Fic: Solidarity 11/14 (Watchmen)
Aug. 26th, 2009 12:41 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
anactoriaYeah, I know I said it would be 13. I'm not good at estimating these things. :-/
Title: Solidarity
Author:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
anactoria
Fandom: Watchmen
Characters/Pairing: Dan/Adrian
Rating: R overall, PG-13 for this part.
Disclaimer: I still don't own them.
Summary: It's 1992 and this isn't Utopia.
Notes: Thanks tomuse_of_graphia for the beta!
Chapter 1 Chapter 5 Chapter 9
Chapter 2 Chapter 6 Chapter 10
Chapter 3 Chapter 7
Chapter 4 Chapter 8
July 1992
Adrian sleeps, eventually, when the corners of his vision begin to darken and crawl and the throb of pain behind his eyes becomes a stab.
Instinctively, he lets himself into Dan's little room first; but the pillows still smell of Dan's hair, and Dan's spare glasses stare accusingly at him from the windowsill, so instead he finds an empty bunk to stretch out on and allows unconsciousness to claim him. He does not dream; or if he does, he remembers nothing when he wakes. For this, he is grateful.
Now that it has happened, it seems both unfair and utterly inevitable that he is still here, relatively safe, and Dan perhaps lost, he knows not where. And the guilty voices that he has been learning to ignore grow incrementally louder, saying that this is poetic justice; that it was foolish to hope for comfort where there could never be redemption; that if he had not begun to do so, perhaps Dan would not have been taken from him, perhaps he would still be here...
He is aware that the idea is ridiculous. The world does not work that way; he, of all people, should know that. But, in the indistinct moments before sleep, it is difficult to ignore.
It is mid-afternoon when Adrian wakes, and sunny. The bunkroom looks bright and flat, and the inside of his chest feels hollow. He would not be surprised if, on stopping and listening, he were to find that he no longer has a pulse.
He showers, dresses, drinks coffee, even remembers to eat something, though he barely notices what it is. Judith walks into the kitchen while he is sitting at the table. She blinks in faint surprise, and a moment later sits down beside him and wordlessly places a hand on his arm. A gesture of reassurance; he is not accustomed to being on the receiving end. (Because nobody had thought to comfort him since childhood, not until Dan-- and the thought is a painful one but it is a thin and disjointed kind of pain, like the sound of far-off screaming.)
Judith's eyes are lowered and sad. Of course; Dan had been working with these people for months before Adrian arrived. It is not only to him that Dan is important. His guilt may be a private thing, but this grief-- but no, he will not allow it to be grief yet; this worry-- is not. For a moment, he feels something close to shame at having forgotten.
"We haven't heard anything," Judith says, into the silence. "But-- well. If he's able to get back here, he'll be back."
"I know." The level, reassuring tone comes automatically. Adrian can't decide whether or not to be glad of that. "If there's one thing Dan isn't, it's disloyal."
"Yeah." She hesitates a second, then continues. "You know that better than any of us, I guess."
Adrian smiles, though he knows that it must be a weak, thin thing. "I suppose I do."
"I mean it." Judith swallows, and does not mention the other possibility: that Dan will not be able to return; that he will never come back. Briefly, she looks as though she is considering saying something else, but then she shakes herself. "Sorry. There's a supply run to make. I should go get ready."
"No." Adrian places his free hand over hers, and squeezes it gently. "I'll go. You look tired; you should rest while you have the chance."
And, out in the bright air, he begins to feel... not better, exactly, not less afraid, or less aware of this loss, but less consumed by it, less emptied-out and insubstantial. He tells himself that Dan would not have him sit indoors, growing pale and tense with worry, tries to imagine the disappointed look in Dan's eyes, if he were to return and find Adrian suffocating in guilt and sorrow once again.
Dan may still return. Adrian will not allow himself to think otherwise. Strange: for years, he has thought of hope as foolishness, or at least as something reserved for those without such bloodied hands. Now, he finds himself clinging to it stubbornly, as though it were a handhold in wreckage.
Adrian reins in his thoughts, then, focuses them on the task at hand. This is the only thing to do, after all. It is what Dan, and Judith and Serk and Maria, and even he, have been doing for months now. There is nothing else. He carries on.
*
Dan's exhausted by the time they arrive at the rendezvous point north of London, and the offer of a square meal and few hours' sleep sounds like heaven. The two women have stayed silent, for the most part, through the flight. Howard has talked, on and off, in a thin, nervous voice that's gotten steadier by degrees as they've flown east.
They've made good time -- no trouble, though if Dan's honest he has felt a little tense with an inexperienced new guy at his side instead of Adrian -- and they'll have time to rest up without being late back to HQ.
Of course, it's over dinner that Scott, one of the unofficial leaders of the British group, mentions that Howard, Georgina and Steph will have to wait days for transport to their final destination. There are a few other people waiting at this halfway-house, too, but their drivers are both tied up with jobs in other areas of the country right now. They can't get back as quickly as they used to, either. The British government's been clamping down on travel from the US in recent months, and not all of the groups helping out refugees have managed to go unnoticed. They have to stay away from the main roads when they can, and travel when traffic is sparse.
The spot to which they're headed is out west, somewhere in Wales. It's remote; the kind of place where people keep to themselves, for the most part, where the police are unlikely to get many answers from the locals. There's a decent-sized community hiding out there, with their own buildings, facilities. Self-sufficient, for the most part, and almost entirely made up of fugitives fleeing the Party, or one of the other more or less repressive regimes that sprung up in the aftermath of '85. Kind of a refugee camp, really.
