fatal flaw, part IV.

[casi_casi]

Title: Fatal Flaw
Chapter: 4 / 6
Characters: Fernando Torres / Sergio Ramos, Xabi Alonso / Steven Gerrard, David Silva / David Villa, Frank Lampard / John Terry, Raúl / Guti, Cesc Fàbregas, Fernando Gago, Iker Casillas, Xavi Hernández, Rubén de la Red, Pepe Reina, Daniel Agger, Sami Hyypiä, Gonzalo Higuaín, Didier Drogba, Santi Cazorla, Álvaro Arbeloa, Sergio "Kun" Agüero, Rafael Benítez, José Mourinho. Not all characters appear in every part and in equal measure.
Rating: R
Warnings: AU. Infrequent language, violence and sex.
Disclaimer: It's about superheroes - how real could it possibly be?
Summary: The Force is a group of superheroes determined to save the city of Despertia from the unfathomable and relentless attacks of villains Raúl and Guti. But sometimes it is the heroes who need to be saved from their own fatal flaws.
Notes: Based on a wonderful prompt by nahco3 at footie_exchange. Apologies to those who have already seen this.
Feedback > life. If you feel the need to give constructive criticism, please do.
Previous parts: Part I - Part II - Part III


Cesc looked petrified, Silva half-heartedly trying to calm him down but clearly too preoccupied by his own panic to concern himself with the childish worries of the new kid. Rafa and José were arguing, yet again, in the corner of the room which housed them most of the time, while the others sat in their familiar chairs, chests heaving and minds whirring. They had no idea where Fernando had gone, which was reassuring more than anything else - if they didn't know, the police, Raúl, Guti and Gago hopefully didn't either, and Fernando had hidden himself well.

Biting his lip, Xabi shifted in his seat and turned towards Steven. "I think there's someone on the inside," he muttered urgently.

Steven stared ahead of him. "What do you mean?" he asked, seeming uneasy.

"It's got to be one of us," Xabi hissed, glancing around the room furtively. "How else would Gago have found Sergio? How else would the police have known we were at Higuaín's?"

Steven tilted his head, frowning slightly. "But then - you're saying that Gago and the police are in it - together?"

"Well, maybe they are." Xabi dropped his voice as José huffed loudly from the other side of the room and Rafa turned to talk to Cesc instead. "We obviously don't know the details, but, I mean - come on! The last time this kind of thing happened, it all went down from the inside. Raúl and Guti were sitting with the other heroes, just like we are now."

Steven bit his lip. "I don't know, Xabi . . ."

"How can you not know?" Xabi's voice raised a little, Silva's head flipping around. "Look," Xabi said, whispering again, "Steven, is there anything you're not telling me?" He watched his lover closely. "You've been acting weird today, and - well - with all this talk about Gago, I'm just - just . . . Do you know anything? Have you - have you seen anything?"

Steven continued to avoid Xabi's gaze. "No," he said, not entirely convincingly.

All Xabi could do was sigh in resignation. "Stevie - babe," he implored softly, his words drowned out by Rafa barking confusing explanations in Cesc's ear. "You can tell me, you know that. You can tell me if something's happened."

Steven continued to stare, Xabi desperately searching his face for a sign, of any sort, no matter how tiny. But before he had time to wonder whether that cloud in Steven's gaze really meant anything, Steven had shaken his head wearily, stood up and walked away with a mere "I'm tired, Xabi", patting Cesc comfortingly on the shoulder before following an equally sullen José out the door.

Xabi let out a deep, slow breath as he sank further into his chair, watching the door shut with the slightest of thuds. The silence was only interrupted Rafa's insistent voice, continuing to explain to Cesc why now was a worse time than any other to be getting cold feet.

Xabi blinked a little as he realised he was staring right across at Silva. Shrugging a little, Silva stood up, he too ready to take those weary steps out of the main room at headquarters, out of the hall, onto the street, and back into the real world.

"Sorry, Xabi," Silva said softly. "But you saw it coming. Right?"

He didn't wait for an answer.

* * * * *

Cesc softly patted his face with a towel, his eyes fluttering closed under the harsh white light above him. Straightening up as he ignored stray droplets of water falling from his chin onto his toes, he looked wearily at his reflection, marred by dust and remnants of soap. A clouded glass image of what everyone saw in him. Tired eyes in a baby face, someone far too young to be handling the kind of situation into which he'd been thrown, head first.

Dropping the towel casually over the side of the bath, he ran his fingers through his hair. As he sighed gently, he heard a knock at the door.

"It's for you," his mother smiled at him, holding out the phone receiver.

Nodding jerkily, trying to smile back but looking nauseated instead, he took the receiver and gingerly closed the door as his mother bustled back into the hallway, through which the most painfully delicious scent of home cooking teased him.

"Hello?"

"Are you at home?"

Cesc blinked. "Well, you called my landline, so yes."

"Did you get home okay?"

"Yeah, José dropped me off. Look, Rafa - are you alright?"

Rafa paused. "I need to make sure you understand how serious this all is."

"Of course I understand that," Cesc retorted in exhaustion. "I'm not going to do anything stupid."

