[ spooks ]/'Tiger Trap' fanfiction

[beccatiendoh]

Title: Void
Synopsis: Someone had to tell Max Lawrence about Adam Carter.
Pairing: Lucas/Max, Tom/Adam implied
Warnings: Slash, spoilers for 701.

A/N:  Tiger's sandbox, Max and Julian belong to her. Set before 'and my enemies closer' in the Max-verse. This is nothing but reverential homage, and I do not claim to do them justice. Brilliantly, magnificently beta’d by the same. It should probably be noted I’ve only seen 701 and 702 with regards Lucas’ character. Lucas, Adam and Tom belong to Kudos. Just under 3000 words.


. . .

There were the chips, the chocolate. Coffee was the third ‘c’. That aside, Lucas had initially opted for a neutral setting for this reunion; nondescript, ubiquitous, anonymous. The caffeine-hungry hordes couldn’t have changed much in eight years; Starbucks was still bloody Starbucks. For this meeting, he wasn’t looking to have the rug pulled out from under him, the little reminders that the world hadn’t stood still in his absence.

Tom Quinn almost put paid to that statement. Lucas was prepared for the man to have changed, but no; still too pale. All the worry in the world etched into essentially English features, covered with a reserve that Lucas bet Tom thought was impenetrable. Today, at least, Tom was wrong about that.

They’d greeted with an awkward handshake, and sat down opposite each other. Tom told him welcome home, and Lucas inclined his head in thanks.

There were things to discuss. Eight years to catch up on. Current affairs dominated, however, and it wasn’t long before the spectre of Adam Carter joined them at the table in conversation.

‘There’s going to be a service.’ Lucas says. If Tom finds it strange to have Lucas telling him the affairs of his old department, he doesn’t show it. He’s watching Tom carefully, and is rewarded for the effort; there’s a tremor in his fingers, visible for only a moment, before Tom removes his hands from the table

‘You can tell Harry I’ll be there.’

‘Harry will give you the details.’

Tom nods, breaks eye contact to sip the coffee in front of him.

Lucas now feels unsure, wrong-footed. The Adam Carter he’d known so briefly in life, and knows so well now by reputation, was not a man he had pegged as being on Tom Quinn’s Christmas card list, let alone the root cause of the emotions at play in Tom’s face. He watches Tom for some moments more, wonders if Tom knows his struggle with the grief is so obvious. Considers, for a second, taking his hand.

Better part of valour, something mutters in his mind, and he dismisses the notion and makes to take his leave. There will be time for this properly, and mid-afternoon on a Monday in a crowded coffee shop in the turbulent wake of car bombs and cold wars is not the time.

‘Wait,’ Tom stops him halfway past the table. Lucas looks back.

‘There’s someone else who…doesn’t know yet. Someone who needs to be told.’

‘You tell them, whoever they are. You knew Adam better than me.’ He doesn’t see a reaction to the obvious crack.

Lucas has already tired of this; Tom Quinn, doe-eyed with grief over the ex-MI6 pretty boy. No thanks. But Tom’s already pulling a biro from his pocket, shaking out a napkin. Without meeting Lucas’ eye, he replies, ‘I doubt he’d even agree to speak to me. But I think it’s only fair. Only right.’

Tom hands Lucas the napkin. There is a name, and an address. Lucas looks at it blankly, wondering if it should mean anything to him.

‘Please,’ Tom adds, for good measure.

‘Right. Thanks.’ Lucas sighs, pointedly.

. . .

A quick check with the database, old reports (ancient history, if eight years can feel like a lifetime), and he was standing in front of a house in Montpellier Square. Lucas hadn’t even bothered checking with Harry; with the man holding him at arm’s length as it was he was happy to consider this private business between himself and Tom, and Adam. He’s sure doing favours to the dead never did anyone any good, but there was no point in alienating Tom so early in the game.

Not to mention the file had made interesting reading. But back to the matter at hand; three brisk knocks. The door opened to reveal Max Lawrence.

