I Cannot Write To Save My Life

Losing two games in a row? Fuck fucky fuck. United fans are going to have a field day tomorrow, especially if they bloody beat Chelsea later.

This entire game can be summed up in just one word = MOTHERFUCK.

FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK. Why am I here? Because watching the rest of that fucking game is sheer torture.

WHY, LIVERPOOL, WHY???!?!?! I HAD A HUNDRED QUID RIDING ON YOU!!! HOW CAN YOU LET ME DOWN LIKE THIS???? CHARLIE @#$%^ ADAMS WHY???????

The moral of this story is NEVER TO BET ON YOUR FAVORITE FOOTBALL TEAM. EVER.

His name was Penn Badgley.

The name on his passport was, however, Scott Tucker, but he had quite a few passports. His current cover was as a consultant for a civil aviation firm, and he could, if pressed, give a convincing overview presentation of the several different types of models available for the private market. He could, in turn, also give a lengthy discourse on synthetic hockey turfs, even if he did not actually fully understand half of what he was saying.

He could with remarkable ease also discuss the European soccer transfer market, but that was different – he was, after all, an avid soccer fanatic.

Badgley was a solidly built man, with a full head of black hair and a lantern jaw that hinted at an ancestry so mixed it could only be called American. He smiled easily when he wanted to, but quite often, his face was a deliberate blank that once glanced at was quickly glossed over and just as quickly forgotten.

“Welcome to London. And what brings you to our country, Mr. Tucker?” the immigration officer asked, glancing at his passport and then at the screen in front of him, fingers idling over the keyboard.

“Business,” he replied with an easy smile. “Although I am hoping to catch a football game while I’m here.”

“Football…not soccer?” the man asked with a little grin of his own. “You Americans are catching on.”

Badgley laughs, and thanks the officer as he hands him his passport back.

While most passengers move off to collect their bags, Badgley walks away from the crowd currently milling around the conveyor belts of Heathrow airport in the vague hope that their respective airlines have not messed things up and sent their luggage to a completely different part of the continent. He walks briskly as he joins the sea of humanity now thronging the exit into the main terminal itself.

He hangs around briefly, until his phone vibrates in his pocket, telling him that the time had come. Standing up, he scans the people around him casually, and then begins walking again, seemingly without direction, his right hand tucked into his pocket, fingers clutched around the package awaiting delivery.

The contact is accidental – a brush against the man’s shoulder, a stumble of his feet, and then he is clutching the man’s arm for support, an apology ready on his lips. The man nods distractedly as he walks away, the incident already forgotten from his mind.


Badgley glances at the man, and then follows.

Matthew Settle hails a cab – one of London’s distinctive black buggies sidles up to him. He glances at the driver and issues a muttered direction, before leaning back in his seat and closing his eyes, a dull throbbing headache pulsing in his temple.

Project Stargate. The name flashes through his head, and once again he wonders – what the hell is going on?

Enough of that, he decides. The meeting with his contact – strange times made for strange bedfellows - is not until six, which gives him about two hours to rest and refresh himself. He is about to slip into a quiet doze when he feels something vibrating – a phone – but against the wrong thigh.

His forehead creases in puzzlement as his hand slips into his pocket, pulling out a red Zeus Android model. The screen flashes ‘PRIVATE NUMBER’, and he feels the first glimmer of suspicion rise within him. Almost by instinct and certainly driven by curiosity, he picks up.

“Mr. Settle?”

“Who is this?” he growls.

“The Director sends his regards.”
___________________________________________________________________________________
Interpol is not in the law enforcement business. They deal in intelligence and facilitation. They do not have authority to arrest, incarcerate or try criminals – they are primarily administrative in nature. This has not, however, stopped them from fielding agents who quite often act outside their jurisdiction.

Chace Crawford is one such agent. He is new to the job, and this is his first big case, and he does not want to screw it up by looking incapable of conducting an investigation without crying home for help. Which is why he is not going to file this in his report; this being the blonde CIA agent now looking at him with a determined expression on her face.

“It’s simple,” he says, and wonders whether this is how it feels to be out of his depth. “You know how the terrorists in Afghanistan and Iraq detonate their roadside IEDs by cellphone? It’s an amalgamation of the system – the call is made, the target picks it up; thereby triggering the incendiary device inside, and then…boom. It’s almost poetic, really.” He blinks then, and misses the brief look of fury on the woman’s face.

“And there is no trace whatsoever of the device – nothing we can tie to its manufacturer?” she asks, and takes a long drag from her cigarette. London is officially a no smoking zone, but he doesn’t feel like contradicting her. Besides, he thinks, she’s really hot.

“Nothing we can use,” he replies. “This is all in my report…I’m not sure what else you’re trying to find out, coming here to see me.”

“You’ve been very helpful,” she replies, standing up in one swift motion and extending her arm. He takes it, his hand moving on automatic – the Western mind has been hardwired to immediately react to such a gesture. It’s a firm handshake, and she gives him a dazzling smile that doesn’t quite reach her eyes. “My meeting with you is strictly confidential, of course,” she says, and he nods.

Definitely way out of his depth.

___________________________________________________________________________________

She wonders if he really will leave this out of his report, and then decides that it isn’t really all that important. Blake Lively keeps her head down, eyes locked on the pavement, as she strides away, her long legs making good time.

Matthew Settle is dead. Murdered. And she wants to find out why…and more importantly, who.

It’s been six weeks since it happened. Six weeks, and not a damn thing has turned up. She has tried – calling in to the CIA London substation, checking up in Langley itself, only to be met with halfhearted apologies and rote learned excuses, and a firm reminder that her personal involvement in this matter means that she has been stood down and given a temporary leave of absence – expressly forbidden to embark on any investigation of her own.

The reasons are sound, but something feels off to her. Something’s wrong. It’s a gut instinct, a feeling more than anything based on actual factual analysis, but a great deal of intelligence work is founded upon lucky breaks and pure instinct. And something is telling her that this just does not feel right.

What do I do now? It had seemed like a very good idea at the time – flying down to London, with the intention of working on this herself. It gives her something to do, rather than leaving her feeling helpless and cooped up and distracted back at home. It’s like she’s filled with pent up energy that she needs to let out, and what better way to put it to good use than to investigate her former handler’s death personally?

Unfortunately, that is easier said than done.

Intelligence work is never a one person job. An agent needs information – something to work with; a starting point, at least. She had tried, and failed, to gain access to Settle’s files, in his office and his personal computer at home, because Agency regulations dictate that upon the demise or discharge of any agent, all effects remotely connected to the Agency will be removed and taken into Agency custody for full examination, and whatever material is deemed safe will be returned to the family in due time. The reason was always ‘national security’ – a very useful reason to bandy around.

It was a stone wall, and she had hit it so many times that it was beginning to hurt.

She walked down the London pavement, hands stuck in her pockets, her head tilted low, being careful to avoid looking directly at any security camera. It’s a precaution that might turn out to be completely unnecessary, and she doesn’t really have any trouble with British intelligence, but the Agency might have caught wind of her little escapade to England and tipped MI6, with a nicely worded request that her movements be tracked.

It’s not that she doesn’t trust the CIA. She just doesn’t trust the CIA.

“It’s something, all right,” he said tersely when she asked at their last meeting at her debriefing after the so called failed mission to capture her last target, a meeting that she had wanted to avoid, although if she had known it would have been their last…She looked at him, watching as he averted his eyes to avoid meeting hers. “But it’s nothing for you to worry about.”


“Are you sure?” The look he gave her when she asked that question was frosty. “Look, Matthew…if it is something really big…”


“When I need your help, Lively – I know how to ask for it, all right?”

The sky had been inappropriately bright on the day of the funeral, bathing the mourners and the coffin in blazing light, as if the sun was attempting to add an air of festivity to the somber mood of the black clad people surrounding the patch in the ground. Blake stood some thirty yards away from the three figures huddled together by the side of the coffin, draped as if was with the American flag, but she could feel the tears and the tangible sadness. His wife was clutching her children together, her fingers digging into their son’s shoulders so tightly that it was evident to all who surrounded her, but the boy, brave young lad that he was, did not make a single sound of protest, his eyes staring at the coffin, his posture erect, holding himself tall as the man of the family now that his father had left them for good.

And as the funeral party dispersed, she had followed, lingering around the periphery of the gathering now focused at the house. And she had watched the young boy, a pitiful little figure clad in a suit that looked too large for him, with wide eyes tinted with shock, as if he was unable to believe that this was happening. What it must be like for him, she could barely imagine. To know that your father had taken you to your last ball game, to know that you would come home and never see him again, never feel his touch or hear the sound of his voice, to no longer feel his presence at home or away from it. To know that your father was no longer there.

Her own thoughts were a cacophony of pain, of sorrow yet undefined. She had never realized how much she had depended on the man, the firmness of him, the security brought by the knowledge that even as she slipped into hostile territory, there was a man a thousand miles away who only had her best interests at heart. It was like a hurricane in her mind, a terrible storm of thoughts and emotions shrieking in grief stricken agony, a song of rage that would dwindle into a dirge of sorrow as time passed, lingering yet never fading in the ether of her mind.

And then she remembered the son, yet again.

What a responsibility to have thrust upon shoulders so small, and at such a young age. And it was then, looking at Matthew’s family standing together, huddled together in shared pain as they greeted and thanked those in attendance, their grief tangible and so real that it left her with tears in her eyes, that she swore she would find out who had done this, and make them pay.