"I know you're not. I just need to make sure that you're aware of the dangers. Sending you in to work tomorrow is a massive risk -"

"But we need to do it, right?"

Rafa sighed. "I think so. We didn't get what we wanted from that meeting today, I didn't even get around to the main issue by the time those cops showed up. So, look - we'll send a car around for you tomorrow. Don't even think about going anywhere by yourself, okay?"

Cesc closed his eyes, his head swimming with questions and worries, all of them flying into each other and confusing the daylights out of him. "That's not going to solve any problems, though, is it? I mean, Gago could still somehow find me, and -"

"We have no reason to believe that he even knows about you. It's only been a week, after all. That's why we can still let you out - but the others, well, not so much. They need to be far more alert. But they've got more experience, anyway, so they'll hopefully be able to handle themselves."

Cesc bit his lip. "What if he finds the others? What if we lose them?"

"Well, then, you're going to have to prove that you're as good as Arsène told me you were. And Cesc?"

"Yeah?"

"If something does happen, don't forget to fly."

Hanging up the phone, Cesc sank down onto the closed toilet seat. His hands running frantically through his hair, he breathed in deeply and tried to still his racing pulse as he heard his mother calling him, telling him that dinner was ready.

* * * * *

Guti lifted a hand to thread his fingers delicately through Raúl's hair.

"Has Gago told you about Stentor TV's party tomorrow night?"

Raúl rolled his eyes as he continued staring out his window from the driver's seat. "Of course he has."

"Well," Guti began hesitantly, withdrawing his hand as he watched his lover apprehensively, "I think we should make the most of it."

Raúl turned, frowning. "We've already got Ramos under our belts - I don't see what we stand to gain by turning up tomorrow."

Guti leant forward, his eyes wide with excitement. "Well, I was thinking - we could use Gerrard instead of Gago. I just don't know if it's a good idea to expose Gago to too many people, especially since the police know who he is now."

Raúl turned his head back towards the window. "What good would it do us to have Gerrard there?"

"We could get Alonso through him," Guti said earnestly. "I've thought it all through -"

"We can get Alonso with Gago," Raúl said irritably. "We don't need to make this any messier."

Guti sighed, twisting back around in his chair as he sensed Raúl's unwillingness to budge. Staring discontentedly through the windshield, he promptly undid his buckle and announced that he was going to buy a kebab.

"Do you want one?" he asked Raúl generously.

"My waistline doesn't."

With that, Guti stepped out of the car and left Raúl to his window-watching. Trudging along the quiet street until he reached the corner shop, he tried desperately not to want to end it all, stubbornly banishing doubts and questions, remembering the reason why they were doing this in the first place.

"Hey, you don't happen to have today's newspaper, do you?" he asked the shop owner, who merely stared back at him quizzically. They really ought to learn to speak English, Guti thought agitatedly. "Newspaper?" Guti said louder, using his hands to mime what he was saying and feeling considerably idiotic.

"Ah, yes," the shopkeeper smiled. "Paper of news."

"Yeah." Guti stared as the guy kept grinning back. "Well, can I have it?"

"Yes. Yes you can."

The shopkeeper handed over the day's paper, unsurprisingly plastered with Fernando Torres' face and the image of several black-clad figures in masks.

"Very bad men," the shopkeeper said emphatically, nodding down at the paper as he handed Guti back his change, before turning to attend to the kebab meat sizzling on the cooker. "Lot of problems they are making."

Guti smiled. "Yes, it does appear that way, doesn't it?"

"You want what on your kebab?"

Guti headed back to the car somewhat consoled. Their plans were working - messy and convoluted, but working nonetheless. It was taking time, yes, more time than he thought necessary considering the resources they had at their disposal. But he supposed that it was wiser to be prudent and meticulous, rather than clumsily bandying about their power the way they had at the turn of the year. After all, a fat lot of good that had done them.

"Are you sure you don't want a bite?" he asked Raúl as he lowered himself back into his seat, his mouth full. "It's really -" He paused as he realised that Raúl was on the phone.

"I know it's a really late change in plans . . . No, I knew you'd say that, but since it's you who'll be doing it, really . . . It's just more efficient to use Gerrard instead of you, it's like killing two birds with one stone . . . Yes, to get to Alonso . . . Look, Gago, just trust me on this, okay? I've thought it all through."

After Raúl had hung up, Guti raised his eyebrows. "I thought we didn't need to make it any messier?"

Raúl merely turned back around. Looking up at the lit window of the building they'd parked next to, he pointed. "I expect they'll be telling him to watch out for Gago, not to go anywhere alone - all that shit."

Guti leant over in his seat to peer out through Raúl's window up at the lone figure gazing at himself pathetically in the mirror, clutching a phone to his ear. "I suppose they think he can avoid us."

Raúl snorted. "A kid like that? If we have trouble with anyone, it'll be Alonso, or Silva - the clever ones. This piece of shit here will be a cinch."

The boy in the window hung up the phone and left the bathroom several seconds later. The bathroom now black, Guti leant back into his seat and Raúl turned to look ahead.

