TT Fic: Seeing the Light, 20/26 (start of part two).

[cenea]

Seeing the Light, Chapter 20/26. Chapter 1, Chapter 2, Chapter 3, Chapter 4, Chapter 5, Chapter 6 Chapter 7 , Chapter 8 , Chapter 9Chapter 10, Chapter 11 , Chapter 12 , Chapter 13, Chapter 14 , Chapter 15Chapter 16Chapter 17 Chapter 18 Chapter 19
Pairing: Overall OT4/5. This part Mark/Other, Mark/Jason, Gary/Howard.
Rating: NC-17.
Words (this part): 3,600.
Genre: Adventure, Angst, Sci-Fi. Unintentional Top Gear crossover.
Summary: Jason is introduced to Simon's 'wife', and Gary politely asks Simon where Mark might be...?
Warning: Interminable markie whumping...

Thanks to EWT for the wonderful beta and awkbyname for the lovely manips.  Also to amy_wolf and asilia for the chats and ideas.

Also, will try and start updating this more than once a week again soon. Thanks so much for sticking with me so far!

Chapter 20

Cowell opened the door of the bedroom slowly, and peeped in to the room; the lights were dimmed in the plush chamber; a single figure was lying neatly on the covers of the bed, facing away from the door, knees tucked up to their waist.

‘Darling? Are you awake?’

Jason lingered awkwardly in the doorway. ‘Why are you messing me around? I don’t see what your wife has to do with this?’

‘You will,’ replied Simon, quirking an eyebrow as he noted that Jason was now staring very intensely at the slender, white-clad figure. ‘Yes, that’s right. It is who you think it is...’

Striding purposefully over to the bed, he grabbed the motionless figure by an elbow and rolled them onto their back; silky hair flopped across Cowell’s ‘wife’s’ face, but Jason’s greatest hope and fear had already been confirmed before Simon started gently stroking it away.

‘Mark! What...what the...what? I don’t understand...Mark? What’s wrong with him...what have you done?’

‘He’ll be alright,’ smiled Simon, continually stroking Mark’s hair in the repetitive, thoughtless way that one might pet a persistent cat while one’s mind was on other things.

Jason was still rooted to the spot, his focus flitting from Simon to Mark, not really believing what he was seeing. At first glance, he’d known it was Mark - but now? Even a few seconds later, he was trying to convince himself that he couldn’t be sure. Mark had never been that slim and feminine, his cheekbones never so quite so crystal cut, and his hair was never so long, nor so girlishly styled or straightened. And what was wrong with him? His ill-focussed eyes flickered under heavy lids, and whoever it was, they had scarcely flinched when Simon touched him, yet alone registered Jason’s presence.

‘That’s not Mark Owen,’ said Jason, his voice low and hoarse; distant to his own ears, he felt a bastard just for saying it.

‘You know it is,’ shrugged Cowell. ‘Would you like a better look?’

With a vicious change of pace, Simon grabbed a handful of Mark’s hair, forcing his chin back and pulling him up onto his knees so that he slumped back against him; then Simon casually felt into his pocket and produced a rather functional looking pen-knife. Snapped out of his quandary, Jason lunged forward but Simon already had the flat of the blade pressed against Mark’s throat.

And he was still smiling; the grin was even broader now, like a crudely demonic Cheshire cat. Jason took a step back.

‘Any doubts, Mr. ‘People’s Poet’?’

Jason shook his head and stared; he hadn’t a doubt in the world now that this was Mark. And a feeling of helplessness washed over him, greater than he had experienced during six whole years of toil, frustration and hell - the most acute, agonising suffering he had felt, indeed, since the last time he had watched Mark slip away from him.

‘Good. Now, please use whatever channels are open to you to inform the 8th Division that you have pledged your allegiance to the New Brittanic People’s Kingdom, and that, from now on, they answer only to their future King!’

‘King?’

‘King Simon the First. It has a rather pleasant ring to it, don’t you think?’

The abrupt movements around him were niggling into Mark’s vague consciousness and, forcing his eyes to open wider, he tried to work it out what was going on. Unfortunately, it was like squinting through a grimy fish-tank; all he could see were the tricks of the light, and a shadow from six years ago: somebody strong and sincere and warm. People like that didn’t exist anymore.

‘Be quiet, Jay,’ Mark had told him, as they’d climbed out of the van at the medical facility. ‘I can take care of myself...’

Mark gave a strange hiccup of a laugh. Soon after they’d climbed out of the van, Jason had died to him forever, just as this present mirage would metamorphosis into a scientist with a scalpel, a security man with a large truncheon, or one of those tarty nurses from Conwy with their painted smiles and talon-like fingernails, and he would writhe and scream and make a fool of himself until the nightmare passed. But something was happening out there beyond the drugs, Mark realised that well enough.

