Fic: Circle of Glass, Part 1; rating 12, gen

[reggietate]

Title: Circle of Glass
Author:  reggietate
Rating: 12
Characters: Nick, Jenny, Lester, OCs, Connor, Helen, Abby
Warnings: pre S3, character death
Spoilers: S1, S2
Disclaimer: They're not mine, they belong to Impossible Pictures
Summary: The aftermath of 2.07


Part One:

"Jenny, this is Helen. Don't ask questions, just listen: You need to find Nick. He's outside the cage room. Stephen's inside, he locked himself in with the creatures to keep any of them from escaping and causing havoc above ground. He wouldn't let Nick sacrifice himself, he knocked him down and went in before Nick could stop him."

"Is Stephen dead?"

"Yes. Nick saw it all happen. He needs help." And that was it. The mobile went dead.

His world has narrowed to a circle of glass.

He has no words to describe the pain. It's a vast black hollow void inside him, sucking out everything good; a bottomless, endless, merciless pit of hurting he can't escape. He's suffocating, drowning, dissolving in it, and even madness would be a welcome relief, anything but this agony. He is still breathing, though he so dearly wants to stop, to put an end to it forever. But he can't. His traitorous body is too strong for that, too determined, it won't let him die. He is trapped with the living on the wrong side of the glass.

She sent Connor and Abby away without telling them about Helen's message, marvelling at her own calm professionalism as she reminded them that Rex the lizard needed treatment he couldn't receive here, and promising Cutter would be rescued. They didn't need to see this.

"Go home. Take Cutter's truck. I'll call you as soon as he's safe."

"What about Helen?" Connor said anxiously. "She's still in there with him, isn't she?"

Jenny very much doubted that. "If we find her, we'll deal with her."

"Don't let her hurt him any more, Jenny. She's screwed up his life enough already, turning Stephen against him."

"You have my word, I'll do everything I can to protect him." Empty promises. Helen had already done her worst.

Connor's gaze flicked uncertainly towards Caroline, standing off to one side. She looked scared, uncertain of what to do now they were free.

"I'll send her for debriefing at the ARC. It's pretty obvious she knew nothing about all of this. Don't worry, she won't be harmed. Now, please, go."

Mercifully, at last, they went.

She went back in alone, and found him exactly where Helen said he would be, fallen in a crumpled, defeated heap on the concrete outside the room full of electronic cages. He was rocking backwards and forwards, making tiny, lost, whimpering noises in his throat, his shoulder huddled against the flaking paintwork of the door. A single glance into the room beyond told her more she ever wished to know about why.

Shock, said her professional side, unwilling for now to confront what else it might represent. But whatever it was, she still had to get him out of here as quickly as possible. Perhaps she ought to have waited for the cavalry to arrive. Then she had an idea. Perhaps a cruel, even a dangerous deception to practice on a man in an obviously already fragile mental state, but every minute he remained here could only make matters worse, and she doubted her own ability and willingness to force him, or have him dragged out once help arrived.

"Nick," she said gently. "Nick, it's me - Claudia."

At first he didn't respond at all; she wondered if he'd even heard her. Then, very slowly, he raised his head. There was no expression at all in his bloodied, battered face, and his eyes - those extraordinary blue eyes she'd found herself so unwillingly attracted to in recent weeks - were like the shattered windows of an abandoned house.

She knelt in front of him, forcing herself to look into that emptiness, trying to reach what was left of the man she knew, the strong man who had done his utmost to protect everyone, who'd never given in or run away. "Nick, you have to come with me now."

"Can't" he said softly. "Gotta stay with Stephen... can't leave him... He's in there. Needs me."

"Stephen's dead, Nick. You can't help him any more." He's beyond anyone's help, the stupid brave idiot.

"No... no... no..." he whispered. "Not Stephen... not him... oh please, not Stephen... no... oh no..."

Heedless of how filthy and sweaty he was, Jenny wrapped her arms around him. His forehead dropped wearily against her breast and he began to sob, a horrible anguished wail of desolation she could scarcely endure. She felt for his hand, held on tightly, stroking the back of his head as she murmured, "Hush, Nick, it's all right, I'm here, it's all right." She repeated the words over and over again, meaningless, inadequate lies of comfort, all she could offer him. And for a long time she remained there, kneeling awkwardly with his weight against her while he cried his heart out for the friend who had died in his place.

Eventually, still holding his hand, she managed to lead him above ground. Almost as soon they reached daylight, he simply folded up and fell onto the weed-choked concrete, exactly as he had when Leek's soldier had knocked him out God knew how many hours before. She realised she wasn't even sure what day it was.

