hospital wi-fi? Should I not be paying attention to any of this?"
"Ah ha!" was all that he said, the evident satisfaction telling her that, illegal or not, he was making some kind of progress. After a second he glanced up again, and waved the telephone at her in a manner probably intended to be indicative of something. If so, it was unsuccessful. All the same, he seemed happy, at least as far as it was ever possible to tell. Tapping and sliding away at the screen, he looked so industrious that she could not help but smile.
"If it turns out that you're really just playing Tetris..." she began, but a moment later he handed her the phone. The screen was a mass of icons that she didn't recognise, some labelled in English. There were others marked in what looked like French, and others still in Russian.
"The International Space Station?" she asked, not at all sure that she wanted to know. He shook his head and took back the phone, busily tapping away at something else.
"That was just a springboard. And don't worry, I do have clearance. Or at least I do back at the lab."
"If stormtroopers burst in here, I don't know you." She watched him for a few minutes longer, then sighed. "For the benefit of those of us present who don't have seventeen doctorates..."
"I'm just accessing some project data. Ordinarily I would do this on the computers at work, which are connected to several orbiting satellites, and some other equipment that we have further out. This probably isn't too stable a connection, but it might be good enough."
"Good enough?"
"To say hello. To prove a point, one way or another."
"To let whoever is sending the pictures know that they can start sending them again?" She leaned forward, unable to help herself, surprised by her sudden rush of excitement. In a very real sense, the strange pictures from the future had been nothing but trouble. Since their discovery she had found herself back in a relationship that she had promised herself was over, and her DC had quite probably ruined his career - not to mention the deleterious effects upon Ben's family life, Christian's near brush with death, and her own increasingly rocky career prospects. All the same, it was a puzzle that her detective's brain could not resist.
"Hopefully, yes. And possibly this way, if we do get more pictures, we can avoid any further contact with the Ministry." He glanced up again, with another of his rare, direct stares. The intense look in his very dark eyes caught her unawares. "Is that a problem? I mean, I know you have to follow official channels."
"Officially I do, yes. But officially I'm not sure how much of a job I've got left." The thought frightened her, but she was not ready to share her fears with him, any more than he was ready to share his with her. The idea of getting back to some kind of work, even if only to a degree, was a welcome one. "Besides, if we can save lives then it's worth it, isn't it. I can call in a few favours here and there, if we need help. Ben has been reassigned, but he's only a phone call away." She smiled wryly. "I shall have to get another mobile, I suppose."
"Sorry." He sounded distracted, and not at all as though he meant it. "If they'd let me have my phone, I could have used that."
"Just how near death are you, as a matter of interest?"
"Hmm?" He frowned, then one of his rare smiles momentarily lightened his expression. "Oh. Not at all. Not anymore. They just want me to get plenty of rest. They even gave me that old chestnut about telephones messing with hospital equipment, which is nonsense."
"All the same, you probably do need to rest." He frowned up at her, and she favoured him with her best authoritative glower, one that she liked to use on unruly young constables. "I mean it. You're no use to me dead. By the looks of things that'll finish this project off for good."
"I'll sleep a lot better with something concrete to work on. Having nothing to do all day has been driving me crazy." Once again he smiled, this time with what looked like genuine happiness. "Thank you. I appreciate this. You've been a lifesaver." The smile flickered a little. "Again."
"All in a day's work." She held up her arm, to show him her watch. "Speaking of which, I have a meeting to get to. About Callum."
"I'm sorry about that. He... well, he seemed nice. Straightforward. You're worried, aren't you."
"Yes, I am. About him and about me."
"Yes. I..." He frowned, and for a moment laid aside the phone. "I'm sorry. I never thought that you'd be held responsible for this. Me being shot, I mean. Would it help if I spoke to somebody?"
"No. Thank you, but no. I'm in charge, Christian, and that makes me responsible – for everything. You, Callum, whatever happens to either one of you. It's all part of being in command. I don't dodge my responsibilities." She nodded towards the phone. "Now I meant what I said. Don't overdo it."
"Of course not." He picked up the phone again. "You'll be back later?"
"I will, yes." It was the first time that he had asked her that, after all these many days of her visiting. He nodded.