‘Sex,’ thought Mark. ‘Simon’s brought somebody here for group sex.’

He shut his eyes then, letting his body go even limper. He didn’t even open them when Simon shook him hard, jabbing in the knife so it nicked thought the surface of the skin - although he did work out from this that his ‘husband’ might not be after sex, although it was never clear: Simon liked it rough.

‘You haven’t called your men yet, Orange.’

‘What have you done to him?’

Simon shrugged, observing every glint in Jason’s eyes, every flex of his fist; it was always enjoyable watching a man teetering on the verge of violence and hysteria and yet who had been rendered completely impotent.

‘Mark was ill - we had to calm him down. Now call your men, and I promise he will be in a fit state for a...’ He paused and sniggered. ‘For an emotional reunion with you later. If you don’t call your men and order them to give me their allegiance, I’ll cut his throat. Get the gist?’

Fighting through his drugged mind, Mark attempted to build a picture of what was going on - and it was every bit as horrifying as the one that was forming in front of Jason’s eyes.

.......................

Gary confused the driver immensely by ordering him to take him to Simon Cowell’s Brittanic City 1 residence rather than straight to the Palace of Westminster for the most important speech of his life. In the backseat of the Rolls, however, Howard was twitchy and uneasy.

‘I don’t see why you’re so agin doing this the proper way,’ said Gary, who was starting to feel that maybe, just maybe, today truly would be the greatest of days. ‘I have a fair bit of clout around here now, and the simplest thing is to walk up to the door, and ask to see Mark. Cowell won’t argue with me. I bet you anything he’ll be happy to forge an alliance with somebody about to become the most powerful man in the country...what?’

Howard shook his head warily. ‘It ain’t going to work Gary. I’ve just...just...’

‘Just what?’

‘I’ve got a bad feeling about this?’ He groaned, knowing how pathetic and clichéd he sounded. ‘Look, I want to get Mark back more than anything but I don’t want...I don’t want...’

He trailed off, pinching the bridge of his nose.

‘What?’

Howard dropped his voice to a heartfelt whisper. ‘I don’t want to lose you too, Gaz. I don’t like any of this. I just feel we’re treading on fucking thin ice, and I’m scared I won’t be able to protect you, any of you...oh God! Markie!’

Gary squeezed Howard’s knee, an attempt at reassurance, as the car pulled up outside St. James’ Palace.

‘It’ll be fine,’ he murmured, but Howard’s honest words had shattered his fragile semblance of inner confidence. He didn’t sound any more convinced by his own words than Howard did.

..................

‘That wasn’t so hard, was it?’

From the secure comfort of his wood-panelled study, Simon observed Jason from an easy chair, cigar in one hand, whisky in the other. Having just called off the mutiny of the 8th Division, Jason said nothing. Even a poet’s ability could not articulate the simmering power of his hatred.

‘I realise you despise me,’ continued Simon with a dismissive wave of his hand. ‘But in the long term you’ll see that you’ve made the right decision. Nobody can defeat Mingay apart from me - and I think you and I can be rather helpful to each other. I actually like some of your poetry - that one about the childhood fishing trip, moves me to tears every time. Promising. And, what was that classic quote, the one they print on all the posters and scribble with the graffiti?’

Jason glowered silently; Cowell paused and cleared his throat:

‘Let me say, at the risk of seeming ridiculous, that the true revolutionary is guided by great feelings of love.’

He sniggered. ‘Classic Jason Orange! I might have you read that one out at my coronation - ah, how the people will believe that love to be mine. And it’s rather apt this day, one might say: all those great feelings of love, motivating your momentous decision to join me...’

Letting out a long, shuddering breath, Jason shook his head. ‘Fuck you, Cowell!’

‘Nice to know you’re not always so eloquent, mate.’

Simon broke off at the sound of a knock on the door; on his command, one of his security men entered the study, and scuttled over to whisper in Cowell’s ear.

Simon frowned, and then looked thoughtful.

‘Thank you, Smith. I’ll see him now. Please be absolutely sure to keep an eye on our other guest here while I’m engaged. Oh, and...’ Craning up, Cowell articulated in the man’s ear the most important instructions of all: ‘I want to know how Williams is getting on. If he’s not blasting Barlow through the roof of this city soon, then we’ll bloody well do it for him!’

.............................

‘Gary, Gary, Gary!’ beamed Simon, slinging his arm around his visitor as he warmly shook his hand. ‘What a sincere pleasure. I’ve been hoping for some time to get to know you better!’

