Exception to the Rule (Lester/Ryan) 2/4
Characters: Lester/Ryan, Helen, OC
Rating: Eventually NC-17, this part PG-13
Word count: 2,500 (Total 13,850)
Summary: Lester looked across sharply. “Don’t for one minute think I approve of this. Helen Cutter is going to disappear permanently whether the ARC gets involved or not. The one thing I can do is to ensure that whoever does the job does it quickly and professionally.”
AN: This was intended as a thank you to Fifi for all the beta work over the last year. In the event I wrote it and then pretty much begged her to beta it. So I still owe you. Thank you for the pairing - they rock! - and the much-needed nitpicking. Any mistakes left in the text belong to me. Anyone who knows anything about guns and forensics will have to do some wincing and hand-waving.
Trope Bingo: Fake Relationship.
*
Part One
*
So, yeah, Ryan was ‘dating’ Lester. And, as it turned out, Lester took his subterfuge seriously. That meant not just saying they were together for the purposes of the contract, and Ryan was still unclear exactly what these purposes might be besides allowing Lester to keep tabs on him, but actually going out as a couple and spending time together socially ‘laying the groundwork’ before it was required.
Lester insisted, he seemed to be going out of his way to ensure that far from being low key and circumspect he and Ryan drew as much attention as possible to themselves without actually making a public announcement or unfurling a rainbow flag.
Ryan had to admit that, circumstances aside, he was enjoying himself. He’d always been very casual when it came to relationships with a sort of easy come/easy go attitude. When you were liable to get killed at any moment it didn’t seem fair to prospective partners to allow things to become serious. He’d seen too many grief-struck men and women standing silent by freshly-dug graves, faces raw with tears or shuttered in lonely disbelief, to want to add to their number.
There was nothing casual or easy about Lester but that made the small concessions all the sweeter. It was oddly like being a teenager again with each encounter revealing some new secret to be examined and explored and a dizzying sense of never knowing quite what lay ahead.
Like a teenage romance it was also frustrating as hell and his right hand was getting more of a work-out than it had in years.
*
Lester being Lester a ‘date’ could not possibly involve anything as mundane or informal as dropping in to the pub after work. Lester simply did not do spontaneous. He liked to plan and be in control. So did Ryan, which meant that at some point things were going to become interesting. (And here, Ryan’s mind supplied more than a few images of just exactly how interesting that could prove to be.) But, at least for now, he was content to follow his co-conspirator’s lead and let Lester organise their social calendar.
First, there had been casino night at the Clerborne Club.
Strictly members only, the interior of the Clerborne exuded an aura of old-fashioned opulence in keeping with its Georgian exterior and Mayfair location. A huge chandelier dominated the VIP room and the velvet-covered tables were flanked by men and women wearing identical royal blue shirts over black trousers. It was quiet, bar the shuffle of cards, the low-voiced calls of dealers and the occasional clink of glasses and ice. Security was unobtrusive but Ryan’s experienced eye picked out half a dozen plain clothes operatives in addition to the two smartly-coated doormen. He also picked out several cabinet ministers, a famous opera singer and a minor royal but these were of little interest except in proving the relative ease of approaching supposedly unapproachable people.
Babanin was a compulsive gambler and both Lester and Ryan thought a casino could offer a potential point of vulnerability. Their quarry was unlikely to be unprotected but any personal guards would have to stand back from the tables to comply with the rules against cheating. The downside of the location was that it would necessitate either some sort of poison or the use of a close range weapon that would both make identification easy and subsequent escape difficult. Still, the betting tables at all casinos were essentially laid along the same lines and it would be useful to plan possible scenarios and to establish previous gaming activity should anyone bother to check.
Poker nights had been a regular thing amongst some of Ryan’s previous postings and the current ARC forces had been known to meet up for a game or two but Ryan was not an enthusiastic gambler. He worked too hard for his money to throw it away easily.
Ryan played cautiously and won small. He was a competent player through practise rather than natural skill. Lester drew and discarded cards with an apparent lack of care and won and then lost substantial amounts before finishing the night slightly in profit. The smiles and frowns were correct but Ryan could tell that Lester was putting on an act. He’d known real gamblers and the difference was in the eyes. He also suspected that Lester was a much better player than this evening’s performance would indicate but here was not the right place to question his companion. They left just before one in the morning. There were still half a dozen tables at play.