"There probably won't be anything for a while, if at all, but you never know. If something does come in..."
"Then we'll figure it out. You and me, and Ben if he can spare the time. Keeping it quiet is probably a good thing anyway."
"So getting shot was a good tactical manoeuvre?" he asked, eyebrows raised slightly. She smiled.
"I think that was almost a joke. Be careful. It's one of the steps on the road to becoming human."
"Don't worry. It doesn't happen often." He looked slightly unsure of himself, his youth once again showing on his face, and she could not help but take pity on him.
"Relax, I'm only making fun of you. Honestly, at times I have no idea how to talk to you."
"And yet you keep coming back."
"Yes, I do." She almost reached over to touch his shoulder, the way that she might have done to a colleague or a friend, but she stopped herself just in time. Christian was not a man with whom to rush things. They were embarking upon an interesting relationship – and a probably illegal conspiracy to boot – but that was not quite friendship. Not yet. Standing up, she offered him a cheerful smile.
"Until later, then. And if you promise to get some sleep tonight, I'll see about smuggling some more equipment in to you. Nothing from your lab, though. Sorry."
"I know." For a brief moment a very big, very real smile lit up his face. "Could you get me a laptop? I'll give you my credit card. It must be around here somewhere."
"Later. You can give me a shopping list when I come back. Just remember what I said about rest. And don't let the hospital staff see that telephone. It might sound paranoid, but we don't know who we can trust."
"Of course." He was lost in the work again, but she was certain that he had heard. She was beginning to learn that there was not a lot that he missed, at least when it was relevant to his work. "I'll see you later then."
"Yes. Goodbye." The door swung shut behind her, depositing her back into the busy, noisy corridor outside. It was a striking contrast to the quiet room, and something of a shock to the system. From seclusion back to reality, in the swing of a door hinge – and with the real world came real concerns. She had made light of it to Christian, but she could not play that same trick upon herself. The Callum situation, the shooting, the Ministry gumming up police affairs with their interference – which had somehow become her fault, on top of everything else. Rumours of her inadvisable love life bouncing about on the gossip network, just in time to finish off the whole mess perfectly. The time that she spent closeted away with Christian was a welcome escape from all of it. The visits were as much a help to her as they were to him, a realisation that made her feel just a little bit guilty. Jumping out of the way of a hurrying nurse, she shut off that line of thought. Her awkward relationship with Christian was not important. What mattered was their work; who they might be able to help; the lives that they might be able to save, if only those strange pictures would start appearing again. The heavy blow to her career might not seem quite so terrible then.
Outside she was greeted by a cold, early afternoon sun, washing the cheerless car park with grey light. It was not very much of a welcome. She headed towards her car with a brisk, tense stride, too many things crossing over themselves in her mind. She had so many suspicions about the Ministry officials who had been dogging the investigation all along – but was it really sensible to try to cut them out of the project? Her career was already on rocky ground, and here she was potentially risking it further with an unofficial line of inquiry that could easily land her in water too deep to escape from. Exchanging a job that she loved for a secret partnership with an oddball genius hardly sounded like a great idea. At the same time, Christian's project was the greatest mystery she had ever faced; the finest challenge of a lifetime of policing. She couldn't just walk away from that. Could she? Sliding into her car, she gave the steering wheel a resounding thump.
"You're an idiot," she told herself, and stared out through a windscreen that was in dire need of a wash. Her private life was a mess, and her public life not a great deal better. She should walk away from this; she should forget her promise to return later, and she should cut all ties with this whole, wretched affair. And yet... Did she really want to go back to run of the mill policing, even if she did have a job to go back to? For all that things were so very much more complicated now, Christian King and his impossible project had changed her life in ways that she had never imagined. Part of her wanted to curse him for that, but she was only just beginning to realise how very grateful she was. For the first time since those shocked, desperate seconds in the schoolroom, when she had fumbled to save his life, she felt that things might be beginning to look up. Whether that was due to genuine positivity, or to massive self-delusion, remained to be seen. She started up the engine. Time to face the music. Time to find out whether she even had a career left to put at risk.