"They made a mistake recruiting Fàbregas. I guess they thought it'd help them to have someone so close to Higuaín - idiots."

* * * * *

Fernando resisted the urge to sink into his familiar armchair by the window. To climb into his shower and strip himself of the day's tumult. To step behind Sergio, and breathe in his scent, and lay a hand on his shoulder, asking him gently what went wrong.

He leant against the wall, watching Sergio hunched over his laptop as the microwave hummed, warming up one of those frozen dinners which were always whipped out of the refridgerator when Sergio was under work stress. Typing furiously, Sergio bit his lip and his eyes occasionally flicked towards the various papers laid out over the dining table. Fernando could barely see them from where he stood, but pictures of his own face were surely among them.

Fernando suppressed a sigh. He prayed that his starving stomach wouldn't grumble. He tried to be too angry at Sergio to want to hold him. But he knew that it wasn't really his Sergio who had forced him to wear this mask, hiding himself from the rest of the world.

As if on cue, the jangling of keys joined Sergio's typing as the only sounds which pierced the otherwise musty silence, and Gago walked in. Fernando's heart sank a little as he saw Sergio smile warmly upon lifting his head.

Gago's hands quickly cradled Sergio's face, and their lips met. Gago sat in Fernando's chair, a hand lingering on Sergio's shoulder as he leant over to look at what he had been writing. An approving smile met a grateful one, and conversation soon turned to dinner and the weather and the previous night's football results.

Fernando hoped that Gago wouldn't brush past his invisible frame on the way to the kitchen. As Gago opened the microwave and yelped a little after scalding his hand on the meal which Sergio had heated up for several minutes too long, Fernando slipped through the door which had been left casually ajar, and, heartbroken, readied himself for a lonely night at headquarters.

* * * * *

Steven wasn't picking up his phone. Granted, he rarely picked up his phone, but tonight it was more frustrating than usual.

Xabi prided himself on being able to read people, on having a clever ability to intuitively know what people were thinking, what they were up to. But Steven's rapid plunge into sullen and distant coldness had completely floored him. Perhaps it was bitterness over Xabi's constant prodding, his unrelenting commitment to the Force and all the work that he believed it entailed. Xabi had thought agonisingly over Silva's words, the warnings that he'd been flinging out every time Xabi berated his lover in public, every time he told him what to do and how to behave.

As he lay wearily down onto his lonely bed, still dressed, his muscles worn out and aching from yet another evening's work in the gym, Xabi found himself growing increasingly troubled. Steven, whose body usually seemed plastered to the sofa, was most uncharacteristically late. Having quietly nodded his way through Rafa and José's predictable speech about remaining vigilant and stealthy, Steven had remained locked within himself, biting his lip as he refused to share his thoughts with anyone else, looking so troubled the entire time until he'd gotten up and walked out.

Xabi's hand automatically flew to the phone on his bedside table, as it had countless times already this evening.

"Hey, it's Xabi. Where are you?"

"I can't really talk right now," Fernando muttered. "There are people around."

"What?" Xabi sat bolt upright. "Where are you - why are you around people?"

"I'm not an idiot, they can't see me," Fernando hissed. "I'm in a pub."

". . . Why?"

"To drink away my sorrow. Obviously."

"Oh." Xabi paused. "I suppose you need somewhere to sleep?"

"Nah, headquarters will do me fine."

"You can come here if you want, you know. Steven's not here, and -"

"What? Where is he?"

"I - I don't know. He just didn't come home, and -"

"You do realise that Gago's already found him."

"W-what?"

Fernando sighed. "Xabi, considering how intelligent you like to claim you are, you really are very daft sometimes."

Xabi stared at the wall opposite him in horror. "Oh, fuck. That explains a lot."

"And you're saying he hasn't come home tonight?"

"No - I mean, yes - I - oh, God -"

"Well, he's not with Gago, that's for sure. But fuck, Raúl and Guti might have gotten him by now -"

"I've got to go, Nando," Xabi said hurriedly, standing up quickly and having the room spin around him as a result. "I - just - just make sure nobody sees you - or hears you. Alright?"

"Yeah, well, stop fucking calling me, then."

Xabi had hung up the phone seconds before Fernando let out a shriek of pain, a fist having rammed itself into the side of his skull. As Xabi the human was replaced by Xabi the raven, heavy summer rain beginning to pour on his doorstep, Fernando's invisible frame hit the hard wooden floor of a bar on the other side of town.

* * * * *

The sound of crashing rain interrupted Silva and Villa's kisses. Silva's masked eyes flicked around to look out the window, the black night slashed by opaque intrusions to its clarity.

Villa laid a hand on the sida of Silva's face and turned it back to face him. He smiled. "You're pretty lucky, not having to travel through that," he said softly. "Or you could just stay here for the night."

"You know I can't do that."

"Would it kill you?"

Silva hesitated, not looking at his lover directly. "I - I can't trust anyone. I can't leave myself alone with anyone."

"Why, what do you think I'll do to you?"

"I don't know," Silva shrugged. "Get to know me. Get me to take off this mask."