Some of Lester's men had finally arrived to take charge of the mopping-up operation, including Sergeant Dyson, who she knew was trustworthy. And then Lester himself was getting out of his car. For once, she was genuinely, incredibly glad to see him. She let go Cutter's hand and went to meet him.

"Stephen's dead," were the first words out of her mouth. She remembered  later, it wasn't what she'd meant to say.

"What? But - ." Lester stopped, looked past her at Cutter laying with his face pressed to the crumbling concrete, and shouted, "Corporal Wilkes! Get the Professor to the ARC infirmary, now!"

He turned back to Jenny.

"In God's name what happened here?" he said, as Wilkes and one of his team mates lifted Cutter onto a stretcher.

How did she begin to explain? "This was Leek's real base, his menagerie."

"I know that bit," Lester said brusquely. Looking into his face she realised he wasn't trying to be flippant or supercilious, that for once he was genuinely shaken, even horrified, and not hiding it too well. "We got the televised highlights over at the ARC before Cutter managed to sabotage his computer system, then a huge upload of information we're still trying to understand, then the feed cut off. Leek's dead. His own pets turned on him when Cutter... I still can't stand the man, but give him credit for cold-blooded courage of the highest order. How the hell did Stephen get into this mess? The last contact we had with him he was dealing with a sand scorpion on a pleasure beach. Successfully, I might add."

"I've no idea. But I suspect Helen had something to do with it. She phoned me. Told me what had happened to Stephen." Jenny recounted the brief conversation, if you could call it that, she'd had with Helen.

"My God..."

"God had nothing to do with this, James."

"There's no chance Stephen survived?"

"None at all. I saw - the cage room. It's a butcher's yard." She swallowed, suddenly feeling faint. He reached out, gripped her elbow, saying nothing, not even looking at her. But it helped to steady her, just a little.

"What about Connor and Abby? At least tell me they're alive."

"They're fine. I sent them home. They shouldn't have to see Cutter like this. I need tell them he's all right. And.. about Stephen."

"Not yet. That's my job. For now just let them know Cutter's safe."

"Thank you," she said.

"You'd better go along with him. How badly is he hurt?"

"I think it's mainly shock and exhaustion, but he's probably concussed as well. Leek had him knocked out when we were captured."

"Let's hope it hasn't rearranged his brains-cells too much," Lester said. "Though I'm not sure anyone would notice the difference. Go on, go and hold his hand. I'll deal with the rest of this disaster."

The pain is so all-encompassing it obliterates everything else. The light blinds him. He can hear voices, but the words mean nothing.

"Nick - open your eyes. Look at me, Nick."

Someone is holding his hand, stroking his face. Talking to him. Answering is beyond him. He is still down there in the darkness with Stephen.

Wilkes was trying to get Cutter to respond to stimulus, and not getting very far, as the ambulance raced back to the ARC. "He's concussed and in deep shock I'd say, Miss. Not a good combination."

"Will he be all right?"

"He's pretty tough. I think he'll be okay," Wilkes said reassuringly, though there was concern in his face. "He's been pretty badly knocked about, all the same. Is... Mr Hart really dead?"

"Yes, I'm afraid so."

"Poor sod. He was a good bloke. Not too proud to have a drink with the lads now and then. Would you talk to the Professor, try and get him to open his eyes? He may respond better to your voice."

"Of course." She gripped his hand, brushed the dusty, tangled hair off his forehead. "Nick - Nick, open your eyes. Look at me, Nick."

When Cutter's eyelids finally flickered open, his eyes were as bleak and empty as before. Wilkes checked his pupils, cleaned up the split in his head with brisk efficiency, an expression of detached sympathy just visible on his face. Jenny laid a blanket over Cutter, and sat on the edge of the bed holding his hand all the way to the ARC.

When they arrived, she let the medics take over. He'd be in no state for conversation for a while yet, and there were other matters she had to attend to. As callous as it might seem, Stephen's death in such a violent manner was, on one level, just another Public Relations problem to be dealt with. A cover story would need to be found for his next of kin, assuming he had any, and a funeral arranged, but she also had to make certain he hadn't betrayed the anomaly operation to the outside world. Not that she herself believed he had, despite appearances. She went to Human Resources and requested Stephen's file.

It's a dream. Just a bad dream. It has to be. It can't real. Stephen can't be dead. He'll wake up in a minute and Stephen will be there, laughing at him. It has to be a bad dream.

He opened his eyes and stared up at a white ceiling. Where was he? This wasn't the bunker. Hospital? His gaze tracked vaguely around, seeking some familiar landmark. No, it was the ARC infirmary. A man in Special Forces black saw he was awake and came over to him. Cutter struggled to recall the man's name, gave up, and managed to read his name tag instead: Cpl C Wilkes. Oh, yes, the regular duty medic, the one whose accent he could never place.

