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A Satisfying End by Brightbear
Part Two
Disclaimer: Spooks/MI5 does not belong to me. It belongs to Kudos, the BBC and many other people who are not me. Unfortunately.
Rating: NC-17 for sex between two men, the occasional bad word and very mild violence.
Spoilers: Episode 6 of the first season and episode one of the second season.
Pairing: Tom Quinn/Patrick McCann
Summary: McCann's laptop bomb had personal consequences for 'Davey Crockett' so McCann feels the need to apologise in person.
Notes: A big thankyou to my Betas Han and Thia. Without you guys, I would never have dared to post this (at least not where other people could read it).
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Carefully, Patrick hauled Dave out of the bathroom and into the hallway. They shuffled slowly down the hall, Dave's weight leaning more heavily on Patrick the further they went. By the time they reached the door to the bedroom, his head was resting limply on Patrick’s shoulder.
“Come on now, Davey,” said Patrick encouragingly. “Not much further.”
“My name’s not Davey,” said Dave.
“I know,” said Patrick. “Is it Tom?”
He felt Dave nod against his shoulder.
“Well, at least we’re even now, hey?” grinned Patrick, shuffling Tom towards the bed.
“But I don’t know your name,” came Tom’s confused reply.
Patrick chuckled and pushed Tom flat on his back on the bed.
“Of course, sure you do, Tom,” said Patrick, sitting on the bed. “You just don’t recognise me.”
Tom blinked blearily and tried to sit up. Patrick planted one hand on Tom’s chest. It only took a gentle push to send him sprawling back on the bed. Tom fought to rise again for a few seconds before surrendering and flopping on the bed.
“Why are you here?” he asked, staring at the ceiling.
“Oh, the world’s changing,” said Patrick idly. “The game’s changing. And I don’t just mean that the people are changing. There have always been new faces. It’s the rules that are changing, Tom.”
Abandoning the attempt to sit upright, Tom settled for propping himself up on his elbows and frowning at Patrick.
“Changing how?” asked Tom, confused but curious.
“Nobody’s national anymore,“ said Patrick seriously. “Suddenly every group under the bleeding sun seems to have an international agenda. It’s not enough to be interested in just your country... now everything is religious and patriotic and political. That’s not the business I signed on for.”
“What did you sign on for?” said Tom.
The Irishman laughed bitterly but didn’t answer the question.
“To be fair, Tom,” he said. “The change wasn’t sudden. The old dogs, like me, saw it coming long before it was all brought to a head by September 11th.”
He watched Tom from the corner of his eye as he spoke, watched the sudden attention that the words ‘September 11th’ earned him. Tom’s face was still pale, his movements unnaturally slow but there was an alertness in his eyes now. Patrick was being scrutinised and he could almost hear the effort it took as Tom searched his memory for Patrick’s face. He might have been tired, affected by drugs and half Patrick’s age but Tom was still a trained, senior MI5 Officer.
Patrick returned the searching gaze, wondering exactly how senior Tom could be. Patrick had been in the game long enough to realise that Tom was not malicious or unnecessarily cruel but he also knew it would be dangerous to automatically assume that Tom couldn't be dangerous if he wanted.
“You won’t remember my face, boy,” said Patrick quietly.
The sentence seemed to have almost exactly the opposite effect that Patrick had been expecting.
Rather than being reassured or remaining puzzled, Tom’s eyes widened in recognition. Patrick’s voice, his accent or his speech patterns - something had betrayed him. Without realising he was doing it, Tom edged backwards across the bed, away from Patrick.
“It’s the terrorism game, that I'm talking about,” explained Patrick, although he knew that Tom had already figured that out.
Tom nodded and then abruptly made a dive for the end table. It was a tribute to MI5 training that Patrick missed the telltale shifting of weight before the lunge. Either that or Patrick's concentration was slipping and, retired or not, that was not an option he wanted to consider further.
Patrick threw himself forward, again using his weight to pin the other man down against the bed. Tom's right arm was trapped beneath the combined weight of their bodies on the bed but his left hand managed to get a grip on the telephone.
He swung the telephone hard at Patrick's head. Patrick blocked it with his forearm and pinned Tom’s wrist to the bed. Patrick shifted his whole weight so that he could keep Tom’s thighs flat to the bed to stop him from moving. He twined his ankles around Tom’s, locking them in place and preventing him from kicking.
“Easy now, no reason to get unfriendly,” said Patrick pleasantly, giving Tom’s wrist a sharp twist so that the telephone clattered to the floor.
Tom grunted in frustration, "McCann. Patrick McCann."
"The one and only," said Patrick happily.
With Tom's face pushed firmly into the blankets covering the bed, Patrick couldn't see his expression. He did, however, hear a frustrated sigh and he felt Tom relax beneath him. Patrick very carefully did not relax his grip at all.
"You're dead," said Tom flatly.
"As far as most of the world is concerned," agreed Patrick.
Tom turned his head to look Patrick in the eyes.
"How?" he demanded.