Scott says this with an apologetic half-shrug, but the description reminds Dan of something Laurie mentioned, almost a year ago now, the last time he spoke to her. But he damps down the spark of hope and curiosity that the thought ignites in him, because there must be dozens of places like that, all over the country, and he doesn't even know if she ever made it there, anyway, and he has enough to worry about back at HQ without setting himself up for a disappointment here, too.
Still, it is practically on his way back. It would be unkind not to offer.
So that's how he winds up trying to land Archie on a too-small-for-comfort plateau halfway up a mountain, with a full load of passengers and Scott calling out directions from behind him, in an unseasonably strong wind and hammering rain. Visibility's as good as non-existent. He can just about make out the small group of people from the camp -- village, Scott insists -- waiting for them, a couple hundred yards away, dark and indistinct against the scrub.
As they dip in towards the uneven hillside, a figure darts off from the small group. Then another. The first, slightly smaller, figure makes towards them at a brisk walk, breaks into a skidding run. The other one follows. Dan squints at them in surprise as he brings Archie down, but he can't see much through the rain.
And the moment's distraction is all it takes.
The wind is violent, the ground wet and stony, and as Dan makes the landing he hears a painful, metallic crunch. Several dials on the control panel go insane.
"Fuck," he says, more to himself than anybody else. "Fuck. Guys, wait here." He kills the engines, and is out through the side door in a heartbeat, holding his glasses on, heedless of the rain, the people hurrying towards them instantly forgotten.
It's the fuel tank. He's screwed up the landing -- misjudged the distance from the rocky outcrop behind them -- and the wall of it is breached. Not badly enough to endanger any of Archie's other inner workings, but enough that he's losing gas.
Dan's heart sinks. There's no way he can assess the damage further out here, not without getting everything else waterlogged. They're a couple of miles outside the village. He hopes to hell that there's somewhere over there he'll be able to work.
Then his attention's distracted again, because someone is yelling through the wind and the rain, and the words are whipped-around and twisted but they sound a whole lot like--
"Dan!"
He turns round. The first figure is closer now, but still running, sure-footed even on the mud and slippery rock. The second one, more careful, lags behind.
And then Dan pushes his rain-flecked goggles up off his eyes and gapes in amazement.
Laurie is outfitted in something bulky and waterproof, and her hair is sodden and pulled back off of her face. But her eyes are sparking, and she barrels towards him and wraps her arms around him with fierce delight.
"Dan." She grins. "You're alive."
*
Laurie loops her arm easily through Dan's and leads him up towards the group now approaching Archie. The confidence of the gesture startles him. He's gotten used to the way Adrian's hands hesitate over his skin, always questioning, asking permission every time, and he feels a faint pang deep in his chest, because he's late already, and he's going to be later, and he just knows that Adrian will be sitting up, stressed out and doing his very best impression of fine, and blaming himself for whatever he thinks has gone wrong.
But Dan has people other than himself to get to safety right now, so he tells himself he'll just have to worry about that later. They get everyone else out, and Dan secures Archie as best he can before they start the rain-sodden tramp up to what Laurie calls the Village. He's fixing the final fastening on the tarpaulin when he feels a light touch on his left shoulder.
"Laurie?" he says, automatically, looking round, then breaks off, because it isn't her. It's one of the women from New York, Georgina, and she's just kind of... standing there. "Uh. Can I help you?"
She's barely spoken a word to him -- or anyone -- since arriving at HQ, except for the occasional "Excuse me" or "Thank you," and if Dan's honest, she's kind of started to spook him. But now she just looks at him, bright-eyed.
"There's no more Big Brother," she says. Her voice is very quiet, and the words are almost swallowed by the wind. "Soon." Then she smiles.
Dan blinks, unsure whether he's heard her correctly. "I don't--"
But she's already turning and walking away, and then Laurie's back by his side, cheerfully asking him to please hurry the fuck up because she actually isn't out here getting soaked to the skin for fun, you know.
As they walk, she introduces the guy who hurried down with her as Gareth, and a few others whose names Dan instantly forgets, but she sounds more interested in finding out how he ended up there. He gives her the edited highlights, omitting any mention of Adrian's name for now. He hates the idea of being dishonest with Laurie, of all people, but he's selfishly glad to have found her out here safe and-- well, he wants to hold on to that for a moment. Besides, he figures this probably isn't quite the right time for a long and involved discussion about the rights and wrongs of fraternizing with the (former) enemy.
So he tells her about HQ, instead, about Judith and Serk and Maria, and the clampdowns by the Party and the weird creepiness of the latest bunch of refugees, and Laurie's lips go thin for a moment at that, but if she's worried she doesn't voice it. And he asks her about the Village (more like a farm or a co-op, really, independent and self-sufficient, and there's a bright note of pride in her voice when she talks about it), and how she's been (exhausted, mostly, but they're safe here and it's better than looking over her shoulder every minute), and what she's doing now (helping out with food production -- everyone does -- and teaching self-defense to the adults and basic karate to keep the kids entertained).
(There are kids here. Hiding from the Party, or its sympathizer governments, with their parents. Obvious, now that Dan thinks about it, but fuck.)
He also asks her about the likelihood of getting the parts he'll need to repair Archie -- probably, but it might take a while -- and of being able to get through to HQ. That's more difficult. They don't have much in the way of radio comms. here; all they're doing, really, is hiding, so they try to keep off the radar as much as possible. They have phone lines, but they're not working right now. Not all of the locals are too happy about the existence of the Village, and the wires have been damaged for the second time in as many weeks. Laurie's pretty sure it isn't an accident.
Dan's insides tighten when he hears that news. They're late now, the guys back at HQ are going to be worried, and of course Adrian will start blaming it all on himself if he thinks something's gone wrong.