Perhaps it was a blessing, Blake had thought then, that no one would mourn her if she died. No one to weep for her, no one to feel hurt and pain at her passing. No one. But that thought brought no comfort to her, only a new type of grief – sadness for herself, pity that seemed so wrong and selfish in the face of such real suffering as she saw on the faces of the bereaved. But she could not banish it, not completely. No one to think of me…no one.

Maybe she would. It was a thought that burst like a ray of sunshine in the cloudy gloom of her mind, and yet, brutally, she suppressed the thought that surfaced immediately, crushing the resurgence of old heartache before it took hold. Old pain had no place in a heart already filled to bursting by new.

Six weeks now, and she had nothing to show for it.

She looked up with a start, surprised to find herself at the foot of her hotel, a small establishment tucked in the edges of the city. It was quiet, and cheap, and convenient for her purposes, a long white four story building with louvered windows on its face and a modernistic lattice walled balcony on the upper floor. Small, which meant that she knew how many rooms were occupied at the moment, and the faces of the guests were fixed in her mind, so that she knew them by sight.

She shambled aimlessly into the linoleum floored lobby, blue eyes flickering along the edges of the room, glancing at the few people sitting down, noting that nothing was out of place. The snow scented winter breeze had slipped in when she entered, and she felt the cold air fill her lungs, wondering if she inhaled enough of it, she could encase her heart in ice. Sighing, she trundled to the elevator, passing the sole bellboy of the establishment with a little nod, and walked in quickly when the doors opened.

As she pushed the door of her room open, one foot descended on an envelope that had been slipped under the door. She froze for a moment before bending down to pick it up; white, plain and unmarked, with no clue as to who had sent it at all.

___________________________________________________________________________________

Edward Westwick was sitting in a corner booth at the rear of the restaurant. Penn was sure that he’d pick the dark place for privacy, and that he had his back to the wall so that he could see him coming. He was partially correct on both counts. Westwick was wary of being here, even though this was London. The death of the CIA agent, and the arrival of another one, unauthorized as it was, was unnerving. Could they possibly know? That was the trouble with the intelligence game – there were layers upon layers within a certain set of circumstances, and you never could know everything. He didn’t think the Americans knew, but intelligence officers do not live to collect their pensions by making assumptions.

He rose as Penn approached. The waitress departed as soon as she realized that this ‘business dinner’ would not begin as long as she was in the vicinity.

“The American, Matthew Settle. Was it you?”

Penn Badgley glanced at him in silence, and that was confirmation enough. Ed cursed privately. Of course it was – this idiot could not resist the temptation of dealing with another contract when he had a current one yet unfinished.

“You are still, I believe, in my employ, and you are yet to complete the little assignment I gave you, despite the expiry of the time limit. And yet you see fit to complete another assignment for someone else…unless, of course, that assignment took precedence over mine, which must lead me to the obvious conclusion that you have a tendency to fall behind your work and let things pile up on you.”

Stony silence greeted his statement, and Westwick shrugged. “I have a proposition for you.”

“Another one?” Penn said with some amusement. “Is the dressing down complete then?”

“Another American agent has entered the country…unauthorized and, I believe, unknown to the CIA. Her name is Blake Lively.” He takes a sip of water, surveying the assassin over the rim of his glass. “Matthew Settle was her handler.”

He waited for a few seconds, allowing Penn to come to his own conclusions. “She’s here to find me,” he said finally, leaning back into his chair.

“Correct.”

“Authorized?”

“Unsanctioned,” says Ed Westwick, and leans back with a self satisfied expression on his face.

“So…” Penn breathes out slowly, the implications of that little revelation now clear to him. “How should I thank you for this information?”

“By giving me information in return, Mr. Badgley,” Westwick replied. “I want to know who ordered Matthew Settle’s death, and I want to know why. And as a gesture of good faith, I will give you another piece of information…Blake Lively was the CIA agent originally tasked to track Leighton Meester down.”

Penn sat silently, thinking this through. “My clients expect a certain amount of…privilege when it comes to information concerning their respective contracts.”

“And as one of your clients, I expect that you will not share any information regarding our dealings with anyone. But as someone with a plan that you would be interested in, I believe I have earned a certain amount of leeway with regards to your other clients.”

Edward Westwick may be an arrogant bastard, but he was a wily arrogant bastard, Penn thought. “You spoke of a plan?”

“You need Blake Lively dead, and I want Leighton Meester dead. I have a plan to achieve both ends, while ensuring that neither one of us is compromised. That is my offer, Mr. Badgley, in addition to the sum already promised upon Meester’s untimely demise, of course. Take it or leave it.”

Edward Westwick was a dangerous man who bore watching, Penn Badgley decided. Preferably from a considerable distance. He sighed, and then nodded.

“Let’s hear your plan.”

___________________________________________________________________________________

She stopped just before Tothill Street, electing instead to walk the rest of the way to Hyde Park. The mist hung heavy in the air, and what little sunlight managed to penetrate through had lost its luster, afflicting instead a grayish sort of cast that added an oddly funereal pall to the air and its surroundings, ghosting against dripping oak and sycamore branches that stood leafless and naked on the grounds. The coldness of the weather only added to the overall melancholic gloom that had pervaded the entire city, and she felt her moodiness deepen, the frustration already welled up inside her threatening to burst forth.

That would not do, she thought quietly. Stay focused – but being focused meant being detached, and Blake Lively has never been good at being detached, has she?

A hundred yards ahead of her, she spied a figure in an overcoat and hat, and she felt her heart suddenly quicken, her steps lengthening as she paced over the wet grass. Her mind raced quickly, thinking back at the contents of the note – a single printed line detailing the meeting spot, time and date, with nothing else to identify its sender. The possibility that it was a CIA set up had been considered and discarded almost immediately – it was too elaborate a scheme if all that would result from it would be a reprimand and an order to return to the States immediately. Other possibilities, including that where this was a set up to bag and tag her by the same person who had ordered Matthew’s death was also considered, but rejected again for being too elaborate.

What was left was that the person who sent it knew something, and wanted to share it with Blake. But how did they know where I was staying? A question, to add to the mix of the numerous other burning questions already in her head. Question upon question – all without answers.

The man’s face was pale, wrinkled and hollowed by probably seventy years, but his eyes were bright and alert. She opened her mouth to speak, but he cut her off almost immediately. “There’s a blue Fiat parked over there,” he nudged his head towards his left, and his hand plunged into his right pocket, gnarled fingers clutched around a key. “Instructions are inside – drive and make no detours.”

“What? Why?”

“No questions. Just instructions. Follow them.” And with that he had walked off, turning around and moving with a quickness that belied his obvious age. She considered following him, but the sudden whoop of children and the confirmation of the fact that there were other people around meant that she did not want to do anything to call attention upon herself.

There was indeed a blue Fiat parked at the side of the road, and when she stepped inside, the GPS was already running, with a prefixed destination. There was also a cellphone, and a brief check of it yielded no numbers saved in the memory card within. A sudden thought – a reminder of the way Matthew Settle had been killed – rose in her head, but if someone had indeed wanted to kill her, why go through all this trouble? She kept it within reaching distance regardless, and as she half expected, it rang five minutes after she started driving.

She hesitated for a moment before picking up, and even then, kept it a few inches away from her ear, for all the good that would do if it had exploded.

“Hello?”

“There’s a jacket tucked under the passenger’s seat. When you drive through Pall Mall, stop by the first intersection and change. Not now. Later. And then drive on. No detours.” The voice was clipped and distrustful…and familiar. Blake smiled suddenly, her heart leaping in her chest, her grin broadening as she realized who waited for her at her destination.

“All right,” she said, and the cheery tone in her voice was greeted by stony, disapproving silence. She grinned even wider. “Still mad at me, Q?” she asked, and he hung up immediately, but even that did not dim her mood at all. If anything, it made her soar even higher, all dark thoughts suddenly banished.

Leighton.

___________________________________________________________________________________

She had to smile when she arrived at her destination – The Montcalm hotel, a mere five hundred meters away from Hyde Park. Q’s precautions had taken her in a turnabout journey around most of London’s landmarks, including what she presumed to be an instructional tour of the Cenotaph. A careful man, but she had merited his caution.

The Montcalm certainly furnished their rooms well. It was lavish, yet tasteful, and above all, the room she had just entered was empty, devoid of any sign of Leighton. She blinked, realizing that she had unconsciously tensed up, and then forced herself to sit down and wait.

It’s been what…six months? Six months since I’ve seen her, since I’ve heard from her. She smiled to herself, but it was a sad little smile. Six months of wondering whether she would walk into Langley and get the news that Leighton Meester had been sighted or worse, captured.

Six months of wondering if Leighton missed her as much as she missed Leighton. Six months…six whole months, of wishing that Leighton was by her side. Six months of wondering why Leighton had not felt the need to contact her from wherever she was hiding.

Absence makes the heart grow fonder, Blake mused quietly. She missed Leighton, had thought about Leighton, and a cynical part of her wondered if she was fastening to their brief relationship a little more than what was actually there – whether she was imputing too much into what she feared was just a passing liaison. Did she even think about me? Did she miss me…at all?

I’ll find out soon enough. But the waiting was interminable – the seconds ticked by as slow as New York traffic at rush hour. She reached for the pack of cigarettes in her pocket and lighted one, feeling the brief euphoric high that came with her first puff. It subsided almost immediately, and before she knew it, she was reaching for her second stick.

“I would have thought you’d kick the habit by now.”