Patrick chuckled at his tone. High-ranking, indeed. There was no doubt that that voice was used to being obeyed. Patrick looked at Tom's carefully neutral expression, wondering how far his indulgence ought to be stretched.
"It wasn't easy, Tom, you ought to believe that," said Patrick. "Let's just say that I'm a man who believes in contingencies."
"Who was the dead man in the elevator?"
"Ah, a tragic story that is. About a homeless countryman of mine, money and plastic surgery," said Patrick, effortlessly quashing Tom's attempt to throw him off and continuing with the barest of pauses. "I had promised him he would never get hurt. It was a promise I intended to keep at the time - he is a fellow Irishman, after all - but that's what I meant about the game changing."
"Never trust McCann," muttered Tom, as if quoting someone.
"What was that, Tom?" asked Patrick pleasantly.
"Bloody Irish bastard," said Tom loudly.
Patrick grabbed Tom's left wrist and twisted hard. The Englishman cried out in pain and tensed beneath him. Patrick twisted harder than he originally meant to but he had already put up with decades of sodding English policemen treading over his nation's pride. He may have been feeling indulgent but even Patrick McCann had his limits.
As his anger faded, he eased his grip on the wrist. Tom was breathing hard, his head turned away from Patrick and pressed down into the bed.
"I didn't come here to fight with you," growled Patrick.
"Then why are you here?" said Tom, voice deadly cold but muffled slightly by the bedcovers.
"I'm retiring, Tom," said Patrick simply. "And doing so gives me a bit of freedom. A bit of room to indulge a whim or two."
"What has that got to do with me?"
"Well, to be honest, not only am I not so fond of terrorism game these days, but I'm not particularly fond of the new generation in my part of the world, either," admitted Patrick.
Tom took his head out of the bedcovers for the sole purpose of raising a disbelieving eyebrow. Patrick laughed.
"They’re changing the rules,” Patrick grinned at him. “...And it's not what I signed on for. So, that's the true blue reason I warned you about the bomb. I respect you. Hate the people you work for and the job you do, mind. But I have more respect for you than I have for some of my own people."
"I'm flattered," said Tom dryly.
Patrick continued to grin, mostly because it seemed to annoy Tom.
"Well, I was going to just drop by without telling you who I was but...," Patrick shrugged. "I had to stay longer than planned simply in order to drag you out of your own bathroom. Believe me, not how I planned to spend the evening."
"Hmm," said Tom thoughtfully. "Well, I'm out of the bathroom so I don't see much point in you staying any longer."
Patrick was about to make a quick reply about dramatic departures when he lifted his head and his eyes fell on the cleared end table. He was soberly reminded that he was sitting on a double bed on top of a man who had just lost his woman.
"You know, Tom m'boy, and I mean this, I really do... I'm sorry that your lass left you," said Patrick honestly. "If our little surprise had anything to do with it, then, well... I'm sorry about that too."
The sudden tensing of the body underneath him was the only warning Patrick had before the world tilted. Tom had managed to bend the arm that had been pinned beneath his body. At the same moment that Patrick's concentration faltered, Tom straightened his arm and used it to push away from the bed. Half a roll had them on the edge of the bed.
They reached the balance point where they hung for a moment, Patrick desperately trying to roll Tom back but Tom had the advantage now. Patrick's greater weight worked against him and another push from Tom had them both falling.
Patrick's back hit the carpet hard and Tom landed on top of him. Tom's shoulder slammed into Patrick's chest. The breath left Patrick's lungs and he raised his hands to protect himself.
"Bastard," hissed Tom angrily. "It had everything to do with it!"
Tom pulled back on his knees but then he was lunging forward again to punch. Patrick had plenty of time to watch the fist coming at him but none to dodge it in as it smashed into his cheek. Instead, Patrick rolled his head with the punch. He grabbed Tom's over-extended arm, hung on tightly and rolled the pair of them to his right.
Once again, Patrick was sitting on top of Tom but Tom was ready this time. Tom's left hand grabbed Patrick's left knee and heaved. At the same time, Tom pulled at his shirt with his right hand. The two of them rolled again and again. Then Tom stuck out his foot, halting the roll suddenly and leaving himself on top. Patrick instantly tried to roll back to the left but Tom stuck out his other leg.
Even while Tom’s weight pressed him down into the carpet, it was the look in Tom's eyes that told Patrick exactly how much danger he was in. As the other man’s hands wrapped around his neck, Patrick scolded himself for forgetting that even a suicidal MI5 Officer could be dangerous - even if he was grieving for a broken relationship and had shown more professional courtesy to Patrick than anybody else had in a long time. For Tom, a spur of the moment murder would probably be very cathartic. For Patrick, who was rather attached to his life, it was very bad news of the worst sort. He needed a way to distract Tom’s anger.
So Patrick did something that, if he was honest with himself, he’d been considering in the back of his mind since he and Tom had stripped together in a farmer’s field. He grabbed the back of Tom’s head with one hand, pulled it down sharply and kissed him. Tom froze, his hands releasing Patrick’s neck in surprise and landing on either side of Patrick’s head just to keep his balance.
TO BE CONTINUED