Gary looked momentarily bewildered: ‘eh?’ Howard just glowered, much as Jason had done, standing in exactly the same spot only minutes before.

‘I wish I’d know you were coming - in honour of your big speech in the House tonight, I’d have laid on some hospitality. I’m sure my wife would have been thrilled to see you.   She’s quite a fan of yours!’

‘Is she?’ Gary was still gathering himself, and couldn’t help but feel a twinge of pride at this. But then he extracted himself from Simon’s grasp, cleared his throat, and got straight to the point.

‘Simon, I’m here on business, and I haven’t got much time. I, err, believe that you know the whereabouts of a friend of ours who has been missing for several years - a Mark Owen?’

Simon nodded serenely. ‘Have you been talking to a mutual friend?’

‘Robbie told me,’ answered Gary, before his brain caught up with his mouth and he wondered if that was a wise thing to let slip or not.

Simon folded his arm. ‘Interesting. Yes, I know where Mark is. He was among a group of ‘in-valids’ who I had rescued from a Medical Facility a few months back. Sweet-looking guy, but he’d had it tough. We didn’t think he was going to pull through...’

‘He did, though, didn’t he?’ interjected Gary. ‘Robbie said...he said he was here. He’d just seen him!’

‘And you believe a word that Robbie says?’

In his own inimitable style, Simon felt a pang of pity as he scanned the desperation on both Gary and Howard’s faces.

He slapped Gary cheerily on the back again. ‘Don’t worry, chaps. Mark’s absolutely fine. But he isn’t here - he’s still recuperating at my castle in Wales, and you’re very welcome to go and visit him whenever you like.’

Gary never quite knew how he found himself buried in Howard’s arms, struggling with all his might not to sob like a baby. Howard did have tears running down his face, but his features were still set like granite. He was staring at Cowell, simply staring.

Cowell shrunk away from the unfathomable intensity of Howard’s gaze, only to have Gary’s grateful arms flung around his neck.

‘Thank you, mate,’ murmured Gary. ‘It’s not true, what they say. You’re a good bloke!’

Simon patted Gary on the back and helped him straighten up.

‘I don’t care what they say,’ grinned Cowell. ‘But I think that you and I have some important work to do if we’re going to make this country right again!’

Gary gave an exaggerated sniff, and braced himself. ‘I think, Citizen Cowell, you could be right. Now, I’ve an important speech to make tonight, so if you’ll excuse me?’

‘With pleasure,’ replied Cowell. ‘Good luck, mate! My people will show you out.’

...............

‘Would you like see Mark again, before you go back to your people and start writing poetry about me?’

‘I’d like to rip your throat out,’ replied Jason, but he didn’t turn the offer down. Simon seemed to be keen to ‘press on with other business’ anyway, and he said could have ‘a little quality time alone’ with Mark.

‘For what it’s fucking worth,’ mumbled Jason. ‘What have you given him? He was completely out of it!’

Simon shrugged. ‘It’ll be wearing off now, and he might be relatively ‘with it’. For Markie.’ He paused to snigger. ‘He’s usually pissed out of his pretty little skull by this hour of the day, anyway...’

Mark was still lying on the bed when Jason was shown in. This time, however, he rolled over abruptly to face Jason, and his eyes stretched wide.

‘Mark? You recognise me this time? It’s me...Jason. Do you remember me?’

Half way across the floor to offer a tight embrace, Jason wasn’t quite sure what to expect as an answer - but he was shocked, nevertheless, when Mark rolled abruptly away from him, covered his face with his hands and screamed: ‘FUCK! GO AWAY!’

..................

‘He’s lying,’ said Howard, the moment they left the palace; he spoke so softly that only Gary could hear; Gary shot him an alarmed look, and they carried on walking.

‘Mark was there, in that building. I could feel it. Robbie was telling the truth. And if he was telling the truth about that - remember what he said about Cowell’s army? If that’s true, this could be our last chance to do anything. The whole speech thing, and making you Chancellor - I dunno. It’s all so risky.’

‘Ooooooooh, I don’t know,’ breathed Gary. ‘I don’t know what to think, mate. Do we go back?’

They were just reaching the edge of park, having elected to walk rather than take the car to Westminster; the air was cold, the lights shimmering brightly across the fake, plush greenery of the park and rather less flatteringly on the dry, brownness of the real foliage. A pigeon landed on a lamppost, and cooed ominously.

‘You make the decisions,’ replied Howard.

Gary stopped in his tracks, grabbing his friend suddenly by the shoulders.

‘I don’t want to, Howard! Not alone, not on this one. What should we do? Do I give this speech - or go back for Mark? Or what? Tell me!’

It was then that Gary realised that, between them, the decision has already been made.