And with a sudden, lurching feeling that's something like homesickness, all he wants is to be back there, by Adrian's side, just to take his hand squeeze it and talk some sense into him, let him know that everything's okay. Not being able to do that feels like suffocating, and for a moment Dan feels sure his distress must be showing on his face, but if Laurie notices she doesn't mention it.
She just takes him back to the Village, where he's given a spare bunk and several cups of hot coffee, for which he's desperately grateful, and Gareth lends him some dry clothes. The shirt's a little too long in the sleeves, and he sits tugging at them uncomfortably until Laurie sticks her heard round the bunkroom door.
"C'mon," she instructs him. "There are some people you need to see."
The building she takes him to is, officially, the dining hall, but it seems to be populated regardless of the time of day, and apparently functions as a social space in the evenings, too. Right now, it's around half full, and the battered old stereo in the corner is playing something bright and synth-y at a volume that leaves the words just inaudible. Laurie introduces Dan to a guy called Rhys, who thinks his contact in the nearest town should be able to get hold of some spare parts, and then Dan hears a cracked, lusty laugh rising out of the hubbub, and he looks back at Laurie, blinking. She rolls her eyes, somewhere between pride and embarrassment, and jerks her head in the direction of the far corner.
Sally is drinking something dark, unidentifiable and almost certainly alcoholic out of a tall glass, defiantly red-lipped and with a slightly terrified-looking younger man seated on either side of her. She smiles widely when she catches sight of Dan, then leans over to tell the guy on her left to move up, and beckons him over.
He's still sitting there an hour later, jammed between bench, table, and Sally's sharp-voiced complaints about how the locals really don't know how to make a decent drink. The music has been turned up a notch, and the temperature of the place has risen. Laurie extricates herself from their table to go find a light, and as she stands up, Gareth catches her round the waist with an arm, leaning in to offer his Zippo. And Laurie's eyes spark at the same time as the lighter, and she smiles and tips her head forward as she inhales, says something to him in a low, private voice.
That's when Dan realizes. They're together. She's moved on.
He hadn't really considered the possibility that she's have found someone else, too, and he's kind of surprised that he isn't even a little jealous. If anything, he's happy for her. It's simple. Almost seems too easy.
But Laurie deserves someone who'll stay with her, someone she can build a life with, who wants the same things she does. Dan's pretty sure she's not just staying here because she has too, now. She really seems to like it. And, looking around, he can see why. It's bright and homey and safe, and there's a sense of camaraderie in the way people just help each other out with no fuss.
A movement in the corner of Dan's eye catches his gaze, and he sees Sally turn her head, following his line of vision. She looks at him sympathetically.
"Make yourself useful, hon," she says, but her voice is gentle. "Fetch me another drink."
She's got the wrong idea, of course, but Dan can't help feeling glad anyway. He gives her what he hopes is a grateful smile, and does as he's told.
They turn in late that night, but he's up at the first light of dawn anyway, part jet-lag, part anxiety, and partly the now-unfamiliar feeling of sleeping alone. But there's nothing he can do except wait right now, so that's what he does.
Of course, he doesn't just sit there doing nothing. He helps out in the Village, as much as they'll allow him to, he checks on Archie daily, fixing what he can, and he asks around for information. People here might not be working for the resistance, but they're as curious for news as people anywhere.
He'd almost forgotten Georgina's Big Brother comment, but after a day or two it comes back to him, and it keeps doing so, recurring in his mind at odd moments. But he doesn't find any answers, just fragments of rumors and repeats of the same stories the underground press were already running when he left Boston. So the remark just stays there, in his head, hanging like a cumulus cloud in the air.
*
"Adrian? That you? Shit, am I glad I finally got through."
The voice on the radio is familiar, but it is not Dan's, and Adrian has to make an effort to ensure that his disappointment is not audible.
"Maria," he says, aiming for pleased amusement. "It's good of you to contact us." But he remains inwardly cautious, and he listens warily to the background noise. Weeks have passed since she vanished, and they have no way of knowing where she is or why she is contacting them now. The Party has ways of influencing people. They cannot be certain that she is still on their side.
"Yeah, yeah, okay, no need to be sarcastic." Maria's tone is warm, though, and she laughs. "I'll explain everything later. Is Judith there?"
"Yeah," Judith says, from the doorway. "Jesus, Maria, what happened? We thought the Patrols had picked you up."
"They did."
Adrian glances sideways at Judith. She's frowning. "Go on," he says.
"So they took me out of the city. Michigan, though I didn't know that at the time. I kinda lost track, couldn't tell how long the drive took. I ended up in this... internment camp, I guess you'd call it, though it seemed as though it had been set up pretty hastily. They call it a re-education facility, by which they mean you learn to parrot the Party's praises back at them if you don't want twenty-four hours in solitary."
Judith exhales, sharply. Adrian says nothing, but his mind is already summoning images of cell-blocks and interrogation rooms, black-clad guards and bright white light, and the face in them is not Maria's. He folds them away, tells himself sternly that dwelling on possible horrors will not help Dan, will not help any of them.
"Ah, I had it pretty easy, really," Maria is saying. "Guess they didn't see me as much of a threat, and a little shameless flirting with the officers didn't hurt. There were a couple who were happy to trade. Cigarettes, information, whatever. Got pretty easy to spot the ones whose hearts weren't exactly in the job."
Adrian is reminded irresistibly of his own words, prior to the Morgan incident, but he does not allow himself to flinch, or to long for Dan's solid and reassuring touch to keep the memory away. In any case, he does not have time, because Maria is still talking.
"Anyway, turns out some of the Patrolmen were more than just corrupt. A couple were infiltrators. Resistance, and a hell of a lot more militant than us. These guys are armed. They got a few of us out the day before yesterday."
"Surely that would have been a rather major incident? We've heard nothing about it."