"I've given up asking you to do that," Villa said with a weary smile. "But what's wrong with getting to know you?"

"Everything. You'll start to get feelings for me, and I'll get feelings for you, and then your name will be inextricably linked to mine, and since the villains want my head, they'll want yours too, and you'll be in an overwhelming amount of danger, and it wouldn't really be worth it in the end because you don't even get to see what I look like in return for the possibility of imminent death."

Villa blinked. "I think all that right there suggests that you have feelings for me already, mister."

Silva was saved answering by a loud knock at the door. "Who's that?" he asked, quickly scrambling up, his eyes wide beyond the black that surrounded them.

"It's just pizza," Villa consoled him, standing up.

Silva disappeared to the kitchen as Villa opened the door. After the shuffling sounds of pizza boxes being handed over, he heard an elderly voice cheerfully say, "Have a lovely night, sir."

Dumping the pizza onto the kitchen benchtop, Villa frowned slightly. "How sad is it that a nice old man like that is delivering pizzas on a humid, rainy night? And is still perfectly cheerful enough to say 'Have a nice night'?"

Silva smiled. "I suppose it's people like that who are the real heroes. Delivering fatty meals in the pouring rain to people like you."

"Hey!" Villa tried to reach over to whack Silva on the arm, but Silva promptly vanished and reappeared at the kitchen entrance, behind Villa. He spun around, trying to frown but unable to mask a creeping grin. "And what do you mean, 'people like me'? What about you?"

Silva shook his head. "I've got to go," he said gently, as Villa's smile softened. "I'm sorry. But - I'll come back."

Villa nodded sadly. "So much pizza for just one man?"

"Well, you do have the appetite of a whale," Silva chuckled.

Villa laughed, before pausing. "Wait a minute, how do you -"

But before Villa could articulate his thoughts, Silva had disappeared.

* * * * *

"What do you mean, it doesn't matter?" Xabi snapped into his phone, in human form again, having flown back home after realising that he had no clue where he should start looking for Steven.

"He's a grown man," José drawled. "You're not his mother, there's no need to panic just because he hasn't met his curfew."

Xabi clenched his jaw in frustration. "What sort of a coach are you?" he snapped.

He heard José sigh. "Look, if he doesn't turn up by tomorrow, then you can start freaking out. It's not like it's the first time he hasn't come home, after all. You're just making a big deal out of it tonight because -"

"Because Gago's rampaging through the streets of Despertia and threatening to destroy us from the inside, and Fernando tells me that Stevie admitted that he'd been exposed to him?"

"When did you speak to Fernando?" Jose asked quickly. "He's supposed to be in hiding -"

"I called him," Xabi muttered. "But that's not important - I need your -"

"Look, my wife needs me, okay? I have to cook dinner," José said wearily. With that, he promptly hung up the phone, leaving Xabi to glare at his receiver in anger.

"That's it," Xabi said to himself, dragging his weary body to the kitchen. "I need alcohol."

* * * * *

The cell was sweltering, made all the more uncomfortable and stuffy by the way his head spun and throbbed in irregular patterns, every slicing ache getting sharper with the loud crashes of bars against brick walls and jangling keys.

"Don't I get to make a phone call?" He was ignored. "A phone call? Hello?"

Frank turned around, his expression filled with just a little more sympathy than the others'. "Uhm, sir," he muttered, nudging Drogba in the side with his elbow, the sergeant's face twitching in annoyance, "when are we going to give Mr. Torres his -"

"I want you to get in contact with his associates at Verda TV - everyone he works with. In the morning, we're going to do the rounds, okay?"

Fernando watched Frank through the bars which separated them, biting his lip, his eyes flicking from his boss to the cell and back. "Yes, sir. But - but his -"

"Who's he going to call, anyway?" Drogba spun around to look at Fernando directly. "Who are you going to call?"

Fernando swallowed, his throat dry, his head impossibly heavy. Since awakening an hour earlier, discovering in a panic that his invisibility had clearly worn off when he'd drifted into unconsciousness, his mind had been whirring. Without so much as a fragment of an idea as to how he could escape, there remained only one thing of which he had been entirely convinced - that his phonecall would be to Sergio.

"Just - just a friend," he muttered.

Drogba raised his eyebrows. "Well, if you want to phone this friend, you're going to have to give us details. Name?"

Fernando knew that he couldn't give him Sergio's name. With the knowledge that the police would probably be around to search his apartment as soon as day broke, he knew he wouldn't be able to live with himself if he opened up even the slightest possibility of Sergio landing in hot water. No, he was hardly a member of the Force anymore, and yes, he had betrayed Fernando - but really, that had all been Gago's doing, and -

He froze, Drogba still glaring down at him, Frank next to him frowning in mild confusion. If he gave him Sergio's name, and told him where he was, he'd surely be leading the police straight to Gago, whose face had to be lining their cork-board walls after the stunt in Higuaín's office. He frantically tried to remember if Rafa and José had ever mentioned anything along the lines of "it doesn't matter if you turn in one of your own if it means you're stopping an enemy" - to little avail. But nonetheless, it seemed the only thing to do.