The file on Max Lawrence had made brief, slightly callous mention of Adam Carter’s initial, physical attraction to the man-then-kid. Talent, intelligence, whatnot had held his attention but it was undeniably looks that had first grabbed it. It was this that was on Lucas’ mind as he swept Lawrence with an appraising glance, taking in the obvious; age, eyes, tension held in a finely sculptured face. Other details, like long lashes. Abstractly, Lucas noted the mess incarceration had made of his mental discipline.

‘Lucas North, I presume.’ Lawrence said flatly.

Lucas was blindsided, the element of surprise lying dead at his feet. He blinked, opened his mouth-

‘Tom Quinn called an hour ago. Told me to expect you.’ Lawrence dropped the arm holding the door, let it fall open. He jerked his head into the house. ‘Told me it was safe to let you in.’

Lawrence used the word safe like an insult. Lucas closed his mouth, pressed his lips together and followed Lawrence’s measured steps inside. Lucas listened to the hollow sound of his shoes against the floorboards, and realised Lawrence had led him to the kitchen, not the living room. He wondered if they were alone in the house; Lucas had read another name in the file-

The kitchen was dimly lit, and the sight of bottles on the counter-top interrupted Lucas’ musings on Lawrence’s living situation. Adam’s protégé, drinking alone? Lucas’ eyes looked askance, but Lawrence ignored it, arranging himself carefully, leaning against the lip of the sink.

Lucas, with no invitation, pulled out a chair at the kitchen table and sat down, crossing his legs at the ankles. Lawrence made no move to join him.

‘What did Tom Quinn tell you?’ Lucas asked finally, still deciding where and when and how to pitch what he had to say.

Lawrence, suddenly, broke into a smile. It was giddy, at odds with the deep shadows beneath each eye.

‘Tom didn’t tell me a lot, not in the long run. I never would have listened anyway.’

Lucas raised his eyebrows. Lowered them again in the same movement, already planning an escape. He’ll report back to Tom, say that Lawrence was blind drunk and it was stupid to-

Max pushed away from the edge of the counter-top, advancing on the table. His steps weren’t unsteady, but when he reached the glare of an overhead bulb, Lucas could see his pupils were blown wide, could hear an increased breathing rate. It’s this knowledge that made him able to hold his ground when Lawrence invaded his personal space.

Dark eyes, darker than blue had any right to be, assessed him. Lucas gave as good as he got, clocking the alcohol, the tensing muscles, the hard feelings in accusing eyes. His gaze was searching, penetrative, and Lucas wondered, again, if the last eight years were obvious to everyone, tattoo’d onto his face not just his body.

But then again, this wasn’t about him at all. He was just the messenger boy.

‘I take it you know Adam Carter’s dead?’ Lucas broke the silence that had grown between them, made uncomfortable by Max’s stare.

‘Yes. Tom Quinn just couldn’t keep it to himself. He’s got this conscience, you see. Harry hates it. It was always an enormous elephant in the room.’

Max was still close, leaning on the table for support now. Lucas sat tight, willing to hear Max’s explanation. Curious.

‘I told him to let you come anyway.’

‘Oh yes?’

‘Curiosity, mostly. I hope you’ll forgive me.’

‘Killed the cat, didn’t it? We should both know better.’ Lucas stood, Max’s stare making him edgy. He went on, hoping to deflect Max. ‘I hope I didn’t disappoint. Now, Mr Lawrence, allow me to wish you goodnight and leave you to your grief.’ Lucas served the words with a formal tone, already looking past the ex-spook to the corridor, at the end of which was the front door and blessed escape. He felt a sudden need to be free of this affair, to have no more involvement in Carter’s past, Lawrence’s present, or Tom Quinn’s future.

He should have been more prepared for Max’s hand closing suddenly on his wrist and pulling, making him stumble. Shock eviscerated his already shaky flight-or-fight mechanism and the impact of the table top against the low part of his spine was harder than he expected, forcing a gasp out of him. Max Lawrence capitalised on this surprise, closing the distance between them, and suddenly there was heat on Lucas’ lips.

And Max ignores the sounds of Adam’s laughter.