"The Party's been keeping it as hushed up as they can, from what I've heard. You'll probably start getting reports via the underground papers in a day or two. But they've got a headquarters somewhere outside Detroit. I'm staying there for now. And-- well, it seems like these guys are gearing up for something."
"Do you have any idea what?"
"None, yet," Maria says, cheerily. There is a flurry of sound in the background, then, and muffled speech. Her voice becomes more serious, abruptly. "Shit, gotta go. Look, comms are pretty good down here, I'll keep you guys posted. But really, I wanted to warn you. I've picked up a few bits of info here."
"Such as?"
"Things were getting bad already, when I got picked up, and... well, something's wrong in the Party. I don't know what, but it sounds like Steele's seriously gunning for the resistance. And-- well, you guys are in a pretty crowded area. You have a lot of contacts. That means more informers for the Party. It won't be safe for you to stick around much longer. There's a lot of space here, and it's pretty under-the-radar. These people are getting more done than we could. You guys should consider it. It isn't far. Archie could make it, easy. Where is Dan, anyway?"
The silence in the communications room is heavy and uncomfortable. Enough so to translate via radio, apparently, because after a moment Maria sighs deeply and says, "Fuck. I'm sorry. I really am."
More background noise. She sighs again, rattles off a phone number and a frequency, tells them she will be in touch soon, and terminates the transmission.
Judith shoots Adrian a brief, concerned look before she leaves the room. She does this frequently, and her attempts to hide it are ineffective, but with each hour that passes without Dan's her eyes become sadder and more resigned. She is beginning to accept that Dan is forfeit; rendering the loss of him final and inevitable and manageable in her mind.
Adrian knows that this is only sensible. The likelihood of Dan's reappearance grows smaller every moment. But he will -- cannot -- not accept it yet. To do so would seem somehow disloyal.
And when Adrian dwells upon it too long he begins to feel as though he is sinking, to think that he will not be able to survive another minute, draw another breath, because Dan is the only thing that has made him able to live in the world, and it takes all the strength he has simply to drag himself back into the moment and go on living.
But the days pass, and the Party raids become more frequent, and the hollow-eyed fear of the populace more visible. The resistance groups that make up their network are smashed, or simply dissolve of their own accord, and their position begins to feel painfully exposed. Ants on a paving slab, awaiting the jackboot.
And reports of the breakout begin to filter through. It appears Maria was telling the truth. So when she calls back, and reiterates her offer with a higher note of urgency in her voice, Judith decides that they have no choice but to trust it.
Adrian is not surprised. He nods, and agrees that it is the only sensible course of action. But all the same, he does not pack his things to go with them.
(Because Dan never gave up on him, even when he could have done, even when he should have done. At the very least, Adrian owes it to him to do the same. And besides, the thought of never waking up beside Dan again -- never feeling the warmth of his hands, or seeing his smile that is always genuine, or watching him frown and hunt for his glasses while wearing them, never again having the comfort of another who knows his sins -- is almost too much to bear, even for he who has caused so many horrors.)
He is surprised when Serk envelops him in a sudden, embarrassed hug before leaving, and doubly so when Judith hesitates a second and then follows suit. She actually reaches up to plant a kiss on his cheek, before promising that they will be in touch, soon, if they can, and that he will be welcome to join them if he changes his mind.
They have been comrades, after all, and Adrian has always known that he is well-liked within the group -- he has not lost his ability to charm, after all -- but the unexpected show of affection touches him nonetheless. He realizes that he will miss them.
Solitude, however, is not entirely devoid of advantages. For one thing, it means that Adrian has no-one's safety to worry about save his own.
It simplifies things greatly.
*
Five more days pass, and July turns into August, before Laurie sits down in front of Dan after dinner one evening, and looks him firmly in the eyes.
"Hey." He smiles, and he means it. He's happy for her, and he hasn't forgotten that they were friends before they were ever lovers.
"Our guy should be here Wednesday," she tells him. "You'll have your parts. You can get Archie fixed, then."
Dan knows he must look relieved, because Laurie's expression darkens a fraction. And for a moment he wishes he could explain why, tell he that he's not happy to be getting away from this place, just happy to be getting back to HQ. And Adrian.
He doesn't. Instead, he just nods and says, "That's great. Have to say, I'm getting a little worried. I tried contacting them, once the phones were back up and running, but I couldn't get through. I just hope everything's okay back there."
This time, Laurie pauses for a moment before speaking. "You could stay," she says, at last. "If something has happened, it might not be safe for you to fly back. It is safe here. And you'd be welcome. More than welcome."
"It's not that. I-- "
"You've helped out a ton of people already. You don't have to go back. And it isn't like you'd be useless here. We need people with skills, too. There's always something that needs fixing."
Dan inhales heavily and squeezes his eyes briefly shut, scratching around for an answer. But before he's had time to shape one, Laurie's eyes narrow and she looks at him shrewdly.
"There's someone new," she says. "Isn't there?"
Her gaze is keen but it is not displeased -- not yet -- and, in a way, that seems worse. Because how the hell is Dan ever going to explain this? He's never going to be able to tell her how different things are now, how different Adrian is, how he's already hurt enough for what he did. How sometimes it's impossible to reconcile the man who killed millions with the touch of a button at Karnak and the gentle human creature he shares a bed with, or how sometimes it's the most obvious thing in the world, and what really terrifies him is that that doesn't change the way he feels, not even one little bit.
"Fuck. I should've guessed it before now," Laurie continues. "You've been worrying your ass off since you got here. I'm right, aren't I?"
Dan sighs. "Yeah."
"Well." Laurie gives him a tiny smile. "She'd better be worth risking your neck for. That's all."