And back in the hospital room, Christian frowned at three tiny images that were suddenly crowding the small screen of the phone. One was a newspaper headline, he was sure. Something about a police officer on trial for murder? He zoomed in, but the screen resolution was not good enough, and the picture broke up before he could get it big enough to read. Rebecca's concerns for Callum, and her talk of him disappearing, spurred him to recheck the headline, and the faint blur of a story beneath. Was that the word 'Detective'? And something else after it. It didn't look like 'Constable'. It looked more like... 'Inspector'. Inspector? His eyes ached with the effort, but he was sure of it. The story mentioned an inspector. Detective Inspector Rebecca Flint. He dropped the telephone onto the bed, mind leaping in a hundred directions at once. Rebecca on trial for murder? When? The date was far too small to read. And why? How? Who was she supposed to have killed? He turned his attention to the two other pictures – a plain black tie, still knotted in a perfect Ascot, and a golden bracelet. A pair of charms dangled from it, one a teddy bear, and the other a horseshoe. It meant nothing, but the first picture was painfully clear. Unless they could work out this latest puzzle, they would soon be in more trouble than ever. The recent bullet wound in his stomach throbbed uncomfortably, but he ignored it. It was hardly important now. Rebecca had saved his life. Perhaps now it was his turn to save hers.
Paradox, Christian King, Rebecca Flint, help (can ignore the finale or fix it!)
Fandom: Paradox
Characters: Christian King, DI Flint
Gen, c. 4000 words
Rebecca had never really seen herself as the hospital-visiting type. A duty visit, yes. Drop off a quick card for a colleague, exchange a few pleasantries, offer to stand them a pint when they got back on their feet; that was fair enough. Repeat visits, though – sitting by a bedside, and providing companionship during convalescence – that wasn't her style at all. So what was it that had suddenly changed?
"Oh. Hi," said Christian, when she entered the room. He was in a private ward, even though he was no longer at death's door, a luxury that she assumed came courtesy of his employers – that or he had a vast personal fortune, and the science thing was just a hobby. By now it no longer surprised her that she still didn't know.
"Hi," she replied in turn, in a decidedly more cheerful tone of voice than his. Either he was resigned to her continuing presence, or he wasn't particularly bothered whether she came or not. Yet another thing that she was still trying to figure out. Flashing him a brief smile as she sat down beside his bed, she fell back into the awkward, meaningless chat that had become a habit. "What's up? You expecting somebody else? Girlfriend? Boyfriend? Old Auntie Sue?"
"I don't have an Aunt Sue." He frowned at the question, looking faintly baffled. For somebody who was easily the most intelligent man she had ever met, and was quite likely the most intelligent man that she ever would meet, he could be remarkably dense at times. As on so many other occasions when she had attempted a joke, she didn't bother to explain. Instead she settled herself as comfortably as she could against the chair's familiar, hard back, and regarded him speculatively.
"So how are you today?"
"Much the same as yesterday." As always he was polite, at least after a fashion, but it was perfectly clear that he was not in the mood for conversation. He never was. Rebecca was hardly a master of small talk herself, but even she was a professional compared to him. It was strange. As a general rule she would rather grill the toughest of criminals than attempt a casual chat – and yet here she was, coming back day after day, to chat with him. She couldn't even get cross with his aloofness; it wasn't as though he had asked her to come. All the same, as she sat beside him, looking at his dark head on those snow white pillows, she couldn't regret making the effort. He looked absurdly young lying there, and the emptiness of the room was so very noticeable. There was never anybody else around to break the silence; nobody save the medical staff of course. As far as she knew he had no other visitors. He had never mentioned a family, and his private life was most decidedly that. She summoned a breezy smile, and folded her arms.
"And there are no flashbacks? No nightmares? The police have some pretty good victim support groups, if you're interested." He shot her a sidelong glance that spoke volumes, and made her want to laugh. "No, maybe not. Group therapy probably isn't your thing."
"I just want to get out of here." His frustration was painfully obvious, although to her he still looked far too pale. "I'm not allowed any work, and I have projects back at my lab that are lying about doing nothing. So much time is being wasted. There's nobody monitoring my satellites, my telescope feeds, my computer projections..." He sighed, and rubbed disconsolately at his beardless chin. The stubble that he generally wore had been sheared away by the hospital barber, and he clearly had not got used to its absence. "They won't even let me see my medical charts."