. . .

Max, of course, looks for someone to blame and for a few moments it’s the alcohol. Tom had delved briefly into Lucas’ absence, Russia, Moscow, and Max suspects this is why he went for the vodka first. Lucas is guilty by association, but this is twisted drunk logic and he knows that Lucas isn’t really to blame, hasn’t really got anything to do with this.

Adam stands at Lucas’ shoulder. He is wearing a white t-shirt, jeans. Bare feet. The jeans are in tatters, the t-shirt in shreds, blackened with ash. There is the faint smell of burning in the air. He stands with his arms folded, watching with wry amusement on his handsome, whole face.

If you look into the abyss, kid, Adam says. Harry never tell you that one?

No.

Max watches Lucas’ face, carefully, his gaze flickering only once to the empty space behind him. Adam is like a trick of the light; a retinal ghost, disappearing if you looked at him directly, mocking you in your peripheral vision. He closed his eyes for a second, pulling apart from the kiss.

He expected Lucas to run. He is surprised by the man’s stillness.

Max puts his head close again; they are of a similar height, and Max’s chin stays just above his shoulder, close enough so he knows Lucas can feel his breath on his neck. A few beats, of silence, and then Lucas moves his head - had it been away, Max would have stepped back. It was inclined towards him, however, and Max caught his mouth again, sucking insistently on Lucas’ lower lip.

Adam scratched the back of his head, making a show of being bored. But he is still smiling. It is an expression Max remembers, from sixteen years ago, half a lifetime. Across a crowded room with no smoking rules. Writing on the wall.

This is the antithesis of grief, after all; Max should have shaken Lucas’ hand, thanked him politely and shown him to the door. Instead, he finds himself driving his tongue deep into the man’s mouth, forcing off the black coat Lucas is wearing.

Somewhere else, he reels from seeing a dead man. He doesn’t have much brain function left, between the shock and the alcohol, to give much thought to Lucas’ lack of resistance. To each his alibi. He’d heard that somewhere.

Eight years is a long time, kid. Danger UXB, he snorts.

That would be Adam’s explanation, of course.

Max doesn’t falter. They slip to the floor; Lucas’ arms fit around his torso, exploring, curious. Max guides him so he’s lying on tiles, hard mortar for a pillow. Something told him this wouldn’t be an unfamiliar place for Lucas, Tom Quinn painted pictures of North in the corner of a cell, in the frozen Motherland. Max throws a leg over Lucas’ hips. Unsteadyness that he blames on alcohol pushes him forward so he finds himself resting with knees either side of Lucas’ pelvis, his hands shakily supporting his weight by Lucas’ head. Found Lucas’ lips again, kissed, and pulled away, sitting up.

Lucas is wearing a purple shirt. The colour is too dark for him; it washes out his face, broadens the shadows under his eyes. It should have been white; snowy and pristine, the Baptism, the cleansing of ice. In Russia. Lucas is unknown territory, terra incognita, and it feels vaguely like Christmas morning as Max works down his buttons; no history. Backstory that he wasn’t even a postscript in. Adam Carter far, far away.

There’s something familiar about this, however. Fuck familiar; a full-blown-thrown-switch. In Lucas, Max can taste everything; Adam, that first night with the dead lock. Can smell the blood on the tiles after he pissed Tom Quinn off. The slow bloom of bruises under naked bulbs, the dichotomy between pain and pleasure holding entire worlds. The invasion of steel into veins, the flaying of skin and sanity. The roar of the sea outside an open window, blessed breeze.

Max thanks god Julian can’t see him.

He is drunk, and he’s sure Lucas isn’t. One of them should have a conscience about this, but in the meantime-

A click, in the tangible silence, a flare in the corner of his vision. Adam has lit up, and Max has the vague impression of being in a porn flick.

Don’t flatter yourself, kid.

‘Max,’ Lucas murmured under his breath, as Max pushed the loose folds of the shirt to the side of his torso, evidence there of why Lucas couldn’t wear a white shirt. Lucas is calling him by his first name, he registered vaguely.