Oh, boy. This isn't going to be easy.
"Actually," he begins, "It's 'he'."
Chapter 12
Title: Solidarity
Author:
anactoriaFandom: Watchmen
Characters/Pairing: Dan/Adrian
Rating: R overall, PG-13 for this part.
Disclaimer: I still don't own them.
Summary: It's 1992 and this isn't Utopia.
Notes: Thanks to
muse_of_graphia for the beta! Chapter 1 Chapter 5 Chapter 9
Chapter 2 Chapter 6 Chapter 10
Chapter 3 Chapter 7
Chapter 4 Chapter 8
July 1992
Adrian sleeps, eventually, when the corners of his vision begin to darken and crawl and the throb of pain behind his eyes becomes a stab.
Instinctively, he lets himself into Dan's little room first; but the pillows still smell of Dan's hair, and Dan's spare glasses stare accusingly at him from the windowsill, so instead he finds an empty bunk to stretch out on and allows unconsciousness to claim him. He does not dream; or if he does, he remembers nothing when he wakes. For this, he is grateful.
Now that it has happened, it seems both unfair and utterly inevitable that he is still here, relatively safe, and Dan perhaps lost, he knows not where. And the guilty voices that he has been learning to ignore grow incrementally louder, saying that this is poetic justice; that it was foolish to hope for comfort where there could never be redemption; that if he had not begun to do so, perhaps Dan would not have been taken from him, perhaps he would still be here...
He is aware that the idea is ridiculous. The world does not work that way; he, of all people, should know that. But, in the indistinct moments before sleep, it is difficult to ignore.
It is mid-afternoon when Adrian wakes, and sunny. The bunkroom looks bright and flat, and the inside of his chest feels hollow. He would not be surprised if, on stopping and listening, he were to find that he no longer has a pulse.
He showers, dresses, drinks coffee, even remembers to eat something, though he barely notices what it is. Judith walks into the kitchen while he is sitting at the table. She blinks in faint surprise, and a moment later sits down beside him and wordlessly places a hand on his arm. A gesture of reassurance; he is not accustomed to being on the receiving end. (Because nobody had thought to comfort him since childhood, not until Dan-- and the thought is a painful one but it is a thin and disjointed kind of pain, like the sound of far-off screaming.)
Judith's eyes are lowered and sad. Of course; Dan had been working with these people for months before Adrian arrived. It is not only to him that Dan is important. His guilt may be a private thing, but this grief-- but no, he will not allow it to be grief yet; this worry-- is not. For a moment, he feels something close to shame at having forgotten.
"We haven't heard anything," Judith says, into the silence. "But-- well. If he's able to get back here, he'll be back."
"I know." The level, reassuring tone comes automatically. Adrian can't decide whether or not to be glad of that. "If there's one thing Dan isn't, it's disloyal."
"Yeah." She hesitates a second, then continues. "You know that better than any of us, I guess."
Adrian smiles, though he knows that it must be a weak, thin thing. "I suppose I do."
"I mean it." Judith swallows, and does not mention the other possibility: that Dan will not be able to return; that he will never come back. Briefly, she looks as though she is considering saying something else, but then she shakes herself. "Sorry. There's a supply run to make. I should go get ready."
"No." Adrian places his free hand over hers, and squeezes it gently. "I'll go. You look tired; you should rest while you have the chance."
And, out in the bright air, he begins to feel... not better, exactly, not less afraid, or less aware of this loss, but less consumed by it, less emptied-out and insubstantial. He tells himself that Dan would not have him sit indoors, growing pale and tense with worry, tries to imagine the disappointed look in Dan's eyes, if he were to return and find Adrian suffocating in guilt and sorrow once again.
Dan may still return. Adrian will not allow himself to think otherwise. Strange: for years, he has thought of hope as foolishness, or at least as something reserved for those without such bloodied hands. Now, he finds himself clinging to it stubbornly, as though it were a handhold in wreckage.
Adrian reins in his thoughts, then, focuses them on the task at hand. This is the only thing to do, after all. It is what Dan, and Judith and Serk and Maria, and even he, have been doing for months now. There is nothing else. He carries on.
*
Dan's exhausted by the time they arrive at the rendezvous point north of London, and the offer of a square meal and few hours' sleep sounds like heaven. The two women have stayed silent, for the most part, through the flight. Howard has talked, on and off, in a thin, nervous voice that's gotten steadier by degrees as they've flown east.
They've made good time -- no trouble, though if Dan's honest he has felt a little tense with an inexperienced new guy at his side instead of Adrian -- and they'll have time to rest up without being late back to HQ.
Of course, it's over dinner that Scott, one of the unofficial leaders of the British group, mentions that Howard, Georgina and Steph will have to wait days for transport to their final destination. There are a few other people waiting at this halfway-house, too, but their drivers are both tied up with jobs in other areas of the country right now. They can't get back as quickly as they used to, either. The British government's been clamping down on travel from the US in recent months, and not all of the groups helping out refugees have managed to go unnoticed. They have to stay away from the main roads when they can, and travel when traffic is sparse.
The spot to which they're headed is out west, somewhere in Wales. It's remote; the kind of place where people keep to themselves, for the most part, where the police are unlikely to get many answers from the locals. There's a decent-sized community hiding out there, with their own buildings, facilities. Self-sufficient, for the most part, and almost entirely made up of fugitives fleeing the Party, or one of the other more or less repressive regimes that sprung up in the aftermath of '85. Kind of a refugee camp, really.
Scott says this with an apologetic half-shrug, but the description reminds Dan of something Laurie mentioned, almost a year ago now, the last time he spoke to her. But he damps down the spark of hope and curiosity that the thought ignites in him, because there must be dozens of places like that, all over the country, and he doesn't even know if she ever made it there, anyway, and he has enough to worry about back at HQ without setting himself up for a disappointment here, too.