"You don't need a medical chart to know that you've got a hole in your stomach," she pointed out. He glared.
"I haven't. Not anymore. Not much of one anyway. Moving about isn't particularly uncomfortable, as long as I don't do it too much."
"You're probably high on morphine."
"No, that was horrible. You can't think properly when you're on painkillers." He stared at the door, as though including the entire hospital beyond it in a familiar, dark-eyed glower. "I'm sure I could do some work, even if it's just collating raw data. I'm not suggesting leaving the hospital." His voice hinted that he probably had suggested just that, and most likely more than once. "I can't just lie around here. I'm not accomplishing anything."
"You're getting better."
"You try it," was the heartfelt rejoinder, his voice little more than a growl. She raised her eyebrows.
"If I ever get shot in the stomach at point blank range, I think I probably will. In fact I think I'd be glad to be lying around in bed getting bored. Things could have ended very differently, you know. For all of us."
"I know." For a moment she thought that she detected something else in his voice; something beyond the perpetual lack of emotion. It reminded her of the day that he had disappeared, not so very long ago, after witnessing the death of Jaz Roy. That was as open and honest as she suspected that anybody had ever seen Christian King. Right now, with him staring at the door, it was even harder to gauge his expression than usual, and not for the first time she found herself frustrated by his near permanent avoidance of eye contact. She might not know why she was here, or what kept bringing her back, but she did know that she wanted to help him. Always supposing she could ever figure out what sort of help he might need; or even if he needed it at all. The thought inspired resolution, and she decided to approach the issue head on.
"Look, it's okay to take it easy, you know. You were shot. Most people would want to relax for a bit after something like that. It's a traumatic experience. You might even need to talk it through with somebody." Good grief, was she really suggesting that? The closest she usually got to sharing anything was when she offered Ben one of her chocolate Hob Nobs – and even then it only happened when they had been working an especially long shift. Christian shot her a sidelong glance that, even with his natural impassivity as a barrier, still spoke volumes.
"There's not a lot to discuss. It hurt. Now it's over. It's not like I got knocked off my bike. Getting shot isn't something that's likely to happen again."
"It might, in our line of work."
"Ah." For once he held her gaze, and she got an uncanny feeling that she was having her soul searched. "So that's why you're here. You want to make sure that I'm not thinking of quitting the project? Well I'm not. There are far too many unanswered questions. I have no intention of walking out."
"That's not why I'm here. I—" But she still didn't really know why she was here, so it was not at all easy to proceed. "You're on my team. In a very real sense, that makes you my responsibility, whether you like it or not." It was true, but it still didn't explain what kept bringing her back to this quiet little room, and its unfathomable occupant. Christian didn't look convinced either.
"I'm not one of your detectives," he told her. That at least she had an answer for.
"I don't know. We're both trying to figure out the same puzzles, aren't we? Our methods are a little different, but that's all." She tried out a smile, but he was looking away again, probably at least as uncomfortable with the conversation as she was. "You're not an easy man to help. Did anybody ever tell you that?"
"The subject doesn't tend to crop up in many conversations." He glanced back at her again. "Why are you here? Don't you have work you should be doing? I... It's not that I don't... I'm sure you think that you're helping, but I don't want to be keeping you from anything important."
"Actually, right now I don't have a whole lot to do." She leaned back into the unforgiving embrace of the hard chair, wondering, not for the first time, why a private wing couldn't see its way clear to providing more comfort for visitors. Much more of this 'helping', and she was going to be in need of physiotherapy. "As a matter of fact, I'm not sure that I'm all that welcome down at the station. Things have been a little crazy since you've been in here."
"Oh?" The fact that he was showing interest in the conversation hinted at just how glad he was that he was no longer the subject of it. She almost smiled. Almost.
"Callum has gone AWOL. There's... it's complicated. I probably shouldn't be talking about it. But with my DC in trouble, and you getting yourself shot on my watch, I'm nobody's favourite detective just lately. Besides, I was assigned to your case. And with you in here, that particular investigation no longer exists."