"Sergio Ramos," Fernando said quickly. "He's my flatmate, he's there right now, with -"

"Sergio Ramos?" Drogba repeated, drawing out each syllable thickly and slowly as his face contorted into a massive frown. "You really expect me to believe that? The reporter who revealed your name is your flatmate?" He stared for a few seconds, before breaking out into snorted laughter. "Looks like I hit you a little hard, Torres. Your head's still reeling from the shock, evidently."

Spinning triumphantly on his heel to walk away, Drogba left Frank to gaze down at Fernando, whose body fell into a slump against the wall once more, no longer alert and hopeful.

"I still can't really believe that you're one of them," Frank breathed. "I was hoping that the boss was wrong, you know. That you were just a normal bloke we were checking up on. But then I saw that invisibility stuff you can do, at Higuaín's, and -"

"I take it I don't get my phone call?" Fernando interrupted shortly, closing his eyes as Drogba's retreating footsteps clanged echoes around the hallway and jeers began sounding from the neighbouring cellmates whose moans made the hair on Fernando's skin stand up.

Frank shook his head. "Doesn't look like it." He straightened up, leaning over a little to glance at the next cellmate and glare pointedly in his direction before looking back towards Fernando. "Look, I reckon you guys are innocent. And, you know, there's always a fair trial, isn't there?" He smiled hopefully. "If you haven't done anything wrong, nothing'll happen to you."

Fernando's lips stretched into a vague smile as his eyes remained hollow and tired. "If only it were that simple, officer."

* * * * *

"Kun?"

Cesc could see the driver's eyes smiling over the half-open window as he leant over to open the passenger door from the inside. "Morning, Cesc," he said cheerily. "A man of many talents, I am."

Cesc climbed in, glad to see a familiar face. "Did you see the news this morning?"

Kun nodded gravely. "He's an idiot, that Fernando," he said disapprovingly as he carefully wove his black car through the crowded streets. "Once, about three months ago, when they all came over to get some gear, Sergio told me that he thought Fernando was too complacent about everything."

"Yeah, well, Sergio's been a little complacent himself, hasn't he?"

Kun glanced over at Cesc, smiling slightly. "You seem to be very clued up all of a sudden - have you finally accepted that it's all real?"

Cesc snorted. "You could say that."

"Well then, I surely don't have to tell you how careful you have to be, right?"

"Indeed not," Cesc sighed. "The number of lectures I've gotten, honestly."

"It's for your own protection," Kun said firmly. "Don't ignore all those warnings your bosses are giving you - they could save your skin. We don't want to see you splashed all over the headlines now, do we?"

"Indeed not," Cesc repeated glumly.

He gave Kun a tired smile and casually called out "Bye, Kun!" as he left the car once the forty-minute drive through crawling traffic mercifully came to an end. As Kun waved goodbye, Cesc hurtled through the entrance at the foot of the building, flashed his security pass at the uniformed guard, and made a beeline not for his desk in reception, but beyond it and into Higuaín's office.

He had always thought that his smarts and cunning were wasted, manning the phone and filling in the mayor's diary appointments. Despite the fact that he was ridiculously young to have landed a relatively cushy and high-paying job, he longed for a more challenging way to fill in those hours he spent away from university, at which he was turning up less and less often these days.

Today provided Cesc with the perfect opportunity to exercise his more intellectual muscle. Studying computer science had its drawbacks - such as immensely tedious lectures and the repellent effect it had on girls - but Arsène said he had knocked on Cesc's door one year ago partly because he had this type of knowledge, and it now appeared that his aptitude with a computer finally held some weight next to his position in the mayor's office.

Rafa had given him very precise instructions. Cesc was a precise sort of person, and had written them all down in the mental notebook that was his brain - he remembered every order, in order, and, having turned up to work an hour early, made use of the mayor's absence by sinking into his chair, drinking out of his coffee cup, and most casually hacking into his computer.

The occasional beeps that the system would emit made Cesc jump and glance upwards in alarm, but he had soon penetrated those laughably simple virtual barriers and found the information he needed. Various plans, records of communication and investor contacts danced across the screen as Cesc felt his chest warming in triumph. He flicked through the documents excitedly, his eyes darting to the clock on the desk every so often, making sure that the fifty, forty, thirty minutes until his boss arrived ticked by no faster than he was prepared for.

"Bingo," he at last whispered, his nose inches away from the monitor.

He rushed into the bathroom with his fingers dashing over the keypad of his cell phone.

"It's a massive charity event," he whispered as he sat on a closed toilet seat inside a cubicle. "There'll be bands, and politicians, and television personalities - all part of this massive event for cancer awareness and research. Three months from now. They're planning it frantically."

"Good, good," Rafa's voice breathed through the phone as Cesc smiled to himself triumphantly. "And are -"

"Two of the biggest contributors to the funds?" Cesc interrupted, his face glowing under the harsh fluorescent lights. "Raúl and Guti. They didn't even bother to change their names."

"I assume they're funding the structural side of the event?"

"Yup. As well as giving donations, they're providing money to set up stalls, sound, lighting, and things like cars and accommodation for the celebrity attractions."