‘How the hell are we going to break into St. James Palace then?’ he mumbled towards his boots.

Howard grinned. ‘I dunno. But if Robbie can do it alone...we can do it together. Have you any idea, Gary Barlow, how much I...I....want to kiss you right now?’

Gary glanced at the lights and sighed; and then he rubbed his mate’s arm affectionately as he whispered: ‘If it’s anything like as much as I want to hold you right now, then it’s so much it actually hurts, mate. So much it aches, deep inside. Now let’s go get Mark back.’

.................

‘Markie?’

Jason reached out to touch him on the shoulder; Mark jolted him off, raking his hand through his hair; he looked slightly flushed, and he was shaking violently.

‘Go away, Jason. It’s too fucking late!’

‘Late for what? What are you talking about...Mark? What has he done to you?’

Mark rolled onto his back, his glossy hair splaying decorously, his arms flung artfully above his head and gazed at the ceiling, refusing Jason’s eye; Jason sunk down on the bed besides him, scrambling to know what to think or say - let alone do for him. Reunions were about holding each other and weeping; they were about happy endings and never being apart again. He’d dreamt of this moment, just seeing one of the lads again, for six long years. And now...this?

Mark’s bare torso was all ribs, taut muscle and tight skin. But it wasn’t the skinniness that worried him; it was the empty hopelessness in Mark’s eyes.

He reached out to touch him again; Mark slapped his hand away.

‘I’m sorry, Jason,’ he breathed. ‘You’re going to have to forget that you ever saw me. If you start listening to Cowell, he will use me to control you, just as he has with Robbie, and it will never, ever end.’

‘But...’

‘No fucking buts!’ spat Mark, pushing himself shakily up onto his elbows. ‘Tonight, Robbie is going to blow up the Houses of Parliament and kill Gary.’

‘What?’

‘You heard me, right? Gary is going to die, and you are his only hope. Please! Don’t listen to Simon and, whatever you fucking do, don’t do anything - anything - to try and save me.’

Jason’s mind was really racing now; he’d called off his men, but this was a dimension he could not have foreseen. One of his intentions in coming to London that night had been to find Gary and, hopefully, Howard, having recently learnt of the former’s high position - but foiling assassination attempts? He wasn’t equipped or trained for such things. Was there a way to save them all? His next words felt as pitiable as his lack of a plan: ‘But Cowell threatened you! Markie, mate, I...’

‘God, don’t call me that! You have no idea how often he’s done this to Rob; no idea how often I’ve had that knife at my throat; no idea how often I...I...’ Mark took a deep breath. ‘You’ve no idea how often I wished I could fucking kill myself, because that would be the best thing, wouldn’t it?’

For the very first time, Mark looked directly at Jason, and found he was miserably proud of the shock emblazoned across the handsome features of his returned band-mate; he hated himself all the more for it.

‘I can smile across the dinner table at a state banquet whilst sticking a fork into the back of my hand, you know? I’ve held my breath so long whilst Simon was fucking me that I’ve made myself faint but...I can’t...I can’t...I can’t kill myself! I’m such a bloody coward! FUCK!’

Mark’s scream echoed to the rafters, but he didn’t fight back when Jason took hold of him; he hugged his friend tightly, inhaling that long-forgotten scent of home, of comfort. He let himself dream, just for a split second, that it was all over, that this was that sweet release he sought. But he remained silent and impassive; it was Jason who was racked with bitter sobs.

‘What has he done to you, Markie...what has he done to you...oh God...oh God!’

‘Shhhhhhhh, hey?’ As they pulled apart, Mark reached up and cupped Jason’s cheek; he even offered the glimmer of a smile as he smeared away the tears with his thumb. ‘I’m sorry. Look, he won’t kill me - that’s what I’m trying to tell you. I’m sorry...I get rather....hysterical sometimes. It’s the drugs. And I drink too much, I’m a mess...it’s my own fucking fault!’

‘It’s not...oh God, are you sure he won’t hurt you?’

Mark nodded, mustering a grim determination. ‘I’m sure of it, Jason. Just don’t think of it...save Gary, right? For me?’

After that, it was almost impossible to argue. Mark told Jason that his best hopes was to try and get into the underground tunnels under Westminster, as he was pretty sure that’s where Robbie was hiding out; he even managed to evoke a cheeky glint in his eye, and a sparkle about his smile as Jason left. Then he turned to face the wall and wept until the tears dissolved into laughter.

‘Stick a fork in my hand as I smile, hold my breath ‘til I faint, lie to my long lost friend while my heart tears in two - I really am the perfect politician’s wife!’

After that, Mark called for a bottle of vodka.