"There aren't any pictures to work on? I thought that the Ministry would have been all over my equipment, with me safely out of the way."
"They may well have been. All I know is that everything has been quiet since you were shot. It's as though whoever or whatever is sending those pictures is waiting for you to get back to work."
"You're sure? The Ministry isn't just hiding things from you?"
"No. I don't trust them, but on this I think they're telling the truth. They asked one of your colleagues to monitor things while you're gone, but he thinks it's pointless. He said something about being asked to waste all of his time watching dead space."
"Interesting." She could practically see the cogs in his brain ticking, as he mulled this development over. "I wonder what the hold up is."
"Like I said, maybe whoever is sending them is waiting for you."
"Or maybe there aren't any more pictures. Maybe it's all over. I mean, if they have information about the future, and lives that need saving, why quibble over who they communicate with?"
"Maybe they don't trust the Ministry either," suggested Rebecca. That earned her something very like a smile.
"Maybe." He frowned then, looking back at her with renewed interest. The sudden enthusiasm gave his face a boyish glow, making her think once again about his age. She still didn't really know even that much about him. "If they are waiting for me, I wonder how they know."
"Maybe they read a newspaper," she suggested. His frown deepened.
"Maybe. Although the pictures don't originate on Earth."
"They must do," she reminded him. "They're of Earth subjects. Originally they must come from here. They just... end up..." her hand waved helplessly in the air. "doing something improbable. At some point."
"Precisely." His fingers drummed on his sheets. "What sort of phone do you have?"
"Phone?" Caught out by the sudden change of tack, she reached instinctively for her pocket, before freezing. "Why?"
"Because I have a compelling urge to ask that of everybody I meet. Please?"
"It's just your basic smart phone. Work issue, so I don't suppose it's as good as it could be." She pulled it out, and then, after a moment's probably too hasty consideration, passed it across to him. He took it like a castaway reaching for water. "Who do you want to call?"
"The International Space Station." He was already at work, his fingers skidding across the touch screen with such speed that she was reminded of a concert pianist playing his heart out on the stage. A second later he paused, and glanced up at her with a gleam in his eyes that she had never seen before. "Don't worry. It won't count as a long distance call."
"Do they even have phones up there?" she asked, but he was busy again, and didn't seem to hear her. "Are you doing something illegal with the hospital wi-fi? Should I not be paying attention to any of this?"
"Ah ha!" was all that he said, the evident satisfaction telling her that, illegal or not, he was making some kind of progress. After a second he glanced up again, and waved the telephone at her in a manner probably intended to be indicative of something. If so, it was unsuccessful. All the same, he seemed happy, at least as far as it was ever possible to tell. Tapping and sliding away at the screen, he looked so industrious that she could not help but smile.
"If it turns out that you're really just playing Tetris..." she began, but a moment later he handed her the phone. The screen was a mass of icons that she didn't recognise, some labelled in English. There were others marked in what looked like French, and others still in Russian.
"The International Space Station?" she asked, not at all sure that she wanted to know. He shook his head and took back the phone, busily tapping away at something else.
"That was just a springboard. And don't worry, I do have clearance. Or at least I do back at the lab."
"If stormtroopers burst in here, I don't know you." She watched him for a few minutes longer, then sighed. "For the benefit of those of us present who don't have seventeen doctorates..."
"I'm just accessing some project data. Ordinarily I would do this on the computers at work, which are connected to several orbiting satellites, and some other equipment that we have further out. This probably isn't too stable a connection, but it might be good enough."
"Good enough?"
"To say hello. To prove a point, one way or another."
"To let whoever is sending the pictures know that they can start sending them again?" She leaned forward, unable to help herself, surprised by her sudden rush of excitement. In a very real sense, the strange pictures from the future had been nothing but trouble. Since their discovery she had found herself back in a relationship that she had promised herself was over, and her DC had quite probably ruined his career - not to mention the deleterious effects upon Ben's family life, Christian's near brush with death, and her own increasingly rocky career prospects. All the same, it was a puzzle that her detective's brain could not resist.