Rafa sighed. "They're clever, those two. Even if, by some miracle, we managed to expose them for what they are - and what they've done - all of this charity nonsense practically puts them in the clear. They look like saints, for crying out loud."

Cesc nodded grimly, before remembering that Rafa couldn't see him. "Oh, uh, yeah, I agree. It's going to be difficult. But, uh - they'll definitely target this thing?"

"Oh, I'm sure of it," Rafa agreed decisively. "I don't see why else they'd bother providing the money. But look, Cesc, you forget about all this for now, okay?" His tone suddenly shifted from one of quiet satisfaction to one of the concern and fatherly admonition that Cesc had so quickly become accustomed to. "Don't drop even the slightest clue that you know what's going on. If they catch wind that you know -"

"You told me this yesterday," Cesc retorted, rolling his eyes. "I know, Rafa - I've got to keep a low profile. I'm not stupid. It was me who found all this stuff out, just in case you've forgotten -"

"Cesc, calm down. I know you're not stupid. But you're young, and very new to this, and I just need to make sure that you understand the scale at which these two hounds are operating. It's clear that massive levels of destruction isn't their aim - it's getting to you kids -"

"I'm not a kid," Cesc said irritably, looking at his watch. "Listen, Rafa, I've got to go, I'm running late. Call me if you think of another way to warn me about danger."

"Cesc -" Rafa began in an reproachful tone, but Cesc had quickly hung up the phone and left the cubicle, smiling tightly at the man who had just entered the bathroom and was looking at him in bewilderment.

"My dad," Cesc explained with an airy wave of the hand. "He calls at awkward moments."

Cesc had barely caught sight of his desk when he heard Higuaín bellow his name. Wincing as he turned around, he saw his boss standing with his hands on his hips, glaring comically in his direction.

"You're ten minutes late, Fàbregas," Higuaín complained. "Every day. This really isn't good enough - ten minutes can be a drastically long time when you rely on caffeine the way that I do."

"Sorry, sir," Cesc said sheepishly, moving behind his desk and laying a hand carefully over the papers he'd left sitting in the middle, still bearing the telltale signs of Higuaín's private documentation.

"Get someone to make me a coffee, would you?" Higuaín demanded, swinging open his door. "Oh, and call Ibrahimovic's people and tell them to cancel this afternoon. I have a hair appointment."

The day passed slowly, Cesc having been thrown task after mundane task to complete as the minutes wore on. Starving by the time his lunch hour finally arrived, he flew into the elevator and ran down the street to the nearest burger shop with his treasured documents in hand, poring over them, enthralled, as he munched through three layers of beef patty and alarmingly paper-like lettuce. He had forgotten his security pass, and so had to endure yet another lecture from Higuaín who had been called in order to let him back inside once lunch was over.

"Sorry again about earlier," Cesc said with an apologetic smile at the end of the day, poking his head into Higuaín's office as the mayor hurriedly closed whatever window he was looking at on his computer and cleared his throat awkwardly. "Forgetting my pass - sorry about the hassle."

"Oh, uh, that's perfectly alright," Higuaín replied stiffly, glancing back at his computer screen anxiously. "So, you're done for the day?"

"Yes, sir. I'll just be getting -"

Cesc was interrupted by a guttoral, clearly sexual, moan sounding from the computer's speakers, followed by another. Perhaps Cesc would have smiled at this, but it was the fact that both moans were undeniably male that had him hurriedly closing the door and leaving the mayor to his private pleasures.

He was still absently reflecting on the day's events, happily shielding his documents in his rather light and mostly empty briefcase, as he nodded a goodbye to the security guard out the front of the building, who merely glared back at him. Cesc's spirit was not to be trampled on, however, his eagerness to get home and further absorb his discovery flittering excitingly in the forefront of his mind, such that he was too distracted to notice that the driver of his car was no longer Kun, but Gago.

* * * * *

" - with more protestors expected to turn up tomorrow, it remains impossible for the council -"

"Stop it right there," Daniel said quickly, scrambling to hit the Pause button as he leant over Xabi. "I think here, we should work in the footage from Higuaín's press conference. Yeah?"

Xabi buried his aching head in his hands, not caring about what footage was worked in where. After spending the entire day wearily editing tens of pointless news reports, he was no longer able to feign interest in Daniel's.

"Yeah," he grunted, reluctantly reaching over to find the right tapes. "Okay."

Daniel smiled and clicked back to the beginning of the edited report so far. "This morning, as the mayor remained comfortably in his office, approximately twelve hundred protestors today took to the streets of Despertia, hoping to spark a reminder of his campaign promises with regards to the faltering standard of public facilities. The message was clear: improve funding for libraries, sports centres, homes for the elderly and -"

Xabi paused it. "No offence, Dan, but I honestly couldn't give a shit about public libraries." Dan stared. "You can't edit this yourself?"