Wilkes had a homely countenance and friendly brown eyes that seemed oddly out of place on a soldier; he smiled and said, "Hullo, Professor. You're back with us, then?"

Cutter swallowed. "Seem to be," he said rustily. Wilkes jacked up the head of the bed and gave him a plastic beaker of water. He drank deeply. "Thanks."

"How are you feeling? Dumb question, I know, but I have to ask. Any dizziness or double-vision? Feeling sick, or drowsy?"

"No," he said. "Just a splittin' headache."

"You're a bit the worse for wear in places but you'll be fine. Got you on a drip, but don't panic, it's just to help with shock and keep you ticking over, I'll take it out later when you're feeling better."

"Is my team all right?"

"Mr Temple and Miss Maitland are fine. Miss Lewis, too." Wilkes checked his pulse, appearing to be satisfied with the result, and added, "We're all very sorry about Mr Hart. Sergeant Dyson and the other lads, they wanted you to know that. He was an A1 bloke."

His fingers clutched at the bedclothes. It was real, then. He hadn't dreamt it, there wasn't going to be a happy ending, Stephen was - he was - it hit him all at once, like the seventh wave crashing down, obliterating all his hopes for the reconciliation he'd really wanted all along - Stephen was dead.

Cutter rolled over onto his side, away from Wilkes, and half-buried his face in the cool pillow, eyes screwed tight shut. To his relief, Wilkes let him be. All he wanted was to lay here cocooned in this warm bed, in this clean, quiet place and not think, not feel, not move ever again.

Two hours later, Jenny went to the infirmary to check on how Cutter was. She could see him in the bed in the far corner, a motionless hump under the bedclothes, ruffled fair hair just visible.

"He came round a while ago, Miss. Physically he'll be okay, though he should stay here under observation for a day or two. It's his emotional state I'm more worried about. Right now he's best left to himself for a bit, but later on I think someone should talk to him, or at least sit with him."

"I will," said Jenny. "I doubt I shall be going home tonight. Is he... rational?"

"Seems to be. Still in shock right now, though. Needs gentle handling."

"Of course. I'll come back later. In the meantime, if he asks for anything, let him have it, within reason. If you're in any doubt, get in touch with me."

"Will do."

Jenny left the infirmary and returned to her own office. She was going to have to get into Stephen's flat, probably with the assistance of one of the SF men. Or perhaps she'd take the woman soldier from the group, what was her name, Lacey? Might be better. She'd have to phone Lester and get him to send Lacey back to the ARC She picked up the phone, selected an outside line.

Lester's driver answered. "Jenny Lewis here," Jenny said. "Get me the boss."

"Be a couple of minutes, Miss, he's just talking to Sergeant Dyson."

"I'll wait."

About five minutes later, Lester came on the line. "What can I do for you, Jenny?"

"Could you send Lacey back to the ARC? I need someone to go with me to Stephen's flat, to check it over."

"I'm ahead of you," he said, in that smooth, smug voice she'd grown almost to like, "I sent her over there as soon as you left with Cutter, just in case Helen decided to use it for a bolthole. Told her to get in and stay put. I doubt Helen will show up now, so you may as well go over and tell her to stand down."

"All right. How are things at your end?"

"A mess. Thank God Leek has no family who'd be likely to bother with him, there's not enough of him left to fill a teaspoon. And I'd be really glad to hear Stephen was an orphan, because frankly, there's not much more more of him, poor devil. The cleanup crew will be working out what's what for days."

"His parents were killed in a car crash several years ago, there are no close relations; he was an only child, apparently."

"That's a relief. What cover story will you use?"

"Burned to death in a fire. I'd like to have made it, 'while making heroic rescue attempt', but something like that would have got in the papers or the local news and I'd rather not start embellishing the story too much. Though he deserves a better epitaph."

"Very well, do as you see fit. How's Cutter?"

"Recovering, physically, but Corporal Wilkes is concerned about his emotional state. He recommends Cutter not be left alone alone too much for the time being."

"Anything else I need to know?"

"Nothing. Except, the girl - Caroline?"

"Oh, don't worry about her. Spoken to her, and though she's not entirely blameless in this affair, she certainly knew nothing about what Leek and Helen were up to. Just hired help, to distract Connor and muddy the waters where possible. I've let her go. There'll be someone keeping an eye on her for a while, discreetly, but I doubt she'll cause any further trouble."

Jenny was relieved. The young woman had seemed genuinely remorseful once she'd understood what was going on.