Still, it is practically on his way back. It would be unkind not to offer.
So that's how he winds up trying to land Archie on a too-small-for-comfort plateau halfway up a mountain, with a full load of passengers and Scott calling out directions from behind him, in an unseasonably strong wind and hammering rain. Visibility's as good as non-existent. He can just about make out the small group of people from the camp -- village, Scott insists -- waiting for them, a couple hundred yards away, dark and indistinct against the scrub.
As they dip in towards the uneven hillside, a figure darts off from the small group. Then another. The first, slightly smaller, figure makes towards them at a brisk walk, breaks into a skidding run. The other one follows. Dan squints at them in surprise as he brings Archie down, but he can't see much through the rain.
And the moment's distraction is all it takes.
The wind is violent, the ground wet and stony, and as Dan makes the landing he hears a painful, metallic crunch. Several dials on the control panel go insane.
"Fuck," he says, more to himself than anybody else. "Fuck. Guys, wait here." He kills the engines, and is out through the side door in a heartbeat, holding his glasses on, heedless of the rain, the people hurrying towards them instantly forgotten.
It's the fuel tank. He's screwed up the landing -- misjudged the distance from the rocky outcrop behind them -- and the wall of it is breached. Not badly enough to endanger any of Archie's other inner workings, but enough that he's losing gas.
Dan's heart sinks. There's no way he can assess the damage further out here, not without getting everything else waterlogged. They're a couple of miles outside the village. He hopes to hell that there's somewhere over there he'll be able to work.
Then his attention's distracted again, because someone is yelling through the wind and the rain, and the words are whipped-around and twisted but they sound a whole lot like--
"Dan!"
He turns round. The first figure is closer now, but still running, sure-footed even on the mud and slippery rock. The second one, more careful, lags behind.
And then Dan pushes his rain-flecked goggles up off his eyes and gapes in amazement.
Laurie is outfitted in something bulky and waterproof, and her hair is sodden and pulled back off of her face. But her eyes are sparking, and she barrels towards him and wraps her arms around him with fierce delight.
"Dan." She grins. "You're alive."
*
Laurie loops her arm easily through Dan's and leads him up towards the group now approaching Archie. The confidence of the gesture startles him. He's gotten used to the way Adrian's hands hesitate over his skin, always questioning, asking permission every time, and he feels a faint pang deep in his chest, because he's late already, and he's going to be later, and he just knows that Adrian will be sitting up, stressed out and doing his very best impression of fine, and blaming himself for whatever he thinks has gone wrong.
But Dan has people other than himself to get to safety right now, so he tells himself he'll just have to worry about that later. They get everyone else out, and Dan secures Archie as best he can before they start the rain-sodden tramp up to what Laurie calls the Village. He's fixing the final fastening on the tarpaulin when he feels a light touch on his left shoulder.
"Laurie?" he says, automatically, looking round, then breaks off, because it isn't her. It's one of the women from New York, Georgina, and she's just kind of... standing there. "Uh. Can I help you?"
She's barely spoken a word to him -- or anyone -- since arriving at HQ, except for the occasional "Excuse me" or "Thank you," and if Dan's honest, she's kind of started to spook him. But now she just looks at him, bright-eyed.
"There's no more Big Brother," she says. Her voice is very quiet, and the words are almost swallowed by the wind. "Soon." Then she smiles.
Dan blinks, unsure whether he's heard her correctly. "I don't--"
But she's already turning and walking away, and then Laurie's back by his side, cheerfully asking him to please hurry the fuck up because she actually isn't out here getting soaked to the skin for fun, you know.
As they walk, she introduces the guy who hurried down with her as Gareth, and a few others whose names Dan instantly forgets, but she sounds more interested in finding out how he ended up there. He gives her the edited highlights, omitting any mention of Adrian's name for now. He hates the idea of being dishonest with Laurie, of all people, but he's selfishly glad to have found her out here safe and-- well, he wants to hold on to that for a moment. Besides, he figures this probably isn't quite the right time for a long and involved discussion about the rights and wrongs of fraternizing with the (former) enemy.
So he tells her about HQ, instead, about Judith and Serk and Maria, and the clampdowns by the Party and the weird creepiness of the latest bunch of refugees, and Laurie's lips go thin for a moment at that, but if she's worried she doesn't voice it. And he asks her about the Village (more like a farm or a co-op, really, independent and self-sufficient, and there's a bright note of pride in her voice when she talks about it), and how she's been (exhausted, mostly, but they're safe here and it's better than looking over her shoulder every minute), and what she's doing now (helping out with food production -- everyone does -- and teaching self-defense to the adults and basic karate to keep the kids entertained).
(There are kids here. Hiding from the Party, or its sympathizer governments, with their parents. Obvious, now that Dan thinks about it, but fuck.)
He also asks her about the likelihood of getting the parts he'll need to repair Archie -- probably, but it might take a while -- and of being able to get through to HQ. That's more difficult. They don't have much in the way of radio comms. here; all they're doing, really, is hiding, so they try to keep off the radar as much as possible. They have phone lines, but they're not working right now. Not all of the locals are too happy about the existence of the Village, and the wires have been damaged for the second time in as many weeks. Laurie's pretty sure it isn't an accident.
Dan's insides tighten when he hears that news. They're late now, the guys back at HQ are going to be worried, and of course Adrian will start blaming it all on himself if he thinks something's gone wrong.
And with a sudden, lurching feeling that's something like homesickness, all he wants is to be back there, by Adrian's side, just to take his hand squeeze it and talk some sense into him, let him know that everything's okay. Not being able to do that feels like suffocating, and for a moment Dan feels sure his distress must be showing on his face, but if Laurie notices she doesn't mention it.