She turned her neck so quickly she felt the muscles twinge in protest, her eyes widening as she half stood. Leighton always did have a way of sneaking up at her, but she should have been more alert instead of being completely lost in her thoughts…so lost that she had not heard the door open.

There she stood, wearing jeans and a t-shirt, a Hermes Berkin bag held casually over her wrist, looking exactly the same, with her hair still a mixture of blonde and brunette. She smiled, and Blake smiled back, and they stood staring at each other, both silent and equally aware of how awkward the silence was.

Blake was the first to break it. “Hey,” she offered with a grin.

“Hey back,” Leighton said with a smile of genuine pleasure. “It’s…it’s been a while, huh?”

“Yeah. Six months.”

Leighton nodded, and wordlessly sat down. She looked up at Blake. “Six months.”

“Six months without any news.”

“What can I say?” Leighton shrugged. “I was in hiding. From your Agency,” she said pointedly, as if that was Blake’s fault.

“You could have at least tried to contact me.” She tried to keep her tone light, but there was a hint of reproach in her voice. “Let me know you were all right.”

“Too risky,” Leighton replied. “The CIA would have – “

“As far as goodbyes go,” Blake continued laconically, “Leaving me unconscious in the custody of the French police with a bump on my head is pretty much out there with the worst of them.”

“You got out all right,” Leighton observed stonily. “I knew the CIA would get you out somehow.”

“And after all that, you didn’t think to try and contact me?”

“If you would recall,” came the testy reply, “You were after me, Blake. I couldn’t be sure if you – ”

“I kept my mouth shut about your escape,” Blake cut her off, feeling a little stung at the implication of what Leighton said. “Or didn’t you trust me enough?”

“Trust you? I’m supposed to trust you now?” Leighton snapped. “Have you already forgotten what you did, Blake? Did you forget what you did to me?”

“No.” Blake bit her lip. “I…I haven’t.” She glanced at Leighton, but the other woman looked steadfastly away, refusing to meet her gaze. Blake felt a familiar clenching around her heart – sorrow, regret, and a host of other emotions – all warring with one another with none achieving dominance.

“Which was why you led me on a merry chase around London,” she continued. The words came out harsher than she intended, and the look on Leighton’s face made her regret them immediately. She paused, and bit her lip. “Sorry…I just…it’s been a tough couple of days.”

Leighton nodded. “I know. I heard…about your handler.” She reached out for Blake, but stopped, her hand hovering in the air uncertainly. “I’m sorry,” she said, pulling her hand back.

“It’s fine.”

“No…it’s not. We haven’t seen each other in six months and now we’re fighting,” Leighton grinned. “Not really how I had this reunion planned.”

“You had it planned?” Blake asked, her heart leaping in her chest. She wanted to see me.

Leighton lowered her face, staring at the blonde through hooded eyes. “I wanted to see you,” she said softly. In spite of everything, she added silently. “And it wasn’t my idea – wasn’t entirely my idea – to make you drive in a big circle around the city. Q wanted to see if you were being followed. You weren’t,” she added quickly.

“Followed? By the Agency?”

“By…anyone.” Leighton shifted in her seat. “I know why you’re here.”

“Sure about that?” Blake tried to grin, and failed miserably.

“You want to find out who killed Matthew Settle. You’re here on your own, and you have no leads. You’ve hit a dead end.” She leaned forward. “You need help, Blake.”

“And you’re offering?”

“Yes.”

Blake laughed, but it was a bitter laugh. “So you shut me out completely and leave me in the dark, and suddenly you appear out of nowhere and offer assistance? Really?” She had not meant for it to come out like that, but seeing Leighton, in front of her, had reopened old wounds. You didn’t even try to contact me. Not once.

Leighton straightened in her seat, her eyes going cold and flat, reminding Blake once again that the brunette in front of her was possibly every bit as dangerous as she herself was. “We want the same thing.”

“I highly doubt that.” The skepticism in her voice was aimed to sting, and by the sudden flash in Leighton’s eyes, it worked.

“We do. I want to find out who killed Matthew Settle as much as you do.”

“And why is that? Because he was my handler, Leighton? Because you suddenly give a damn?”

Leighton leaned in, her face devoid of expression. “I want to find out who killed him,” she said, her voice dropping to a whisper, “because Matthew Settle came to London to meet me.”

___________________________________________________________________________________

“Sure about this?” Penn Badgley asked for what seemed like the tenth time already.

Edward Westwick was not a happy man, but difficult times called for drastic actions, although this was a little too drastic for his tastes. He preferred quiet operations; the essence of espionage, he felt, was that the general populace was not supposed to know that anything was going on. This went against everything he believed in, and he did not need Penn Badgley asking inane questions.

“All part of the plan,” he said smoothly, and smiled at the look of annoyance on the man’s face, taking some satisfaction in that.

It would be very difficult to cover this up. Difficult, but not impossible.

A full team going against one woman … a woman who had been trained by Kidon. Mossad insulated its various departments a little too much in his opinion, but Kidon, the department responsible for assassinations, was even more insulated than the rest, and so no one had the vaguest idea of what their training entailed. But Kidon trained agents were amongst the best in the world – and Mossad were the masters of assassination.

“Be sure to minimize collateral damage,” he told the men, certain that his warning fell on deaf ears.

Penn Badgley understood his difficulty – any fool would, Westwick thought. While Badgley and his crew of hired thugs were to do the actual work, it would be Edward Westwick who would have to think of a suitable story to throw the world and the pesky reporters, not to mention various other intelligence agencies, off the scent. He sighed, and muttered the one line every civil servant has spoken out loud at one time or another.

“I’m not being paid enough for this.”

Penn grinned – the smarmy bastard, and jerked his head at his assembled team. “They’ll get the job done.”

“They had better,” Westwick replied. “Considering that this is coming out of my pocket.”

“Your plan, not mine.” The assassin eyed the hotel appreciatively. “Nice place though – shame to waste it.”

“Just get on with it.” Westwick gave him a final glare, and then walked away. He certainly could not be seen anywhere near this. And he had to start on damage control, because this would get very messy.

___________________________________________________________________________________

“You’re lying,” Blake said flatly.

“I’m not.”

“Why would he want to meet you? Why would you even meet him?”

“He wanted my help.”

“Your help?” Blake’s laugh was skeptical, and the look she gave Leighton was derisive. “Why would a CIA agent, who, as I remember, ordered me to capture you, want your help?”

Leighton’s face did not move, remaining as expressionless as before, but her eyes flashed with anger. “Because I had something he wanted, and he had something I wanted. It was a contract of mutual exchange.”

“What did he want from you?”

“Information.”

“About?”

“The thing I stole – the reason why you came after me in the first place. And in return, he promised to delete everything the CIA had on me. Everything. I would be able to start over – a clean slate.”

“And he contacted you…when?”

“Two months ago.”

“Two months,” Blake said, her voice rising. “Two fucking months?” She glared at Leighton, her eyes narrowing into slits, her voice dropping to a whisper. “You were in contact with my handler, Leighton. My handler. For two whole months. And you didn’t…you couldn’t even give him a simple message to pass on to me?”

Leighton stared at Blake, the light of understanding finally dawning upon her. “Is that what this is about? Me not contacting you?”

“That has nothing to do with this!” Blake’s voice rose another octave, her denial falling flat even to her own ears. “You just left like that for six fucking months…not a word, not a letter, not even a goodbye!”

“I said goodbye!” Leighton’s voice had risen too, despite her best efforts to keep it down.

“But I did not!” Blake yelled, causing Leighton to flinch visibly. She realized that she had tears in her eyes when she felt her vision blur, and she looked away, one hand rising up to brush over her eyes quickly. Leighton reached out, her fingers wrapping around Blake’s wrist, pulling her hand away, leaning forward to lock brown eyes unto blue.

“God damn it, Blake!”

Four words were all it took for silence to descend between them again, settling like a drape over the dust scattered by that fight. Our first actual fight, Leighton realized suddenly. She cleared her throat, trying to swallow the lump that had risen unbidden in her throat.

“I would have sent you a message. I wanted to. I wanted to tell him – but I didn’t know if he could really be trusted. He might have been thinking of turning me in after he got what he wanted. And if he was going to…if I had told him…he would have turned you in too.”

“He wouldn’t have.” Did you miss me? “I trusted him. He wouldn’t have.” Blake felt Leighton release her hand, and she wiped her eyes quickly, staring at Leighton again. “You could have contacted me.”

“It would have been too risky. For me. For you. I wanted to…badly. But I couldn’t. I didn’t know if I could trust him – London would have been our first meeting. When he got killed…Q wanted to forget this thing completely. But when I heard that you were in the city…” she trailed off. “I had to meet you.” Her hand slid forward, fingers wrapping slowly around Blake’s wrist, as gingerly as if she was holding on to fragile glass, a part of her afraid that Blake would pull away.

“You could have tried!” Blake replied harshly, looking at Leighton…but she did not pull away, not yet. It was too much – all of it. First Matthew, and now, seeing Leighton here – it was just too much to take in, too much in so short a time. “You could have tried,” she said again, a little softer this time, and pulled her hand away.

Leighton stared at her. There was something about Blake…something open, as exposed as a raw wound. Hurt was written all over it, as plain as if it had been put to paper.

Six months had passed slowly for her. Six months of wondering where Blake Lively was, and there were moments – not as rare as she would have thought they would be – when she wished that Blake was chasing her again. I missed you, a lot more than you know. She wanted to say it out loud, the words ready at the tip of her tongue.