"You're being paid to do this, Xabi," Daniel huffed. "What are you so worked up about, anyway? It's not like I'm getting you to work a montage into it or anything, it's just basic chop and -"

"The cops are going to be in here any minute now," Xabi interrupted impatiently. "I'm sorry if the idea of being questioned by the police isn't that worrisome to you, but I'm finding it a little hard to concentrate on these piss-weak stories right now."

Daniel sighed. "I know Fernando was your friend and everything, but -"

"He is my friend," Xabi snapped. "And having some rude-ass cops breathing down my neck because of him isn't how I wanted to spend my afternoon."

"Look, it's been hard on everyone," Daniel said firmly. "Do you think it's just you who's suffering because of all this shit? I'm stuck here reporting on old people's homes because Fernando's heroics have landed our network in the gutter!"

This much was true, at least. You probably would have needed to peel Stentor's reporters off the ceiling when Fernando's arrest had been announced - the channel had been buzzing all day with glowing stories of the supposed corruption at Verda TV. It went without saying that Verda was avoiding the issue entirely - the news that one of their own journalists was being labelled "a threat to the security of the population" by the police was not news that they wanted to be reporting. People such as Dan were therefore stuck with work on the other news of the day, every story paling in comparison to the shocking confirmation of Fernando's powers.

But Xabi was experiencing an inner catastrophe of proportions which Dan could not even begin to comprehend. Every spare moment between cutting this and increasing the background volume of that had been spent frantically trying to think of what he would say to the police, each excuse and alibi as feeble as the last. His breaks were filled with panicked phone calls from Rafa, each time coming up with a new way to view the day's events as utterly disastrous - Fernando might crumble under pressure and reveal their identities; Fernando's capture proved that there was no way to hide; the police might have been tipped off by one of the Force's contacts; the police might be in alliance with Raúl and Guti. . . The list was long and exhausting, and clouded whatever tunnel of reason Xabi tried to dig through in his head as the hours counted down to his scheduled interview time.

"I don't think you quite understand how serious this is," Xabi said to Daniel grimly. "How can you carry on making a stupid report like this when someone we know - a friend of ours - has gone through -"

"It's not a stupid report!" Daniel retorted angrily. "And I don't see the point sitting here, being emo about it all, when in a couple of days, this will all blow over and we'll just get back to normal! Even if Fernando ends up being convicted or whatever, so what? He's a fucking freak, that shit he can do."

Xabi glared at him. "Regardless of whatever 'shit he can do', don't you fucking dare call him a freak in front of me," he said in a low, dangerous voice. "He is our friend, so you bloody well treat him like one. He has been nothing but good to you, you little prick -"

"Calm down, there," Daniel said quickly, his eyes wide. "Jesus, stop taking everything so seriously. Lighten the fuck up."

Xabi groaned, throwing his head back in frustration, his chair creaking annoyingly as he leant backwards. The number of times he'd been told to lighten up - it rang in his ears, spoken in Steven's voice. The memories of all those times he had yelled at his lover, not listened to him, gotten angry at him, floated around his head in a confusing and painful mess which made all of this so much harder.

"I don't need to do anything," he said irritably. "It's the rest of the world that needs to stop fucking around and see what's in front of their fucking faces."

Daniel was about to snap back, but the door flew open to reveal Drogba, flanked by John and Frank - a sight Xabi was really far too tired to face.

"Fuck off, Daniel," he said grumpily, as the younger man grouchily stood up and left the room.

"We're here to ask you a few questions, Mr. Alonso," Drogba said coldly. "And I'd advise you to be a little more elegant in your language when you're speaking to me."

* * * * *

Silva jumped as Santi suddenly leant over to snatch the seating arrangements from the counter above him. Keeping his head down, Silva bit his lip as he carefully arranged basil over the first set of appetisers. He tries his best to ignore Santi's rapid ascension into childlike whining, but it was difficult when said whining was just centimetres away from his increasingly pained ear.

"You know what I think?" Santi irritably asked the room at large, Silva wincing as he saw spit flying all over the benchtop, and shielding his precious entrées with his hand. "They should just seat all the fucking vegetarians on one table. It'd save us a lot of fucking hassle - I'm never going to remember this God-damn arrangement."

It was testament to the stress of the night that Santi had broken his unspoken vow of saintliness, allowing his levels of swearing to equal that of Silva's uncle - an impossibly aggressive boxing champion who enjoyed beating up his nephews, long walks to the pub and celebrating his victories with as many blondes and breasts as possible; not a blood relative, obviously.

"Calm down," Villa said soothingly to Santi. He was somehow the only person who hadn't found himself around the bend after four hours of setting up, Silva noticed with a rush of hidden affection. Silva, for one, was now so tired of the indents his knife had left in his right palm, he was on the verge of stabbing it into something satisfyingly hard.

He froze as Villa's body brushed up against his. Villa chuckled at Silva's reddening cheeks.

"Hey, why so timid, baby?"

Silva's blush deepened with the word 'baby', as he pointedly looked down, Villa's smile stubbornly invading his peripheral vision.

"I'm not timid, I'm just stressed," he mumbled, trying to keep his voice as unintelligible as possible.