"Hopefully, yes. And possibly this way, if we do get more pictures, we can avoid any further contact with the Ministry." He glanced up again, with another of his rare, direct stares. The intense look in his very dark eyes caught her unawares. "Is that a problem? I mean, I know you have to follow official channels."
"Officially I do, yes. But officially I'm not sure how much of a job I've got left." The thought frightened her, but she was not ready to share her fears with him, any more than he was ready to share his with her. The idea of getting back to some kind of work, even if only to a degree, was a welcome one. "Besides, if we can save lives then it's worth it, isn't it. I can call in a few favours here and there, if we need help. Ben has been reassigned, but he's only a phone call away." She smiled wryly. "I shall have to get another mobile, I suppose."
"Sorry." He sounded distracted, and not at all as though he meant it. "If they'd let me have my phone, I could have used that."
"Just how near death are you, as a matter of interest?"
"Hmm?" He frowned, then one of his rare smiles momentarily lightened his expression. "Oh. Not at all. Not anymore. They just want me to get plenty of rest. They even gave me that old chestnut about telephones messing with hospital equipment, which is nonsense."
"All the same, you probably do need to rest." He frowned up at her, and she favoured him with her best authoritative glower, one that she liked to use on unruly young constables. "I mean it. You're no use to me dead. By the looks of things that'll finish this project off for good."
"I'll sleep a lot better with something concrete to work on. Having nothing to do all day has been driving me crazy." Once again he smiled, this time with what looked like genuine happiness. "Thank you. I appreciate this. You've been a lifesaver." The smile flickered a little. "Again."
"All in a day's work." She held up her arm, to show him her watch. "Speaking of which, I have a meeting to get to. About Callum."
"I'm sorry about that. He... well, he seemed nice. Straightforward. You're worried, aren't you."
"Yes, I am. About him and about me."
"Yes. I..." He frowned, and for a moment laid aside the phone. "I'm sorry. I never thought that you'd be held responsible for this. Me being shot, I mean. Would it help if I spoke to somebody?"
"No. Thank you, but no. I'm in charge, Christian, and that makes me responsible – for everything. You, Callum, whatever happens to either one of you. It's all part of being in command. I don't dodge my responsibilities." She nodded towards the phone. "Now I meant what I said. Don't overdo it."
"Of course not." He picked up the phone again. "You'll be back later?"
"I will, yes." It was the first time that he had asked her that, after all these many days of her visiting. He nodded.
"There probably won't be anything for a while, if at all, but you never know. If something does come in..."
"Then we'll figure it out. You and me, and Ben if he can spare the time. Keeping it quiet is probably a good thing anyway."
"So getting shot was a good tactical manoeuvre?" he asked, eyebrows raised slightly. She smiled.
"I think that was almost a joke. Be careful. It's one of the steps on the road to becoming human."
"Don't worry. It doesn't happen often." He looked slightly unsure of himself, his youth once again showing on his face, and she could not help but take pity on him.
"Relax, I'm only making fun of you. Honestly, at times I have no idea how to talk to you."
"And yet you keep coming back."
"Yes, I do." She almost reached over to touch his shoulder, the way that she might have done to a colleague or a friend, but she stopped herself just in time. Christian was not a man with whom to rush things. They were embarking upon an interesting relationship – and a probably illegal conspiracy to boot – but that was not quite friendship. Not yet. Standing up, she offered him a cheerful smile.
"Until later, then. And if you promise to get some sleep tonight, I'll see about smuggling some more equipment in to you. Nothing from your lab, though. Sorry."
"I know." For a brief moment a very big, very real smile lit up his face. "Could you get me a laptop? I'll give you my credit card. It must be around here somewhere."
"Later. You can give me a shopping list when I come back. Just remember what I said about rest. And don't let the hospital staff see that telephone. It might sound paranoid, but we don't know who we can trust."
"Of course." He was lost in the work again, but she was certain that he had heard. She was beginning to learn that there was not a lot that he missed, at least when it was relevant to his work. "I'll see you later then."