And then the world went to hell.

___________________________________________________________________________________

There were four men altogether, not including Badgley, who had elected to remain at a certain distance. These were not paramilitaries – just a bunch of hired guns picked at short notice. They were untrained, and considering that they were armed with Iranian made MPT-9Ks, it would get very messy.

Expendable men – such a shame, considering the high price he had to pay to get them on such short notice. Still, if they got the job done, it was money well spent, as far as he was concerned.

The gunmen began firing at the same instant, and from each muzzle flash sprang a line of tracers, allowing the men to walk their fire right at their targets without the need to properly aim with the metal sights on their weapons.

Blake’s body went as rigid as a bar of steel when the first bullets punctured the wall. Instinct and training combined, and she threw herself on the ground beside Leighton, while the bullets chewed the walls and sent splinters of mortar and wood raining down on them.

“I’m not armed,” she hissed at Leighton, who nodded. She, on the other hand, was armed – her Beretta already in her hand. But a handgun was really no match against machinegun fire.

Machinegun fire that had stopped.

The door burst open, kicked aside by a booted leg, and the first gunman stepped in, firing from the hip. She knew instinctively that he was untrained – soldiers killed with precision, and he was shooting blind. He sprayed the air in front of him with a hail of bullets, and the window overlooking the plaza below shattered under the impact.

Blake watched as Leighton rolled up on one knee, holding her gun professionally – one hand on the grip, the other wrapped around it to steady the gun as she fired, reducing the margin of error of her aim as the gun jerked in her hand.

The man dropped to the ground, two bullets in his chest, and one in his head. A professional kill, with a distinctive pattern of fire.

Two more appeared, and Blake rolled out of the way, barely picking up the distinctive sound of the semi-automatic over submachine fire. She saw the dead man’s gun in front of her, and it took two seconds for her to pry it out of his fingers. The grip was slick with blood, but she did her best to keep hold of it as the gun jerked with the recoil of the bullets.

Three men down, staining the carpet crimson. And then there was silence. Blake stood up, her heart pounding in her chest, blood rushing to her head at the sudden movement, looking around for Leighton. She caught sight of the other woman kneeling by what remained of the door, glancing outside.

“It’s empty.” The sound of gunfire so close to their ears had been deafening, and Leighton’s voice seemed to come from a distance. Blake nodded.

“We need to leave. Fast.”

“You all right?”

“I’m fine.” Her breathing was heavy, coming out in ragged pants. Her mind raced with questions, but this was not the time to indulge. She had to focus, and her training helped, shunting her thoughts aside as instinct took over.

They ran out, moving quickly to the fire exit, knowing full well that there was no stealth in their movements, but the circumstances did not permit it.

They were already running down the stairs when Penn Badgley ran into the final gunman, who had fled to questionable safety after seeing the other three killed. The man was out of breath, but he snarled when he saw the assassin in front of him.

“You said there would just be one – there were two of them in there!”

“There were two?” He could not keep the puzzlement out of his voice. Meester was supposed to be alone.

“Her and some other blonde,” the man gasped out. “You didn’t say – ”

Three shots – two to the chest, and the third to the forehead, and the man went down in a spray of blood.

Two? A blonde? But that means…Penn Badgley calmly slipped the gun back into its holster and stepped daintily over the rapidly spreading red stain on the carpet even as his mind frantically worked its way to the only conclusion he could come up with.

Blake Lively had been in the room. With Leighton Meester.

Despite it all, Penn Badgley found himself smirking. Ed Westwick would not be pleased.

___________________________________________________________________________________

“It was a very bad idea.”

That was the fifth time Q had said those exact same words, and Leighton was getting tired of hearing it. She gave him a glare that he pointedly ignored, although he did step back, out of range of her heels. He was, after all, a prudent man.

“It was not entirely my fault,” she snapped at him, and his slowly raised eyebrow infuriated her even more. He glanced at her, noting the tight defensiveness in her eyes, and sighed, his shoulders rising and falling.

“Perhaps it was a mistake to concentrate all my attention on Lively,” he said slowly. “I miscalculated – I was too busy making sure that she wasn’t followed –“ or about to betray you again, he added silently, “ – to ensure that the hotel was not compromised. I apologize.”

“Just make sure it doesn’t happen again,” she replied, surprising him at how quickly she was mollified. But then again, he mused, her current temper was not entirely because of the attack in the hotel, was it? It was because of what happened before the attack.

“And how did the long anticipated reunion go?” he asked dryly, because curiosity quite often overcame prudence, but also because he was pretty sure she could not reach his leg from that far. She might kick me. Oops.

He edged back a little more, just in case.

Her eyes tracked his movement, narrowing even more, and then, with a long sigh, she deflated. “It went pretty badly,” she admitted. “Blake’s mad at me.”

“Because…?”

“I didn’t try and call,” she replied simply, and just like that, the defensive walls were up again.

Q had known Leighton for quite some time, and so he knew that taking her side in this was precisely the wrong thing to do. Even though not taking her side might cause a sudden sharp pain in his foot.

“You can’t blame her entirely, you know. There were opportunities, as you recall. There were ways of getting in touch.”

“I know.” The guilt rose like bile in her throat, and she swallowed, not relishing the aftertaste. Of course she could have contacted Blake, but she did not, because...because a part of her was afraid that at the end of the day, she was just another job in Blake Lively’s career. Another encounter, nothing more.

I was afraid she had forgotten about me.

Several yards away, Q remained silent, his hands shoved deep in his pockets, his eyes watching her. She frowned at her feet, suddenly wishing that she had called, or something. Six months had passed with her waking up to the same burning question every day – did she miss me? Does she even think of me? And as difficult as that question was, another question emerged swiftly on its heels, dogging her like a hound on a trail.

Do I love her?

And after that question had surfaced, its inevitable companion came right along. Does she love me?

She shrugged, but the thoughts would not be discarded that easily. Nevertheless, she tried to shunt them from her mind, to focus on the more immediate problem. Someone had known where she was, and had attacked her. Probably the same someone who had killed Matthew Settle. I am done hiding. I’m not going to be chased or hunted down.

“What’s our next step?” she asked.

__________________________________________________________________________________

“She’ll be forced to contact me,” Edward Westwick said with utmost certainty in his voice. “It’s just a matter of time.”

They were in one of his other offices – not the one at Vauxhall Cross, because that would be just too stupid. The difficulty with working in a building full of intelligence officers was that everyone spied on everybody. There was no such thing as minding one’s own business. And what he was doing would certainly be frowned upon, considering the potential consequences of his actions.

He glanced at the pictures from the hotel’s security camera. The footage had been deleted – l ost, the story went, as a result of a glitch in the download process. All that remained were the pictures, frame after frame frozen in time.

The current picture he held showed two figures fleeing the carnage – one brunette, and one blonde. Now why the hell would Blake Lively be right beside Leighton Meester? That was the question, and the potential answers worried him immensely.

The original plan was now out the window, with little hope of salvaging it. The attack on Leighton was doomed to fail – a Kidon trained assassin would not fall to rank amateurs. It was merely a push in the right direction – to draw Leighton to call upon his assistance, and from there, to pull her strings until the rest of the plan was accomplished, with the end result being Blake Lively and Leighton Meester both dead, possibly even by each other’s hand. And with him, Edward Westwick, in possession of the identities of the people who wanted Matthew Settle dead, and the difficulties they would pose for him and his plans.

It was a good plan – one of his best. It was also a good plan now gone down the drain.

He had not expected to find Blake Lively in the same room as Leighton Meester.

“And what’s next?” Penn Badgley asked. He knew that Westwick was a little rattled by the fact that both targets appeared to be working together. Well, Penn decided, that is his problem, not mine. All I need is Blake Lively off my back for good.

“I’m thinking,” Edward Westwick snapped, and then froze so suddenly that Penn’s hand found its way to the grip of his gun before he realized that there was no immediate danger.

A beatific smile appeared on Edward Westwick’s face as he pulled his cellphone out. “Right on schedule,” he said, watching the vibrating device before flicking the call button.

“Mr. Q. I’ve been wondering when I would hear from you again.”

___________________________________________________________________________________

The Waldorf was a diesel powered motor yacht, almost fifty two feet long, custom built and a thing of beauty. It had two sizeable cabins, and the midships salon could be converted into a third, or so Q said pointedly when he walked into his own cabin and came out with a pillow and a blanket. The fore cabin was his, and the aft belonged to Leighton. It was parked at quite a distance from land, rocking slowly to the choppy waves, and the safety of the trackless waters of the sea was quite reassuring.

He had left to meet his contact – Blake did not know who, and neither Q nor Leighton had volunteered any information, which she understood, of course, and yet she felt oddly stung by Leighton’s reticence, as if her trust had yet to be earned.

She stood on deck, watching the waters, an unlighted cigarette in hand. The fog was rising again, reducing visibility to just a few hundred feet, and Blake shivered slightly against the cold. A slow breeze picked up, carrying the salty scent of the sea, and she felt it caress her skin, closing her eyes as it coiled phantom tendrils across her cheeks.

There were a lot of things to think about; who had attacked them, and their connection to Matthew Settle’s death, but try as she might, she could not direct her thoughts there at the moment. It felt like a betrayal of her former handler, her inability to focus on him, but she just could not do it. Something else intruded persistently, something that had been lurking in the fringes of her mind and took the brief respite from all the excitement to come to the fore.

Leighton.