She just takes him back to the Village, where he's given a spare bunk and several cups of hot coffee, for which he's desperately grateful, and Gareth lends him some dry clothes. The shirt's a little too long in the sleeves, and he sits tugging at them uncomfortably until Laurie sticks her heard round the bunkroom door.
"C'mon," she instructs him. "There are some people you need to see."
The building she takes him to is, officially, the dining hall, but it seems to be populated regardless of the time of day, and apparently functions as a social space in the evenings, too. Right now, it's around half full, and the battered old stereo in the corner is playing something bright and synth-y at a volume that leaves the words just inaudible. Laurie introduces Dan to a guy called Rhys, who thinks his contact in the nearest town should be able to get hold of some spare parts, and then Dan hears a cracked, lusty laugh rising out of the hubbub, and he looks back at Laurie, blinking. She rolls her eyes, somewhere between pride and embarrassment, and jerks her head in the direction of the far corner.
Sally is drinking something dark, unidentifiable and almost certainly alcoholic out of a tall glass, defiantly red-lipped and with a slightly terrified-looking younger man seated on either side of her. She smiles widely when she catches sight of Dan, then leans over to tell the guy on her left to move up, and beckons him over.
He's still sitting there an hour later, jammed between bench, table, and Sally's sharp-voiced complaints about how the locals really don't know how to make a decent drink. The music has been turned up a notch, and the temperature of the place has risen. Laurie extricates herself from their table to go find a light, and as she stands up, Gareth catches her round the waist with an arm, leaning in to offer his Zippo. And Laurie's eyes spark at the same time as the lighter, and she smiles and tips her head forward as she inhales, says something to him in a low, private voice.
That's when Dan realizes. They're together. She's moved on.
He hadn't really considered the possibility that she's have found someone else, too, and he's kind of surprised that he isn't even a little jealous. If anything, he's happy for her. It's simple. Almost seems too easy.
But Laurie deserves someone who'll stay with her, someone she can build a life with, who wants the same things she does. Dan's pretty sure she's not just staying here because she has too, now. She really seems to like it. And, looking around, he can see why. It's bright and homey and safe, and there's a sense of camaraderie in the way people just help each other out with no fuss.
A movement in the corner of Dan's eye catches his gaze, and he sees Sally turn her head, following his line of vision. She looks at him sympathetically.
"Make yourself useful, hon," she says, but her voice is gentle. "Fetch me another drink."
She's got the wrong idea, of course, but Dan can't help feeling glad anyway. He gives her what he hopes is a grateful smile, and does as he's told.
They turn in late that night, but he's up at the first light of dawn anyway, part jet-lag, part anxiety, and partly the now-unfamiliar feeling of sleeping alone. But there's nothing he can do except wait right now, so that's what he does.
Of course, he doesn't just sit there doing nothing. He helps out in the Village, as much as they'll allow him to, he checks on Archie daily, fixing what he can, and he asks around for information. People here might not be working for the resistance, but they're as curious for news as people anywhere.
He'd almost forgotten Georgina's Big Brother comment, but after a day or two it comes back to him, and it keeps doing so, recurring in his mind at odd moments. But he doesn't find any answers, just fragments of rumors and repeats of the same stories the underground press were already running when he left Boston. So the remark just stays there, in his head, hanging like a cumulus cloud in the air.
*
"Adrian? That you? Shit, am I glad I finally got through."
The voice on the radio is familiar, but it is not Dan's, and Adrian has to make an effort to ensure that his disappointment is not audible.
"Maria," he says, aiming for pleased amusement. "It's good of you to contact us." But he remains inwardly cautious, and he listens warily to the background noise. Weeks have passed since she vanished, and they have no way of knowing where she is or why she is contacting them now. The Party has ways of influencing people. They cannot be certain that she is still on their side.
"Yeah, yeah, okay, no need to be sarcastic." Maria's tone is warm, though, and she laughs. "I'll explain everything later. Is Judith there?"
"Yeah," Judith says, from the doorway. "Jesus, Maria, what happened? We thought the Patrols had picked you up."
"They did."
Adrian glances sideways at Judith. She's frowning. "Go on," he says.
"So they took me out of the city. Michigan, though I didn't know that at the time. I kinda lost track, couldn't tell how long the drive took. I ended up in this... internment camp, I guess you'd call it, though it seemed as though it had been set up pretty hastily. They call it a re-education facility, by which they mean you learn to parrot the Party's praises back at them if you don't want twenty-four hours in solitary."
Judith exhales, sharply. Adrian says nothing, but his mind is already summoning images of cell-blocks and interrogation rooms, black-clad guards and bright white light, and the face in them is not Maria's. He folds them away, tells himself sternly that dwelling on possible horrors will not help Dan, will not help any of them.
"Ah, I had it pretty easy, really," Maria is saying. "Guess they didn't see me as much of a threat, and a little shameless flirting with the officers didn't hurt. There were a couple who were happy to trade. Cigarettes, information, whatever. Got pretty easy to spot the ones whose hearts weren't exactly in the job."
Adrian is reminded irresistibly of his own words, prior to the Morgan incident, but he does not allow himself to flinch, or to long for Dan's solid and reassuring touch to keep the memory away. In any case, he does not have time, because Maria is still talking.
"Anyway, turns out some of the Patrolmen were more than just corrupt. A couple were infiltrators. Resistance, and a hell of a lot more militant than us. These guys are armed. They got a few of us out the day before yesterday."
"Surely that would have been a rather major incident? We've heard nothing about it."