"Even if she went to the papers, who'd believe her anyway? 'Doorways to the Past and Future, dinosaurs'? Hardly."

Jenny remembered the reporter she'd encountered on the M25, and wasn't so sure, but she put it to the back of her mind for now. One problem at a time. Check Stephen's flat for anything relating to the Anomaly Project, and remove it. Return to the ARC and talk to Cutter. Worry about nosy reporters when and if necessary.

"Anything else you need?" Lester asked. "I may not be back for some time."

"No, I think that's covers everything, thank you. Goodnight, James."

"Goodnight, Jenny."

At Stephen's flat she met up with Lacey, a competent, tough-looking young woman with nut-brown hair and hazel eyes. She was wearing her hair loose and had on civilian clothes, anonymous jeans, trainers, and a green hooded top. The bulge of a sidearm was just visible if you knew where to look, and by now Jenny did.

"Evening, Miss Lewis. The Chief phoned and said you'd be coming over. What's the drill?"

"We need to check through Mr Hart's flat, particularly his personal papers, for any reference to the Anomaly Project. I don't expect to find anything much, it's mostly a routine precaution."

"Seems a bit ghoulish to me," Lacey remarked.

"To tell you the truth it doesn't exactly appeal to me either, but it needs to be done. National security and all that. Did he have a computer?"

"Over here," the young woman said, leading Jenny to a neat desk which had clearly served as Stephen's home office. "And there's a laptop, too."

"Can you disconnect them? We'll take them back to the ARC, one of the technicians can check them over."

"Okay." Lacey disappeared under the desk. Jenny looked around for a filing cabinet or drawers where Stephen might have kept important papers.

Most of what she found were merely the ordinary private affairs of a young outdoor academic. Stephen seemed to have been a very tidy and methodical person when it came to his documents; everything was neatly filed under the appropriate headings. There was a sparsely annotated appointments diary, and a calendar with notes pencilled in, but nothing of relevance to her search. If he had kept any records of his involvement in the Anomaly Project, they were probably on his PC.

"Perhaps I'd better make some coffee; we could be here for a little while."

Three hours later, they left the flat, Lacey carrying the PC tower, while Jenny carried the laptop and a medium-sized plastic storage box filled with letters and photographs. They'd found little or nothing relating directly to the Project beyond a notebook filled with what looked to Jenny's untrained eye like the notes of some private research. She'd have to ask Abby or Connor to confirm it, but she thought most of it was perfectly innocent stuff.

There was no mention of Helen anywhere, no obvious sign of her presence in the flat - certainly no indication she'd been spending large amounts of time there, although some unwashed plates, cutlery and glasses were piled on the sink top, more than would be needed by a single person. So perhaps he had fed her either before or after they'd turned up together on the motorway. But feeding someone wasn't a crime, and strictly speaking Helen wasn't a wanted criminal. Or at least, she hadn't been up until today.

"Do you think he really was hooked up with Helen Cutter?" Lacey asked, as they put everything into Jenny's car.

"As in sleeping with her?"

"Yeah. Because he seemed too smart to do that, you know?"

"Cleverness doesn't always equal good sense. And from what I saw of Helen, she could have hooked him again, emotionally and physically. But no, I don't believe he was."

"Bed's been slept in," Lacey said.

"Yes," Jenny conceded, half-unwillingly.

"Pity," Lacey said.

Back at the ARC, Jenny delivered the PC and laptop to the technical department, with instructions they were to examine it for suspect material and report the findings, if any, to her, and took the box of photos and letters up to her office.

She'd looked at most of the photographs, and read a good many of the letters, written from Cutter to Stephen in his his sprawling, appalling handwriting. They were the letters of an emotionally inarticulate, but not emotionally stunted, man whose affection for his younger colleague and best friend stood out quite clearly. He was no eloquent letter writer, Nick Cutter, but read between the lines, and there was no doubt of his feelings.

All Stephen's other papers, photographs and letters - those from his former girlfriend, for instance - had been neatly arranged in order of date. But these had been out of order, as if someone had recently had them out and looked through them. It seemed an oddly sentimental thing for a man to do. Or perhaps not. Perhaps he'd been saying goodbye.

At the top of one loose pile of photos was one of Cutter, taken at some kind of dig, and dated 2004. Wearing faded jeans and a grubby blue sweatshirt, Cutter was on one knee in bright sunlight, looking up at the camera and grinning. His untidy, almost unkempt swept-back hair was golden, his forehead and nose and the curve of his ear slightly pink with sunburn. There was a trowel or similar implement clutched in his hand. He looked ten years younger than he did now. He looked cheerful and happy.

She wondered if that was the image of Cutter Stephen had taken with him to his death. She hoped it was.

To be continued...