She had imagined their reunion many times, and stupidly, the scene that had played in her mind was one right out of a Disney movie, with the two of them running towards each other before wrapping one another in a tight hug, with whispered words and kisses and tears. What had happened was completely different – what was supposed to be a happy reunion had turned into a fight that now seemed stupid and foolish.

But the words that she had uttered were the ones that lingered and taunted her for six months; words of doubt and fears born out of loneliness and the dark side of her imagination. Leighton could have contacted her…should have contacted her. But she had not, and in the silence that ensued Blake could only think that Leighton had moved on. That, coupled with the fear that she would never see Leighton again, had only given rise to a greater certainty that what she felt for Leighton was unrequited, born of a mere fling that had not lasted, that was doomed to fail from the very beginning.

The soft footfall of bare feet on the wooden deck reached her ears, and she turned to see Leighton walking towards her, a vision of beauty even with the heavy fog that hung like curtain drapes over the air. Blake bit her lip, her emotions churning inside her, and turned away.

“Blake.”

She did not turn even at the mention of her name, and Leighton felt a stab of hurt run through her. What did you expect? she told herself angrily. You were the one who did not even try to get in touch with her – of course she’s angry. She has every right to be.

“I’m sorry.”

Blake remained silent, but Leighton could tell that the blonde had tensed up. She had a fleeting desire to reach out for Blake, to wrap her arm around her shoulders and pull her close, but something stopped her. Instead, she moved beside the taller woman, and leaned against the deck wall.

“You were right.”

“Right about what?” Blake asked, turning her head slightly, but her eyes still avoided Leighton.

“I could have contacted you. I should have.”

“Why didn’t you?” It took all of her willpower not to keep her voice from breaking.

“You know why,” Leighton tried, but Blake was having none of it.

“You could have. We both know you could have, if you really wanted to. Q has a contact in Langley, and you had a fucking contract with Matthew. You never tried. You didn’t want to try.”

“I did. I – “

“You didn’t.”

Leighton bit her lip, feeling a sudden surge of irritation aimed at Blake. She wanted to scream, to release all her pent up frustration at one go. And another part of her wanted to turn on her heels and walk away.

“I’m sorry,” she said again, not knowing what else to say.

“So I’ve heard.” There was no hint of forgiveness in Blake’s voice, only hurt.

“I don’t know what to say to you.” That was true. What could she say? That she was afraid of trying? That she was afraid that Blake had decided to forget about her and move on? Saying that out loud, here, with Blake beside her…that could lead to her own fears being confirmed. And she did not want that. It would hurt too much.

She was afraid.

“You don’t have to say anything. I should have known that all you wanted was to use me.”

Leighton’s hand moved on its own accord, and the sharp sound of her palm striking Blake across her cheek echoed across the suddenly still waters, disappearing into the fog laden air. She stared at her hand, and the red welt now evident on the blonde’s pale skin, and her eyes took in the shock on Blake’s face.

Long fingers rose to touch the reddened skin softly.

“I’m…I’m sorry.” But Blake was already walking away.

___________________________________________________________________________________

It was an upscale restaurant in Knightsbridge, and from his seat in the corner booth, Q could see the famous Harrods building, framed against the darkness of the night by a series of expensive lighting. The food was remarkably good – the restaurant was Michelin star rated, after all.

Q had very good taste.

The faint clink of porcelain and china mingled with the murmurs of soft whispered conversations, punctuated occasionally by the sound of laughter.

Edward Westwick watched him carefully.

“Imagine my surprise at seeing Miss Meester in the company of a known CIA agent,” he said. “One might call it…troubling.”

Q took his time in replying, reaching for his glass and taking a sip of wine. A fine vintage – this would cost someone a pretty penny, he thought idly. Not me, he decided.

“There were…extenuating circumstances,” he replied. “Rest assured – confidentiality is our primary concern. That…and efficacy.”

Westwick acknowledged it graciously, hiding his relief well, but not well enough to escape Q’s sharp gaze. Still, the man had no reason to suspect that his relief was anything but genuine – which, incidentally, it was.

“And I have your continued assurance that the CIA will continue to remain ignorant of our business together?”

Q nodded, not even bothering to act insulted.

“And yet you tell me that the agent who was killed in London was in contact with your client,” Westwick observed, his tone carrying no inflection whatsoever.

“A different matter entirely. One that has no bearing on your position whatsoever.” Q was trapped, and he knew it. If he wanted information from Westwick, he would have to share some of his own.

“Mr. Settle made it very clear that he had no intention of prying into the identity of the person who had originally contracted my client’s services. He simply wished to know what exactly was recovered from the site, to facilitate an investigation of his own…into his own agency.”

So…Matthew Settle was prying, Westwick thought with a certain amount of satisfaction. Well, well, well…

“The CIA recently resurrected the Stargate Project,” he affirmed. “It would appear now that they did not intend for it to become public knowledge.”

“Did they?” Q was intrigued. “I see.”

“You understand the implications, of course.”

“Of course. The Stargate Project,” Q mused. “Interesting.” He caught the sudden gleam on Westwick’s face, and shrugged. “I have no intention of involving myself. Or my client.”

“I see.”

“Still…” Q reached for his glass again. “This does have serious consequences as to Blake Lively’s situation.”

“Which is why I feel it best that I meet her, personally.”

You want to turn her. Bastard. Q kept his thoughts to himself. “She will not go for it,” he said, and his warning contained a tone of finality. “Still…this is information that I must pass on, but it is information that requires…validation.”

“I have none to give. What I do have is other information.”

“Such as…?”

“Penn Badgley was seen in the country – a day after Matthew Settle’s untimely demise.”

__________________________________________________________________________________

She stared at the door for what seemed like the longest time, her hand rising up to knock on the lacquered wood at several intervals, only to drop down to her side, hanging uselessly. Leighton sighed, and bit her lip, before turning to walk away.

“I know you’re out there, Leight.”

She froze, and finally leaned heavily against the door, making it thud against its frame, before sinking down to the floor, wrapping her arms around her knees. “Yeah. I’m here.”

“Go away.”

“I…I can’t.”

Blake laughed, a bitter sounding laugh that tore at her throat. “You want to tell me why?” Silence greeted her question, and Blake felt a stir of sadness within her. “Of all the times you could have contacted me, Leight, why now? Because you need my help? Is that it? Am I just someone for you to use?”

“No.”

“Because it’s looking like that from my end. You need my help now…with Matthew and the CIA. So you’re using me.” She laughed bitterly. “I get it, you know.”

“I’m not.” She sounded like she was about to cry, but Leighton did not care. The tears blurred her vision, stinging her eyes, but she refused to wipe them away. “I’m not, Blake. And I would never…never use you.”

“Then why?” Why didn’t you try to contact me?

“Because…” Leighton hesitated, the lump in her throat returning. “Because…” She fell silent. “I don’t know how to say it, Blake. I really don’t.”

“Try.”

“When I left…I thought I would never see you again. I wanted to…I really did. But it was too risky. And as time passed, I guess I thought you would have forgotten me.” She smiled at that, a sardonic curve of her lips, accompanied by a shake of her head. “I thought you would have…found some other girl. Or guy. I was scared that when I contacted you…I would find out that you had moved on.”

“I betrayed my country for you.”

“What?” Leighton lifted her head, puzzlement crossing her face at the sudden change in conversation.

“I betrayed my country, my oath. I had you, Leight. I could have taken you down. And you know what? If I had taken you in – if I had done what I was sent to do, Matthew would not have died.”

Leighton froze.

“I’m not mad, Leighton. Not about that. No one could know that would happen. But yeah…think about that, Leight. Think about that for a second before you ask whether I had moved on.”

The guilt bubbled up again, stronger than ever. Wordlessly, Leighton rose, and walked away.

___________________________________________________________________________________

“That’s impossible!”

“Improbable, perhaps,” Q replied. “Not impossible. The CIA has killed its own before.”

“Double agents, yes. Traitors,” and for some reason, she glanced at Leighton, who turned away. “Not those loyal to them.”

He sighed. It seemed odd that espionage agents would display naivety, but then again, it was not hard to see why. In a shadowy world where secrecy and manipulation was rampant, they needed a firm foundation to hold on to – a certainty that their superiors would not betray them, even in the face of the double dealings said superiors had engaged in. It was a belief that was held and cherished closely; a sanctity of sorts in a world where lies were told and retold until nothing was quite certain any more.

“I am only telling you what my contact told me.”

“You’re not telling me who your contact is,” she replied quickly.

Irritated, he did not bother to hide his disdain. “If your boss tells you that he received information from his contact, you don’t question that, do you? The only difference here is that you don’t work for me.”

Blake was silent at that, her face closing up with startling rapidity, refusing to meet his eye. She stared at her hands, twisting her fingers together. She felt helpless again – lost and helpless, alone in the face of possibilities that threatened to overwhelm her with their complexities and implications.

In any other situation, she would have orders, and she would follow them. There was always someone to give her orders. But this was different – this was an investigation she had embarked on her own, without the backing of the CIA, and so she had lost her anchor and was now adrift in the sea of uncertainty. And she felt like she was about to drown.

“I don’t know what to do,” Blake whispered, and Leighton heard the vulnerability in her voice. A part of her yearned to reach out, to touch and to comfort, but she was not sure how Blake would react to that. She would pull away again, she thought with certainty. And if she did – even the barest possibility of that occurring wrenched her heart inside her chest.

Q started to speak, caught the warning look on Leighton’s face, and softened his tone. “You can always…”

“I will not defect.” That much she knew. She was loyal – am I, really? I let Leighton escape, in direct violation of standing orders. How is that loyal?