"The Party's been keeping it as hushed up as they can, from what I've heard. You'll probably start getting reports via the underground papers in a day or two. But they've got a headquarters somewhere outside Detroit. I'm staying there for now. And-- well, it seems like these guys are gearing up for something."
"Do you have any idea what?"
"None, yet," Maria says, cheerily. There is a flurry of sound in the background, then, and muffled speech. Her voice becomes more serious, abruptly. "Shit, gotta go. Look, comms are pretty good down here, I'll keep you guys posted. But really, I wanted to warn you. I've picked up a few bits of info here."
"Such as?"
"Things were getting bad already, when I got picked up, and... well, something's wrong in the Party. I don't know what, but it sounds like Steele's seriously gunning for the resistance. And-- well, you guys are in a pretty crowded area. You have a lot of contacts. That means more informers for the Party. It won't be safe for you to stick around much longer. There's a lot of space here, and it's pretty under-the-radar. These people are getting more done than we could. You guys should consider it. It isn't far. Archie could make it, easy. Where is Dan, anyway?"
The silence in the communications room is heavy and uncomfortable. Enough so to translate via radio, apparently, because after a moment Maria sighs deeply and says, "Fuck. I'm sorry. I really am."
More background noise. She sighs again, rattles off a phone number and a frequency, tells them she will be in touch soon, and terminates the transmission.
Judith shoots Adrian a brief, concerned look before she leaves the room. She does this frequently, and her attempts to hide it are ineffective, but with each hour that passes without Dan's her eyes become sadder and more resigned. She is beginning to accept that Dan is forfeit; rendering the loss of him final and inevitable and manageable in her mind.
Adrian knows that this is only sensible. The likelihood of Dan's reappearance grows smaller every moment. But he will -- cannot -- not accept it yet. To do so would seem somehow disloyal.
And when Adrian dwells upon it too long he begins to feel as though he is sinking, to think that he will not be able to survive another minute, draw another breath, because Dan is the only thing that has made him able to live in the world, and it takes all the strength he has simply to drag himself back into the moment and go on living.
But the days pass, and the Party raids become more frequent, and the hollow-eyed fear of the populace more visible. The resistance groups that make up their network are smashed, or simply dissolve of their own accord, and their position begins to feel painfully exposed. Ants on a paving slab, awaiting the jackboot.
And reports of the breakout begin to filter through. It appears Maria was telling the truth. So when she calls back, and reiterates her offer with a higher note of urgency in her voice, Judith decides that they have no choice but to trust it.
Adrian is not surprised. He nods, and agrees that it is the only sensible course of action. But all the same, he does not pack his things to go with them.
(Because Dan never gave up on him, even when he could have done, even when he should have done. At the very least, Adrian owes it to him to do the same. And besides, the thought of never waking up beside Dan again -- never feeling the warmth of his hands, or seeing his smile that is always genuine, or watching him frown and hunt for his glasses while wearing them, never again having the comfort of another who knows his sins -- is almost too much to bear, even for he who has caused so many horrors.)
He is surprised when Serk envelops him in a sudden, embarrassed hug before leaving, and doubly so when Judith hesitates a second and then follows suit. She actually reaches up to plant a kiss on his cheek, before promising that they will be in touch, soon, if they can, and that he will be welcome to join them if he changes his mind.
They have been comrades, after all, and Adrian has always known that he is well-liked within the group -- he has not lost his ability to charm, after all -- but the unexpected show of affection touches him nonetheless. He realizes that he will miss them.
Solitude, however, is not entirely devoid of advantages. For one thing, it means that Adrian has no-one's safety to worry about save his own.
It simplifies things greatly.
*
Five more days pass, and July turns into August, before Laurie sits down in front of Dan after dinner one evening, and looks him firmly in the eyes.
"Hey." He smiles, and he means it. He's happy for her, and he hasn't forgotten that they were friends before they were ever lovers.
"Our guy should be here Wednesday," she tells him. "You'll have your parts. You can get Archie fixed, then."
Dan knows he must look relieved, because Laurie's expression darkens a fraction. And for a moment he wishes he could explain why, tell he that he's not happy to be getting away from this place, just happy to be getting back to HQ. And Adrian.
He doesn't. Instead, he just nods and says, "That's great. Have to say, I'm getting a little worried. I tried contacting them, once the phones were back up and running, but I couldn't get through. I just hope everything's okay back there."
This time, Laurie pauses for a moment before speaking. "You could stay," she says, at last. "If something has happened, it might not be safe for you to fly back. It is safe here. And you'd be welcome. More than welcome."
"It's not that. I-- "
"You've helped out a ton of people already. You don't have to go back. And it isn't like you'd be useless here. We need people with skills, too. There's always something that needs fixing."
Dan inhales heavily and squeezes his eyes briefly shut, scratching around for an answer. But before he's had time to shape one, Laurie's eyes narrow and she looks at him shrewdly.
"There's someone new," she says. "Isn't there?"
Her gaze is keen but it is not displeased -- not yet -- and, in a way, that seems worse. Because how the hell is Dan ever going to explain this? He's never going to be able to tell her how different things are now, how different Adrian is, how he's already hurt enough for what he did. How sometimes it's impossible to reconcile the man who killed millions with the touch of a button at Karnak and the gentle human creature he shares a bed with, or how sometimes it's the most obvious thing in the world, and what really terrifies him is that that doesn't change the way he feels, not even one little bit.
"Fuck. I should've guessed it before now," Laurie continues. "You've been worrying your ass off since you got here. I'm right, aren't I?"
Dan sighs. "Yeah."
"Well." Laurie gives him a tiny smile. "She'd better be worth risking your neck for. That's all."
Oh, boy. This isn't going to be easy.
"Actually," he begins, "It's 'he'."
Chapter 12