This was followed by a dinner at the fashionable Spice Market restaurant.
Recently opened under the auspices of Michelin-starred chef, Gary Berry, tables at the restaurant usually had to be booked three months in advance. Lester suggested eating there the day before and had had no trouble securing reservations. Apparently he’d gone to school with one of the owners. Ryan accepted, pleasure warring with a quite irrational sense of irritation of what seemed wholly unconscious acceptance of privilege. He wondered once again if he actually ‘liked’ Lester and why the answer seemed to matter less and less.
“Something funny?”
Lester paused with wine glass in mid-air. He was wearing a red shirt tonight, open necked. It was possibly the first time Ryan had ever seen…James…without a tie. It made him look different, not so much younger as more approachable and quite disconcertingly attractive.
Ryan was wearing blue. It brought out the colour of his eyes and the highlights in his fair hair. He had dressed carefully and told himself that it was simply to add veracity to the evening.
“Private joke,” said Ryan. He picked up his own glass and took a sip. “Not worth explaining. Tell me more about how Labradors make better pets than Great Danes because I have to say your arguments have yet to convince me.”
Lester gestured at their half-eaten dinners. “Yes, but you’ve already admitted a partiality for salted butter and asked for your steak to be served well-done, which makes your opinion on any other subject decidedly suspect. Labradors are clearly the superior breed.”
“No salted butter when you visit,” conceded Ryan. “But Great Danes are still the dog of choice.”
They played squash at London Racquets.
Ryan won - just. Lester sulked for the rest of the evening. Ryan also won their rematch. Lester did not suggest a third meeting.
There was music at Ronnie Scott’s.
Lester was a jazz fan. They listened to a swing band from Peru. Ryan wasn’t much for the music, if he was honest, but he could tell James was enjoying it.
And since when did he automatically think of Lester as James? Shouldn’t there need to be some sort of conscious thought involved in the transition? Ryan thought back and wasn’t sure, only that somewhere or other he seemed to have crossed a line that would have been better not crossed, and he was no longer sure of his ability to go back to the point where they began.
They sat at a small table, hands and thighs touching, as the evening drifted comfortably into the small hours.
The parting kiss was something of a surprise. That said, Tom Ryan was not one to back down from a challenge. He shifted his weight subtly allowing his height and build to give him an advantage and slowly took control of the encounter. Lester, who he might have known was not the kind of man to automatically shut his eyes on being kissed, actually raised his eyebrow at the manoeuvre and gave a small snort of laughter. Ryan snuffled a laugh too, without breaking contact, and grasped Lester’s elbows bringing them closer together. He moved his tongue against Lester’s lips and prevented further sound. Finally Lester’s eyes drifted shut and his body leaned into Ryan’s. At that point Ryan reluctantly stepped away.
“Surprisingly natural, you’re a turning out to be a much better actor than I gave you credit for,” Lester concluded standing fully upright again after a barely perceptible pause and minute foot shuffle. The insouciance was spoiled a little by the flush along his cheeks and Ryan was gratified to note that he was not the only one who was going to be doing a little readjusting in the trouser region.
Still he was not going to let Lester have the last word. “Likewise, James. To be honest, I wouldn’t have thought you had it in you.”
They hailed separate cabs as they were going in different directions. Ryan waved Lester off and stepped into his own taxi. And then he spent the entire ride home wondering if indeed Lester had ever had it in him.
*
“What was it that Helen’s supposed to have done?” Ryan asked Lester in yet another closed-door office meeting.
A look of frustration flitted across Lester’s features, an expression that was as close as he ever came to admitting he was out of his depth. He shrugged. “I told you, I don’t know the specifics only that she played her games with the wrong person.”
“And there’s so many possibilities?” asked Ryan.
Lester pursed his lips thoughtfully and gave one of his rare unguarded comments. “The ministry’s a big place, Tom, and like the military, it has its share of powerful idiots. There’s too many people watching James Bond films and playing spies and meanwhile we have a real threat to deal with in the anomalies. So, yes, there are many possibilities. And who might be pulling the strings is probably the least of our worries given that as far as I can work out they’ll be happy with this one thing. I think, in the end, it may not even be about Helen at all but a warning shot to Anatoly Babanin. If they can kill her they can kill him.”
