AUTHOR: vatwoman

RATING: FRT

SUMMARY: A Peter Salter (‘Spooks’) ABH. Sequel to ‘This Mask To Hide My Scars’

ACKNOWLEDGEMENT: BBC owns Salter/Spooks. The title of the story is a line from the song ‘The Saddest Song I’ve Got’ by Annie Lennox. No copyright infringement intended.

FEEDBACK: Yes please, via the group or at vatwoman@yahoo.co.uk

When you allow yourself to imagine this, you always imagine it happening because you haven’t remembered to follow the rules. Haven’t remembered to ignore your real name. Haven’t remembered to ignore people you know. Haven’t remembered that it will be the simplest thing that will catch you out.

Is a reflection on glass a simple thing? The physics of it is beyond you, so perhaps it doesn’t count. Perhaps it’s the most complicated thing there is, and it’s alright to stand here staring at his reflection in the storefront window, as he stares at yours.

He says your real name, mouths it - he doesn’t know your name here - and you shiver.

His lips form ‘I’m sorry’ - apologising for the simple act of looking at you when he shouldn’t even acknowledge that you exist - and you move your head in a gesture as like a nod as shock-tightened muscles can manage.

His reflection blooms, becomes unfocused, and disappears. You wait a few moments, then turn around to face an empty street.

It’s been five years since you last saw him. You wonder how it can seem as if it was only yesterday.

>>>>>>

There’s no part of you that’s surprised at the idea of finding him on your porch, and yet every single part of you is shocked to actually see him standing there.

"Are you here because of me?"

"No," he shakes his head, smiling. "Even spies have holidays."

You laugh, and then stop. This is new. Something new. Laughing with this man.

"Do you know how many rules I’ve broken by just standing here?" He asks.

"About as many as I’ll break the moment I let you in."

You step aside.

>>>>>>

Physical presence is an odd thing. So little of it is about the way a person looks, and so much of it is about the way a person is.

He has a walk. He has a way of holding himself. He has a stillness. It’s this about him that you realise you carry with you, his stillness. Not the sound of his voice, or the taste of his lips, or the feel of his body inside yours.

"How old are they now?" He stands looking at the photograph of the twins. "Four?" He glances at you, catches your nod, and then back to the picture, "They look very like you."

"Yes, they do, but they have their father’s smile."

"Where are they?"

"With my mother. They’re staying overnight."

He turns, faces you, frowning, "Your mother was put in Witness Protection with you? Your file didn’t say."

You nod, "She was the only family either of us had. She was too vulnerable to be left behind." Your frown matches his, "It’s been hard on her, leaving her friends and her home."

"No less hard on you."

"I have the girls to keep me occupied."

"And friends?"

"Acquaintances, perhaps." You roll off any hint of self-pity with a shrug and a smile, and the madness of it hits as fierce and as all consuming as your memory of it. "So much of that time seems like a dream, but it wasn’t, was it? You were shot."

You step up to him and reach out, taking hold of his shirt. The feel of it, the warmth of his body still on it, is real.

And it’s still madness as you push up the shirt and the undershirt beneath it. He holds them for you, as he did before, and you place your hand on the scar.

He drops his shirts back into place leaving you still touching his body. He presses his hand onto yours, the clothes between you, his voice a whisper, "It’s healed. So have you."

>>>>>>

Lying awake in his arms you wonder if you should tell him that he’s wrong, that sometimes the pain is still too much to bear, but you know there’s no need. He knows.

>>>>>>

"What is this?" Heads close together on the pillow, your smile tells him what you’re talking about: where you are. What you’ve just done.

"Remembering. And letting go." He closes his eyes as he says this, and you know he’s recalling the same gossamer-snared memories that once in a while let you smile your way into dawn.

"I didn’t realise I’d been holding on." And you hadn’t, so you smile again - your words a surprise - as pale, early sunlight caresses you both.

He looks as bewildered as you, even though this revelation had come to him first, "Neither did I."

>>>>>>

"Is there someone in your life?"

"No." He hesitates and tries again, "Yes."

You smile, enjoying his sudden embarrassment, "What’s she like?"

"Very pretty. Very idealistic. Committed." He has the grace to blush, "Very young."

"Do you love her?" You hold his stare, daring him not to answer.

"I think so. Don’t have much of a life to offer her, though." He grimaces and reaches out to cup your cheek in his palm. "Sorry, that was thoughtless."

You cover his hand with yours, "But human. Life’s for the living. Have you told her how you feel about her?"

"No."

"Do it."

>>>>>>

He leaves the bathroom door open so he can talk to you, and you see him there, staring blindly at his reflection in the mirror: his careworn face, his tired eyes. Recognition makes you weep: he’s lost. More lost than you have ever been.

He borrows a toothbrush, and when he finishes with it he tucks it carefully into the pocket of his jacket.

He’s going again - going, and leaving nothing of himself behind.

>>>>>>

In years to come, when you allow yourself to imagine this again, you know you’ll imagine it happened because you didn’t remember to follow the rules. Didn’t remember to ignore your real name. Didn’t remember to ignore someone you knew. Didn’t remember that it would be the simplest thing that would catch you out.

He takes his leave of you in silence - as before - and the pain of him going is hard in your chest, and in your throat.

And he has a walk. And a way of holding himself.

And a stillness, a stillness you take from him as your own - as your shield - as your guide.

The sun is warm on your face as you wait - wait for your children to run into your open arms.

END

7th March 2005