Q hesitated. “There is,” he rumbled, “Another possible course of action.”

The sudden hope springing up on Blake Lively’s face as she looked at him made him pity her even more.

“An assassin, Penn Badgley, was seen in London on the same day as Matthew Settle’s murder.”

“Penn Badgley,” she repeated. “I know the name.”

Of course you do, Q thought to himself. We used him to expose you. He could say nothing about that, of course.

“He killed Matthew Settle?”

“That is a possibility,” he allowed slowly. “Nothing concrete, of course. Just something from an unknown contact.”

“Then I’ll have to find him,” she said.

“Not alone,” Leighton broke in suddenly, speaking for the first time during the impromptu meeting. “I’ll go with you.”

“I can handle it,” Blake replied, her tone stony. Q blinked, sensing trouble, and decided that the prudent course would be to withdraw.

And so he did, discreetly as always.

“You can’t go after this assassin alone,” Leighton started.

“I can and I will,” Blake replied, not even looking at Leighton. It was cruel, and petty, and oddly satisfying, for some reason. “I don’t need your help, Leighton.” Something rose within her, and she turned her gaze at the other woman. “I don’t need you.”

That was needlessly cruel, and she knew it immediately; the sudden stricken look on Leighton’s face making her regret the words the moment they left her mouth. I’m sorry, Blake wanted to say, but once again, she remembered the imprint of a smaller palm on the side of her face, recalling the slap above decks earlier. She deserves it, Blake thought savagely, using the anger to overcome the guilt.

She stood up, and there was Leighton, right in front of her, blocking her way.

“I’m not letting you go alone,” she said firmly.

“Get out of my way,” Blake said acidly. “Now.”

There was a hint of a gleam of challenge in Leighton’s eyes. “No.”

“Move.”

Leighton smiled, but it was a mocking smile. “Make. Me.” She followed it with a smirk, calculated precisely to drive Blake over the edge.

The blow took her by surprise, almost taking her head off, and she stumbled to the side, searing pain against her cheek, the skin burning. She reacted instinctively, diving low and driving an elbow into Blake’s stomach.

___________________________________________________________________________________

All I need now is a paying audience, Q mused silently from behind the door in his cabin. CIA agents were trained in hand to hand combat, and Blake Lively was supposedly very good at it. And Leighton was Mossad trained, which meant intensive Krav-Maga.

He briefly flirted with the idea of peeking, but decided against it. Instead, he reached for his paperwork, busying himself.

He winced when he heard a heavy thud against the wall, looked up for a brief moment, and returned to his papers.
___________________________________________________________________________________

“You’re a bitch, Leighton,” Blake snarled, her forearm pressed against the smaller woman’s chest, pinning her against the wall, her other hand struggling to pin Leighton’s left hand against her body. She felt a sharp blow on her side – the other hand, she realized belatedly – and felt her grip slip.

“I said I was sorry!” She pushed Blake away, watching the blonde warily, taking a step forward, her hands held loosely by her sides, making her deceptively unprepared. “How many fucking times do you want me to say it?”

“Screw you.” Blake straightened, ignoring the protesting muscles in her body as she readied herself for another round of blows. “All you had to do was send one message, Leight. One message! Was that too much to ask?”

“I wanted to!”

“But you did not!” She struck, and Leighton ducked neatly below her outswinging arm, but Blake was prepared, flooring the brunette with a hard kick to the midsection. She leapt immediately, clambering over Leighton’s prone body to straddle her, holding her wrists down, effectively pinning Leighton down on the floor. “And all I want to know is why, Leighton. Why?” she asked.

Her tears dripped down on Leighton’s face, where it mingled with the streak of tears on her cheeks.

“I’ve told you already.” Even pinned down, Leighton managed to look defiant and unyielding.

“You were scared that I would forget you? How dumb can you be?” Did you miss me? “Why didn’t you try, Leighton? Why?”

“Because I wanted to forget you!” The words came out with a choked sob, spoken with such force that the air seemed alive with sheer emotion, unbridled and untamed. “Because I miss you, and I need you, and I thought I would never see you again! Because I wanted to be with you, and every second that I was not with you killed me! Because I knew we could not be together, and if I contacted you, I would be deluding myself about something that could never happen! Because I was scared that even if we met again, you would have forgotten about me, or worse…you would not feel what I feel for you!”

Leighton looked away, as if embarrassed by her admission. As Blake watched, she heard her say softly, “You never even said that you missed me.”

It felt like a punch to the gut, and she felt the last vestiges of anger dissipate into nothingness.

“I missed you,” Blake said suddenly, breaking the silence between them. “So much. I thought about you every day, Leight. Every goddamned day, I wondered. I couldn’t try and look for you, but I wanted to do it. All I wanted was to see you again.” She laughed suddenly through the free falling tears, but it came out like a choking cough. “I couldn’t forget you even if I tried.” She leaned down, bringing her face close to Leighton’s tear streaked cheeks.

“I told you…I’ll not say it, ever.” And there was no need to say what it was.

It was a kiss, but so much more than a kiss. It was soft, and yet it tasted of pain and fear and insecurity, of grief and suffering. It felt as soft as velvet, as sharp as a knife, as perfect as a cut diamond, as hot as the burning sun upon bare skin. It was gentle, yet rough, with a female tang that cut through the bonds of insecurity. It seemed to moor the both of them to the floor, holding both in place, wrapping them against each other. It was freedom, and the abdication of all guilt and capacity for guilt. It felt like forgiveness, and understanding, and want…such terrible want that lurked within the savage innocence of it. It was the loss of all identity and self awareness…the chaining of the body and the freedom of the soul. It was all of that, and it was so much more than that.

It was all that, and so much more.

___________________________________________________________________________________

Darkness found them beside each other, wrapped in sheets of soft cotton, Leighton’s head resting on Blake’s arm, her fingers lightly caressing the blonde’s bare tummy. Blake closed her eyes, and opened them again to study Leighton’s face. She reached forward, a finger stroking the brunette’s forehead, tucking a stray strand of dark hair behind her ear.

“You’re beautiful,” she whispered softly. Leighton smiled, and leaned up, her kiss lightly brushing against the line of Blake’s jaw. “So are you,” she whispered in reply. “The most beautiful person I’ve ever seen in my entire life.” It was a well worn line, used by countless people through time immemorial, but it was as true now as the first time it was ever said. This was a moment of truth, where lies and false flattery had no place, where the darkness and the closeness of their bodies laid all bare.

“I’m sorry,” Blake said, her finger lightly tracing along a bruise on Leighton’s shoulder. My work, she knew. “I shouldn’t have…”

Leighton silenced her quickly, a finger placed upon her lips. “Don’t apologize. It’s over…all in the past.” She leaned in closer, her body basking in the answering warmth of the blonde’s, the sheets pressed tightly against their skin. “I hurt you too.” It was said simply, with no hint of defensiveness. And there was something else unsaid with that sentence – I hurt you in more ways than one, beyond these bruises on your skin.

Outside, the clouds had opened, and rain poured down, droplets pattering incestuously with the sea, drizzles tapping at the window. Within the cabin, the scent of the sea lingered, perfuming the air with its saltiness, a welcome change from the smog of the city. Pale moonlight filtered down through the rain, making each droplet sparkle as the light passed through, adding individuality to each and every drop. In the sky, the moon wore a dress of transparent clouds that trailed by her side as she bestowed her grace upon a slumbering world.

Blake smiled, shifting her body and bringing it even closer to Leighton’s. She could feel Leighton’s heart pressed against her skin, a steady beat that calmed her, yet reminded her once again of the recent fight with the woman beside her. “Are we okay?” she asked. It was a question that had to be faced, and the words hung in the air, heavy with the potential of future conflict, threatening to disrupt the calmness that now pervaded the room and the bed they shared.

Leighton considered for a moment. There were issues still, but they seemed inconsequential right here, when she was beside Blake, a distant memory, to be dealt with as it came. The moment…this moment…was perfect, or as close to perfection as she would ever imagine. But as perfect as it was, there remained some things that had to be shared – things reserved for moments like this, when the soul was laid bare to the other; two people brought together in an intimacy beyond anything physical could ever accomplish.

“I was alone, before I met you. And when I did…” she shrugged, the movement displacing the blanket covering her shoulder. Blake reached out and pulled it back up, a simple act that brought a lump to Leighton’s throat. “Six months without you, Blake…were six months of torture. I was alone again. But that was not the worst part, because I’ve been alone before. The worst part was knowing that you were out there. Knowing that there was someone who could…cure my loneliness, and knowing that I could not be with you.”

“Knowing that there was someone out there for you,” Blake said, her eyes catching Leighton’s, bright and blue and knowing. “And knowing that that someone was not there beside you. Could not be there beside you.”

“Precisely,” Leighton whispered. “I can’t…I can’t go back to that, Blake. I can’t be alone any more.”

“You won’t be,” Blake replied, and her embrace tightened. “I won’t leave you. Not any more.” It dawned upon her that it was a promise that she should not make; a promise that she could not make. But she meant it, she realized, despite what that would mean for her, and for Leighton. “I won’t leave you. And…you can’t leave me too.” Don’t leave me again. It was a silent plea, a plea she could not say out loud, because it was too terrifying a prospect to bring to life in this warm darkness.