“They?” asked Ryan, staring at him. Lester made it sound like an intellectual game. That might be forgivable in some people but Lester dealt with the after-effects of people who were in the wrong place at the wrong time all the time. In him, it was inexcusable.
“We,” amended Lester and dropped his gaze.
A sour taste rose at the back of Ryan’s throat. He said nothing. He really did not trust himself to speak.
Lester was musing, talking half to himself and half to Ryan. “That’s the story of Helen’s life, always seen as secondary, always under-estimated, always overlooked in favour of the more powerful male.”
“She’s not being over-looked now,” said Ryan and for the life of him could not keep the bitterness from his tone. It was largely self-directed for he had no one to blame for being in this situation but himself but there was also a large measure of contempt for the faceless men and women in their government offices who saw others simply as chess pieces to be moved around the board for their own selfish gain.
“No.”
It was a ‘no’ of agreement rather than denial. Ryan waited in case there was more coming, but Lester was silent, then segued neatly into a rant about ministerial incompetence and budget cuts. Half way through it Ryan got up and walked out.
“You really are a complete bastard,” he shot out as he was leaving.
It was a measure of how fucked the situation was that Lester did not bother to reprimand him or call him back.
They met again that evening.
Lester picked Ryan up from his flat in North London a little after 7.30. They were going to see a film at the Electric Cinema. Neither mentioned the conversation they’d had earlier in the day, either when they first met or after Lester had dropped him off again and they’d kissed goodnight. Apparently they were both bloody good actors and/or experts in compartmentalisation.
But only one of them was scheduled to commit a murder. So who did that really make a complete bastard, wondered Ryan.
He watched himself in the mirror as he washed his face in preparation for going to bed. He could smell a faint hint of Lester’s aftershave - Penhaligon’s Blenheim Bouquet - and brought his hands to his face to trap the smell. He was equally trapped now. Helen was going to be killed come what may and he would do it as agreed. But when all this was over he would leave the ARC. Possibly he would even leave the military and start again somewhere else, doing something else. How ironic in all the fights and skirmishes of his career that it would be a good intention that brought him to this point of disillusionment.
Truly the road to hell was so paved. Maybe Helen would be waiting for him when he got there.
*
It was late June when the plans finally came together and Lester announced he would be away for a week on ministerial business. The much put-upon employees of the ARC could barely restrain their cheers at the prospect of a Lester-free interlude. Ryan naturally joined in the celebrations although, as it turned out, he was booked in for some training that week and would not benefit from the unexpected days of freedom.
Shame, he agreed, with a philosophic shrug, but just one of these things. He’d still be away and a change was as good as a rest. Right?
He found it hard to meet Nick Cutter’s eyes. He wanted this to be over and locked safely away in the file in his mind labelled ‘Do Not Disturb’.
*
Babanin was sailing into the Riviera and would, according to their sources, be docking at Nice harbour for three nights. The Russian would sleep on board his heavily-fortified yacht but would be approachable crossing the town, either on foot across the main square, or along the always slow-moving coast road. That he would be gambling at some point was a given. He was a favourite in the seafront casinos with their fin de siècle façades and gilt interiors. Ryan and Lester would fly into the town as a holidaying couple on a short break arriving two days before their quarry giving them time to prepare their plans.
“Wouldn’t Monte Carlo have been a better location?” asked Ryan.
They were at Lester’s flat eating smoked salmon tagliatelle with rocket and watercress salad. Ryan wasn’t interested in celebrity lifestyles but even he knew that Monaco scored much higher in both the betting and social hierarchy.
Lester gave a thin-lipped smile and twirled his pasta expertly around his fork. “Much better, but our man’s persona non grata in the principality. There was an incident two years ago. Some sort of fight in which two people died. Everything was hushed up but Babanin is no longer welcome in the Grand Casino. Nice is rather less nice in its requirements. If you can pay you can play.”
Ryan winced at the pun but didn’t comment.
*
Part Three