An hour ago, he had taken a much-needed cigarette break, during which he'd received a frantic text from Xabi warning him about police and suspicion, with the word 'Fernando' somehow thrown in five times in a message with a one-hundred-character limit. Silva had read it and felt his mouth fall comically open as he'd realised that he was in danger of falling far too deep with Villa. After quickly and suddenly popping back into the kitchen, inviting stares and unanswered questions of confusion (he really had to work on more subtle appearances and disappearances), he'd made a point of avoiding Villa as much as humanly possible in a tiny, crowded room. He tried not to speak, and he certainly wouldn't look at him. The vaguest notion that Villa would recognise his eyes or voice sent him bordering on complete panic.

"We're all stressed - at least you get to stay in here, though." Villa's tone retained its cheer, grinding into Silva as he continued to pluck basil leaves from their stems with shaking fingers. "I can't say I'm looking forward to dealing with hundreds of hungry, self-satisfied assholes on the longest fucking night of the year," he said with a dry laugh.

"Well, I'd be happy to trade," Silva grunted. He would indeed have traded most willingly, aching for a chance to see Sergio, and preferably pin him against a wall, beat the living shit out of him and come out the hero for having solved the mystery about which Rafa was still phoning them hourly - although Silva's tiny frame versus Sergio's enviable and most likely still-intact strength probably meant that mere observation was perhaps a safer option.

"Sure," Villa said, clearly amused. "I'll stay here and distribute basil, while you run around the entire night, taking orders and being told that your bow-tie isn't straight."

"Who told you that?" Santi looked up.

"Some fuckwit whose wife looked like a wrestler," Villa shrugged. "So, what do you say?" he prompted Silva with a nudge to his ribs and a cheeky smile.

Silva squirmed, looking away as he reached over to the shelf for some parmesan, only to find it missing.

"Hey, has someone stolen my parmesan?" he muttered.

"Why would anyone steal your parmesan?" Santi snorted.

"Come on, guys!" Silva whined, before realising that he was using his voice unacceptably loudly in front of Villa. "Please?" he added in a whisper.

Villa smirked, holding up his hand which clutched the elusive cheese shavings. "If you want it, come get it."

"David - please -" Silva stammered weakly, reaching out to grab the container but being blocked by a skilled forearm against his chest, the contact sending those familiar and undeniably painful jolts of recognition through his body. "David - don't be annoying - I need that -"

"Oh, oops!" Villa grinned, throwing the cheese over to Santi, who caught it with a laugh. "Sorry, it slipped."

Silva glared up at him. "Jesus, David, is that really necessary?" he spat as he rounded the table to head over to Santi, who merely looked back at him in bemusement. "I'm stressed as it is, you don't have to go around being immature and -"

"What are you stressed about?" Villa asked with an incredulous laugh. "You haven't even started main courses yet!"

Silva spun around. "Do you even know what the hell I have to deal with? You haven't got the tiniest fucking clue how stressed I am every single of day of my fucking miserable life, do you? Do you? You just complain about your stupid job like nobody else has problems, when really, you're just a fucking waiter. People wait tables everywhere, every day. Get over it, stop whining - you have no fucking clue who I am or what kind of shit follows me around every fucking minute."

Villa stared back as Santi held the parmesan container out, wide-eyed.

"Yeah, we know who you are," Villa snapped. "A chef, and an emo one at that. Get off your soap-box, okay?"

Silva sighed sharply. "I need a cigarette," he said more to himself than to anyone else, before bursting through the doors.

He stood on the balcony, looking inside as he gratefully inhaled the smoke that Xabi always told him would one day kill him. He laughed a little as he observed the cheap-looking decorations - you would have thought that, for a party of this magnitude, they would have at least bought decent balloons, for fuck's sake. Photos of the network's top reporters were hoisted up like paintings, grinning down self-importantly at the tables and chairs which were slowly being met by guests. Sergio's face was among them, placed near the front of the room, undoubtedly promoted before the others due to his recent reports on his own flatmate. If only the public knew, Silva thought to himself, that Sergio himself is what he's been dragging through the mud every night at six o'clock.

He scanned the room for the actual Sergio, but his gaze stilled as he looked at the door and realised who had just come in, flanked by the famously rich and perhaps more famously clueless Xavi Hernández, chatting animatedly and looking around at the awaiting party with polite appreciation.

"Fuck, it's Gago," Silva whispered to himself, dropping his cigarette and pressing his hands against the glass as he leant closer for a better look.

"Gago?" Silva jumped at the voice which suddenly appeared next to him, turning to see Santi staring into the room as well. "That asshole!"

"What?" Silva frowned. "You know him?"

"Yeah, he's a fucking vegetarian, isn't he?" Santi said, irritably waving his (now very crumpled) sheet of paper in Silva's face. "And as if that's not annoying enough, he's sitting up front with the head honchos - the only fucking vegetarian in that section." He shook his head disapprovingly. "I'll be running up and down the whole fucking hall because of that twerp."

Silva gaped, his head slowly turning back to look at Gago, who was now taking his seat at the biggest table. "Oh my God," he muttered, his breath clouding the glass as he stared. "He's Stentor's new CEO, isn't he?"

Part V