“I won’t,” Leighton promised. “I’ll not say it ever, too.” She smiled, and kissed Blake. This time, it was chaste, filled with promise and hope, like the first rays of the sun of a new day, aching in its fragility, yet firm in its resolve. “I’ll not say it…ever again.”

“Promise?”

Leighton looked into Blake’s eyes, catching the helplessness that lay within, the girl behind the steely intelligence agent, the innocence hidden within layer after layer of armor now stripped away. She gazed inwards, seeing and feeling all, in the full and certain knowledge that she was laid as naked as Blake now was, that she was open and exposed, her own weaknesses and fears uncovered. And as their eyes met, she felt a wild warmth steal into her like an ebullient catalyst that pulled at her heart and left her breath hanging in her throat.

“I promise.” She leaned in, and Blake met her halfway, lips parted, losing all identity once again as the kiss drew them in.

___________________________________________________________________________________

There were too many questions that needed answers, but there was one thing Q was certain off – Edward Westwick was somehow involved in the attack at the Montcalm. The reasoning behind this certainty was simple; Q knew for a fact that there had been four gunmen. He had sources in the Metropolitan Police, and an early incident report had passed into his hands. Four bodies had been found – three in the room, and one more at the elevator lobby.

So if there had been four, why had Edward Westwick seen fit to agree with his assertion that there had merely been three? It was too big a fact for an intelligent specialist such as Westwick to gloss over – Westwick knew. And had chosen not to pass it on to Q, which could only mean that the man was involved in this, somehow.

He could not trust MI6 any longer, which meant that England was no longer safe refuge for Leighton. Nor was it, for that matter, any safer for Blake Lively. In any case, judging from the sounds he had heard during the night, it would be difficult to part both women from each other.

Still, there remained the matter at hand – Matthew Settle’s death, and the attack on the Montcalm, and the connection between both incidents, not to mention the elusive question of who had killed the fourth gunman at the Montcalm? Could it have been Westwick? No – the man was not one to get his hands dirty. So Westwick had a pet killer of his own. That would certainly be in keeping with his judgment of the man.

They would protest, of course, at the course of action he was about to propose, but he could see no other option. It was too dangerous for the both of them. He would continue the investigation alone, and inform them…later?

He turned suddenly from his position on deck. Around him, the world became a crystal of horror, the special horror that has nothing to do with brandished guns or ghosts but had everything to do with the familiar becoming unfamiliar.

Something fundamental was wrong.

It took a few dreadful seconds for his mind to supply the details of what his subconscious had noticed, but by then it was too late.

___________________________________________________________________________________

Penn Badgley rested his foot against the deck of his boat, bobbing up and down in the distance, a lighted cigarette in hand, and blew smoke into the early morning air. It wafted away to disappear in the distance as a gentle sea breeze carried it away, but by then his attention had been diverted.

The explosion was impressive – splinters of wood and steel rained down from the sky even at this distance. The Waldorf was reduced to a fiery wreck, with an impressive plume of flame and thick oily smoke rising into the air.

Edward Westwick would not be pleased, but Penn did not particularly care. Assassins are known for their patience, but not when they were the ones being hunted. In that particular case, assassins preferred a quick solution. Westwick’s plan had sounded good on the outset, certainly, but the sudden appearance of Blake Lively at Meester’s side had derailed it, and while Westwick had said that he would take this new fact into consideration, Badgley had taken it to be a sign that he would have to take care of things by himself. And so he had, he thought with grim satisfaction.

A shame about Meester though – he had his own plans for her, but she was collateral damage, and they would understand. But then again, they did not actually know that he was after her, and so…why bother with informing them of failure that could easily be glossed over in his report?

In any case, he had other business to attend to now. Loose ends of his own to tie up.

He smiled, and set out for harbor.

___________________________________________________________________________________

“No! No no no!” she screamed, her eyes searching for any sign of him, the salt water stinging them, but she got nothing for her efforts. “Q!” she yelled out, her legs kicking under her, her arms paddling the water in a desperate bid to keep herself afloat. “Q!”

“Are you all right?” Blake asked, wading beside her, matted blonde hair plastered to the side of her face. “Leighton!” she yelled, reaching out for the other woman, her fingers sinking into Leighton’s arms. The water was not particularly cold, but she could feel the other woman trembling.

“Q. Where’s Q?” she stammered, her tears mingling with the salt water splattered on her face. “Where is he?”

“You’re bleeding,” Blake said, watching another trickle of blood run down the side of Leighton’s face. “We need to go, Leight. Now!”

“Not without Q!”

Matthew. Blake blinked suddenly at the memory, and mentally shook herself. “We need to go!” she said insistently.

“Not without Q!” Leighton said stubbornly, shaking her head. “Q!” she yelled, her eyes searching around, her heart knowing she would not find him. “Q!”

“He’s gone, Leighton! He’s gone…” Blake pulled the other woman close. “He’s gone…” she whispered into Leighton’s ear, and felt the other woman grow still against her, so that Blake had to wrap her arms around Leighton, her legs kicking even harder now that she had to keep the both of them afloat.

“He can’t be…he can’t…” The shock in Leighton’s voice scared even her. “He can’t be,” she said, mostly to herself, but she knew the truth of the matter.

Q was gone.

“Leighton!” The man’s shout had roused them both, and the sudden panic in his voice had sent them running to deck, uncaring about the fact that they were both underdressed. She had seen him there, had seen the fear on his face turn into determination, and then Q had reached for her, pulling her into the one man capsule he kept for specific emergencies such as this. She had not understood then, had simply watched as he pushed Blake in behind her. It was a tight fit, she remembered thinking to herself.


“Don’t trust Westwick,” the man had said, sounding oddly calm. “And hide – as far away as you can,” and then he had closed the hatch. He had smiled then, and that was when she understood. She saw him mouth one word… “Hide.” And then another word.


Goodbye.


And then the world went to hell, once again.

The capsule had kept them safe from the blast, but as it shook, the tight quarters had forced Leighton’s head painfully against one of the sharper edges, cutting a jagged line across the side of her forehead, but by then she was past caring. She watched the ship explode, and felt the cold grip of fear around her heart.

Q was dead. He had died to save her – he had saved her, on countless occasions, and this one.

And now he was dead.

Q…Q’s gone.

___________________________________________________________________________________

The Mercedes-Benz 600 is one of the types of cars favored by people who could afford to have powerful enemies. Already heavy, and with a powerful engine, it could easily carry the additional weight of almost a thousand pounds of Kevlar armor embedded in vital areas, and the thick thermoplastic laminated glass windows could stop a.30 round caliber machinegun round. The tires were filled with foam, not air, and thus would not flatten very quickly. It was an old model, but one that Q had lovingly maintained to new car condition.

But Q was gone, and so Blake drove, with Leighton sitting silently beside her, leaning against the door, her eyes glancing out at the London streets. She felt oddly hollow inside, and was grateful for it; better emptiness than grief.

Blake understood. The blonde had remained quiet for the most part through their journey here, offering no condolences, only short questions and answers when appropriate. They had managed, somehow, to get to shore, and from there…Q always had contingency plans, and Leighton knew who to contact and where to go. And now here they were.

It was the same car, she realized suddenly. The same car that he drove me in when we went to France. She turned to Blake, remembering with a sudden stab of pain that Q had once sat there. The man had loved this car – he had never once allowed Leighton to drive it. Her lips curved upwards at the memory.

Blake turned slightly, and noticed the smile, but somehow the blonde knew it was not being directed towards her. She smiled in return, not saying a word, and returned her attention to the road. She knew how it must be for Leighton – Q, she realized, had been to Leighton what Matthew had been to her. Perhaps even more, for Q had accompanied Leighton frequently, from what she could tell. Losing him must hurt her even more.

“We’re here,” she said out loud, breaking the silence between them. Here was a converted shophouse in the Burlington Arcade, a century old promenade of shops off the most fashionable part of Piccadilly. There was no sign out front, and the windows had the blinds pulled down, revealing nothing of what lay within.

Leighton started – she had not been paying attention to the journey. She glanced around, taking in the surroundings, and nodded to herself. “Wait here,” she said, stepping out of the car and walking onwards. She moved purposefully and disappeared into the door. Blake waited, glancing about carefully. They were being hunted, and she did not like being out in the open.

Leighton returned to the car. “Garage…to the left,” she said simply, and Blake nodded, driving the car onwards.

It was a safehouse, one of the few Q had prepared for any client who needed a brief stopover prior to a quick escape. It was ancient, and had the sort of smell that reminded Leighton of old musty bookstores with a bespectacled owner who blinked owlishly, and row after row of rare books. It was decorated in a turn of the century motif, and pride of place had to be given to an old teak desk, behind which sat a cushionless swivel chair.

“There’s clothes, money. “ Leighton paused, and glanced at Blake, her eyes oddly bright. “Guns.”

Blake stared, and sat down on one of the upholstered sofas. “What are we going to do?” she asked. We, Leighton noted silently.

“We have names,” she replied. “Penn Badgley. Edward Westwick. We find them.” She moved to the desk, reaching into the drawers and pulling out a set of keys.

“And then?” Blake asked, unnecessarily, because she already knew the answer.

“We kill them.”

Leighton walked out through one of the doors, and after a moment’s hesitancy, Blake followed through the door down a hall to a small windowless room that was paneled up to waist height, with white plaster and framed pictures above. She watched as Leighton walked to a full sized portrait of a man on a horse, wearing the distinctive red of English cavalrymen, and touched the frame. It swung open easily, revealing a safe door built into the wall itself.