"Yes. Goodbye." The door swung shut behind her, depositing her back into the busy, noisy corridor outside. It was a striking contrast to the quiet room, and something of a shock to the system. From seclusion back to reality, in the swing of a door hinge – and with the real world came real concerns. She had made light of it to Christian, but she could not play that same trick upon herself. The Callum situation, the shooting, the Ministry gumming up police affairs with their interference – which had somehow become her fault, on top of everything else. Rumours of her inadvisable love life bouncing about on the gossip network, just in time to finish off the whole mess perfectly. The time that she spent closeted away with Christian was a welcome escape from all of it. The visits were as much a help to her as they were to him, a realisation that made her feel just a little bit guilty. Jumping out of the way of a hurrying nurse, she shut off that line of thought. Her awkward relationship with Christian was not important. What mattered was their work; who they might be able to help; the lives that they might be able to save, if only those strange pictures would start appearing again. The heavy blow to her career might not seem quite so terrible then.
Outside she was greeted by a cold, early afternoon sun, washing the cheerless car park with grey light. It was not very much of a welcome. She headed towards her car with a brisk, tense stride, too many things crossing over themselves in her mind. She had so many suspicions about the Ministry officials who had been dogging the investigation all along – but was it really sensible to try to cut them out of the project? Her career was already on rocky ground, and here she was potentially risking it further with an unofficial line of inquiry that could easily land her in water too deep to escape from. Exchanging a job that she loved for a secret partnership with an oddball genius hardly sounded like a great idea. At the same time, Christian's project was the greatest mystery she had ever faced; the finest challenge of a lifetime of policing. She couldn't just walk away from that. Could she? Sliding into her car, she gave the steering wheel a resounding thump.
"You're an idiot," she told herself, and stared out through a windscreen that was in dire need of a wash. Her private life was a mess, and her public life not a great deal better. She should walk away from this; she should forget her promise to return later, and she should cut all ties with this whole, wretched affair. And yet... Did she really want to go back to run of the mill policing, even if she did have a job to go back to? For all that things were so very much more complicated now, Christian King and his impossible project had changed her life in ways that she had never imagined. Part of her wanted to curse him for that, but she was only just beginning to realise how very grateful she was. For the first time since those shocked, desperate seconds in the schoolroom, when she had fumbled to save his life, she felt that things might be beginning to look up. Whether that was due to genuine positivity, or to massive self-delusion, remained to be seen. She started up the engine. Time to face the music. Time to find out whether she even had a career left to put at risk.
And back in the hospital room, Christian frowned at three tiny images that were suddenly crowding the small screen of the phone. One was a newspaper headline, he was sure. Something about a police officer on trial for murder? He zoomed in, but the screen resolution was not good enough, and the picture broke up before he could get it big enough to read. Rebecca's concerns for Callum, and her talk of him disappearing, spurred him to recheck the headline, and the faint blur of a story beneath. Was that the word 'Detective'? And something else after it. It didn't look like 'Constable'. It looked more like... 'Inspector'. Inspector? His eyes ached with the effort, but he was sure of it. The story mentioned an inspector. Detective Inspector Rebecca Flint. He dropped the telephone onto the bed, mind leaping in a hundred directions at once. Rebecca on trial for murder? When? The date was far too small to read. And why? How? Who was she supposed to have killed? He turned his attention to the two other pictures – a plain black tie, still knotted in a perfect Ascot, and a golden bracelet. A pair of charms dangled from it, one a teddy bear, and the other a horseshoe. It meant nothing, but the first picture was painfully clear. Unless they could work out this latest puzzle, they would soon be in more trouble than ever. The recent bullet wound in his stomach throbbed uncomfortably, but he ignored it. It was hardly important now. Rebecca had saved his life. Perhaps now it was his turn to save hers.
Tags:
From:
no subject
But that's just one aspect that you covered, from how he is part of the team for which she takes responsibility and how he's not. I enjoyed that you made it so much her POV and did such a great job on the voices. It allowed you to explore all the different ways she sees him and still finds him unfathomable, if a little more vulnerable.
I loved the references to the consequences of what happened - are you thinking of writing more? That Rebecca is worried about her job and Callum has gone AWOL - with us knowing a little more than her - was tantalising enough, but the pictures were a really nice hook...
This is honestly more than I hoped for in so many ways when I made the prompt. Thanks for giving me more. Consider this a virtual chocolate Hob-Nob, which is well deserved!
From:
no subject