Lucas reaches up, touches Max’s shoulder, trails it down Max’s chest. Max can hear a voice in his head; the Russian word for prostitute, but no not quite that. Something about prison. More laughter, in his head, and he sees Adam spill some ash. It doesn’t leave a mark on kitchen floor.

Max lowered his head onto Lucas’ chest, forehead to sternum. Lucas’ heart was beating wildly beneath his ribs, hair tickling Max’s skin. Moving his head he pressed the soft skin of his lips, his nose, into Lucas’ chest, searching out muscle like a blind man, closing his eyes against the sudden spinning of the room, Adam Carter at the epicentre.

‘Max, you’re drunk. And I think you’re supposed to be grieving.’ Lucas’ voice, lower than Adam’s, smoother than Tom’s.

Lucas doesn’t know the half of it, and Max shakes his head, eyes still shut. He finds what he’s looking for with the tip of his nose, closing his lips, and then teeth, around Lucas’ nipple.

Bravo.

Adam’s voice is derisive, still amused. He comes to crouch down beside them, cigarette hanging loosely from his right hand. He turns his head to exhale, blowing the smoke away from them to curl into nothingness. Max could feel him watching, his gaze like chemicals beneath his skin, as Max licks Lucas’ nipple into hardening, drawing a long, shuddery breath.

Then suddenly Lucas goes rigid beneath him, and before he knows what’s going on, he’s on his front on the cold, cold floor and Lucas is standing up, moving away. Adam moves backwards, letting him past.

‘I’m sorry.’ Lucas apologised, a gentle wisp of sincerity underscored the words.

This made limited sense to Max. What Lucas is sorry for, he isn’t sure; there’s a multitude of possibilities. Sorry for pulling away? Sorry for his loss? The obvious, the distasteful; taking advantage of Max’s drunken state. There’s an unpleasant parallel there, one Max would never share with Lucas. Max smiled, an expression shared only with the ceiling.

You’re getting hung up because I never said sorry? Jesus.

The contrast rang hollow. Max felt reality beginning to edge too close, bringing with it a tidal wave of nausea. He rolled over onto his back and sat up, vertigo assaulting him like a blow to the head.

Lucas followed him to the bathroom, watched as he went to his knees smoothly and his body remonstrated violently against the last few hours. Reality re-asserted itself in the glare of overhead lighting and running water.

It left Max feeling weak, and for a moment he thought it was Julian handing him the towel, before he noticed the thin black strip around the wrist holding it out. He stared at it for some moments, until Lucas asked, ‘Finished?’

Max nodded. He took an inventory of his body, and made sure he could stand before doing so. Nearly missing it, he saw the tiny movement in Lucas’ arms; ready to catch him if he fell.

‘Thanks.’ Max said. He began to make his way back to the kitchen, palm flat to the wall.

‘I can let myself out-’ Lucas began, but Max cut him off.

‘The least I can do is offer you a drink.’

So Lucas found himself ignoring all vestiges of his better judgement, sitting at the kitchen table again. Max busied himself with the kitchen cupboard, then the sink, in silence. He set down two glasses, clear liquid. A bottle was placed at Lucas’ elbow.

Lucas was about to refuse, the smell of Max’s bender still lingering on his shirt; Max silenced his protest.

‘I want to say, ‘to the end of an era,’’ Max explained. His words were clearer, if weaker, without the uncontrolled edge from before. ‘He’d have hated that.’

Adam, in the corner, just shakes his head. He’s drinking too, Max notices.

Instead, they say nothing, but clink and drink in silence. Lucas downed his in a practised fashion; Max lingered over his. He sat forward in his chair, regarding the liquid carefully.

I hope you can let yourself out.

Lucas started at the sound of Max’s voice, spoken as if into the glass in front of him. Somewhere, in the maelstrom of sobering up and memories like shattered glass, Max realised he’s spoken out loud. He doesn’t care, finishes the gin.

I know where the front door is. Good luck, kid.

When Max looks up, there is only Lucas looking back at him. The rest of the kitchen is shadowed, empty and silent. Void.

fin