“Leight…” she stopped, uncertain of how to continue. She knew how the diminutive woman was feeling, having felt much the same way before. She understood, better than Leighton realized. And she had the benefit of hindsight, which would make what she had to say all the much harder.

“We can’t rush into anything,” she started, and flinched a little when Leighton shut the safe door with a loud snap. She did not, however, turn around. Blake took that as a sign to continue.

“I know what you’re feeling right now, Leight. Trust me…I’ve been there. But if there’s one thing I know, it’s that we can’t rush into things right now. We should wait. We need more information…we need a plan.” She took a step forward, and then another. “We can’t just jump into this without thinking.”

“Think all you want, Blake.” Leighton’s voice was cold and flat. “I’m done thinking. Or waiting. I know who did this, and I intend to make him pay.”

“You don’t know anything!” Blake replied. “All Q said was not to trust Westwick. I don’t even know who Westwick is!”

“He’s the man I’m going to kill.”

“You don’t even know whether he was responsible for the explosion, Leighton,” Blake reasoned as calmly as she could. “You don’t know anything!”

“And you do?” Leighton asked, raising a skeptical eyebrow. “I’m going to do something, Blake. I can’t just walk around London like some lost puppy wondering what to do next, like you did!” She bit her lip, suddenly glad that Blake could not see the regret on her face. The other woman’s sharp intake of breath at her words was like a knife stroke against her heart, but the regret she felt at the cutting edge of her words was dulled by the need to lash out. That was what grief did when kept inside – it made you lash out at the nearest target of opportunity.

Blake stood still for a moment, stunned at hearing Leighton’s words. She closed her eyes. She’s hurting, and she’s mad, she reminded herself. It didn’t help, not much. It still hurt, hearing that from Leighton of all people.

“How could you say that?” she asked, her voice suddenly soft. The other woman kept her back to her, refusing to turn around. Blake waited for a few seconds, and then walked away.

Leighton turned suddenly, and hurried after her.

“Blake – wait!”

“What for? So you can insult me some more, Leighton?” Blake kept on walking, pushing Leighton’s hands away as she tried to reach for her arm. “Gonna say that you’re sorry again?” she asked.

Leighton stood still for a moment. “But I am…” she said helplessly.

Blake whirled around, her hair whipping behind her. “You always seem to be – but only after you say what you did! Every time…’I’m sorry, Blake’, but you keep doing it over and over again!” She paused, noting with perverse satisfaction the stricken look of regret now showing on Leighton’s face. “I know you’re hurting, Leight,” she continued relentlessly, “But that doesn’t give you the right to hurt me as well!”

“I know…” Leighton looked smaller than she usually did, and as Blake watched, she seemed to shrink even more. “I…I am sorry. I didn’t think before speaking. I should have…” She took a step forward, her eyes looking imploringly at Blake. “Forgive me.”

Blake stared back at her. “Why does it seem,” she started, “like you’re still trying to push me away?”

Leighton’s eyes widened. “I…I’m not!”

She’s hurting. She just lost someone too, Blake reminded herself again. “Let’s…let’s not do this right now, okay? Just…let’s just take a break from this…” She waved her hands aimlessly in the air, and then turned and walked away.

“Blake…” Leighton tried, but the blonde ignored her. And for her part, Leighton just watched her walk away again.
___________________________________________________________________________________

Is she right? Am I still trying to push her away?

She sat down in her chair, and placed her face in her hands, using the heels of her palms to press the hollows of her eyes, red rimmed and raw from crying. First Q…now this, she thought bitterly. It felt distinctly unfair to her, the way things were turning out. It was supposed to be happy – she and Blake had finally reunited, had finally been together after what had seemed like forever, and then the explosion, and Q…her mind shied away from the word, refusing even to contemplate it for fear of triggering another bout of tears.

Why do I keep saying the wrong thing?

She had been lashing out – that she knew. But why? I wish Q was here, she thought suddenly, feeling the sadness wash over her like the tide on the sand again. He would tell me what to do. But he wasn’t – he could no longer advise her any more.

Q was gone.

The man had been with her ever since her departure from Kidon. He was younger then, a small timer, just starting out. He had acquired her name somehow, and had convinced her to work with him. He had understood…understood why she could do what she had been trained to do by the Israelis. Why she could not kill…not in cold blood. And he had taken her in, had arranged work for her unique skills that did not involve the actual deed – petty theft, soon graduating to classier contracts.

She needed him, and she had not realized it until right now.

I have lost a friend. Now that was a bitter thought, and the mere flash of the man’s face in her mind’s eye stabbed at her heart once again. But what could she do? Avenge him? What would that achieve, at the end of it? Would it bring him back?

It would not. And revenge, she knew, would not bring her peace.

Revenge is like acid, someone had told her once. It burns the vessel that contains it.

Blake was right. She had to take a step back; she had to think before she acted. Simply reacting to a situation was not the best way to deal with this, especially so soon after the onset of loss and grief. Blake was right, and I hurt her because I knew she was.

She laughed bitterly. I knew it would hurt her. That’s why I said it in the first place. Now what kind of person does that make me?

She needed to see Blake; she knew that much. And this time, she would think before she spoke. Q would have wanted her to.

“He’s offering you a clean slate, Leighton. Do you know what that means? You can start anew, without anything to hold you back.” He had smiled then, and then leaned forward. “You can go to America – you can find Blake Lively, and who knows?” He chuckled. “Maybe you can do the chasing this time round.”

Even then, he had known that she missed Blake, when she did not want to admit it to herself.

Even then, he had known that she loved Blake Lively. He had not said as much, but he knew, and she knew that he did.

What was she going to do now? Revenge? All she knew was that Westwick was not to be trusted – did that immediately mean that he was behind Q’s death? And if she went after him, and it turned out that he was not – what would happen then? And Q…what would Q want her to do?

Hide, he had said. Hide – as far away as you can.

I’m sorry, Q. But I can’t hide. Not any more.

________________________________________________________________________

“So…you’ve killed Leighton Meester and Blake Lively.” Edward Westwick stared at the assassin in front of him. “And now,” he observed neutrally, “You’re here to kill me.”

“Loose ends,” the man replied coolly. “The Americans are paying extra for your death.”

“And yet…” Westwick observed with a smile, completely calm, “Why do I sense a proposition coming my way?”

Arrogant bastard, Penn Badgley thought to himself. But a wily arrogant bastard. And, he reminded himself, a very dangerous man.

“Call it curiosity,” he said.

“And what are you curious about, pray tell?” Westwick asked, leaning forward and watching Badgley with a steady eye that betrayed nothing of what he must be feeling. He’s not afraid at all, Badgley thought with sudden clarity.

“The Stargate Project.”

“Ah…” Westwick’s eyes gleamed in satisfaction. “Tell me, Mr. Badgley…who are you really working for?”

He knows, Badgley thought suddenly, his heart pounding in his chest. He glanced at Westwick, wondering how he had lost control so suddenly and so quickly, without him even realizing it. “The Israeli Bureau of Scientific Liaison,” Badgley replied. A very dangerous man, he thought again.

“So I see,” the man replied, unsurprised. “And what is it you wish to know of the Stargate Project?”

The man seemed unnaturally calm and unexcited, as if he had been expecting this all along. What if he had? Penn asked himself suddenly. His entry into Westwick’s private residence had been remarkably easy, he realized. Almost as if he had been invited in.

“I know what it is, and so does my employer. Remote viewing, the Americans call it. Our efforts to penetrate the Americans have not been successful. And when we heard of your efforts…well, consider this an olive branch from my director.” He reached into his jacket, watching Westwick carefully. The man did not react in the slightest. Slowly, Badgley pulled his Beretta out, and slid the magazine out, placing it with exaggerated care on the table. He popped the single remaining bullet from the chamber, and then laid the now empty gun on the table beside it.

Edward Westwick did not bat an eyelid.

“As I said, Mr. Westwick…we are aware of what the Stargate Project is about – remote viewing, among other things. The question is this – what are the Americans so interested in viewing?”

Edward Westwick smiled, and leaned back into his chair. His eyes were at odds with how relaxed he seemed to be – guarded, and contemplating. He remained silent for a long time, and Badgley was about to repeat the question when he spoke.

“That which is not dead which can eternal lie, Mr. Badgley,” Westwick replied with a smooth smile, leaning forward again. “And in strange aeons even death may die.”

Conversation in the car when this song comes on.

My girlfriend (She Who Shall Not Be Named) turning to me... "This should be our song."

Me (Innocent, lowly intern, battered boyfriend)... "You do realize that this is a sad song, right?"

The Wicked Witch of the West aka my girlfriend... "I know."

Me (puzzled and wondering if we had inadvertently broke up without me knowing)... "Okay...?"

Queen of Darkness, Mistress of Night aka my girlfriend... "I just happen to like this song. You can sing it if I ever break up with you."

Me (currently sporting a WTF look on my face)... "What makes you think YOU will be the one doing the breaking up?"

She who snores so loudly that Cthulhu himself would awaken... "Because I love you more than you love me."

Me (completely and utterly lost and in need of a yellow brick road, or at least a GPS)... "That makes absolutely no sense."

Evil Blair Waldorf wannabe aka girlfriend... "Love doesn't have to make sense."

Me (really, really LOST right now. Matthew Fox would be proud)... "You've gone bloody mad."

She who walks in Darkness, never to touch the light again... "I love you too."

And then she bloody shuts up with that self satisfied smirk on her face, refusing to answer any of my admittedly frantic questions.

What the bloody hell???