Carter's Recourse - 22. Chapter 22

Retro-seventies, that era in decorating that Will was certain should have been carefully forgotten about and deliberately never discussed again. The den in Andrew's house hadn't changed either; the seventies lived--at least there--once again.

There was the faux brick and wood in its garish patterns, the outdated furniture and the beanbag chairs. Will noted there was even a lava lamp for good effect, though he didn't comment on it. He just cradled his plate of pasta standing in the doorway and whistled.

"The more things change..." he murmured as he walked into the room and sat down on the couch.

The room wasn't that large; it was comfortable in its shades of brown with an ancient television that dominated an entire corner of the room. Will smirked to himself as he looked up at Andrew who was shifting uncomfortably as he sat down. Will noted that he didn't hold the plate up with his other arm; instead he leaned forward to eat from the coffee table.

"How are you feeling?" Will asked in concern, looking suspiciously over the rims of his glasses.

"I'm fine," Andrew lied. "Just a bit of an ache."

Will sighed--obviously Andrew wasn't going to talk about it--and he dug at his pasta letting them fall back into silence. It was strained; after so much tension of the past few days Will hadn't really thought about Andrew. The man had been a constant companion through the entire mess, being strong when he needed strength and backing off when he needed to be alone. That was just how Andrew was, the man knew him better than he knew himself sometimes.

Andrew looked at him, tired blue eyes sparkling in the light. "You have that look," he said quietly.

Will looked away. "It's nothing," he replied feebly.

What was he thinking? The kind of thoughts he didn't allow himself to think. He idly pushed the pasta on his plate staring down at it. It was always Andrew, charging to his rescue now as he had in high school, protecting him and looking after him. Showing him nothing but support and kindness.

"Why did we break up again?" Will asked out of the blue. The moment he said it, he regretted it, dredging up the past was never a good idea. It had the nasty habit of reopening old wounds, wounds that ran deep.

"Long or short answer?" Andrew replied sitting back on the couch, wincing a bit in pain.

"Never mind," Will replied taking another bite of his food and wishing he had just gone home.

Andrew chuckled, Will was being neurotic again, a bad habit of his. Exposing that thin vein of insecurity that lay deep under the surface and only reared its head whenever the prospect of someone actually loving him came up. It was cute, and frustrating as hell all at the same time.

"Well," Andrew replied, "short answer is you're an idiot."

"What"?" Will turned in surprise to see the grin on Andrew's face. His protest died as he realized Andrew was teasing him; he arched an eyebrow and set his plate down, "What's the long answer?"

"You weren't ready," Andrew replied. "We were far too serious way too young, you got scared and took the first out you could find. Then when you realized what you wanted it was too late, you were already involved with someone else."

"I love... love Marc..." Will replied frowning, was Andrew right?

"Maybe," Andrew replied thoughtfully. "You have a stubborn streak in you a mile wide, Carter, no one tells you what to do, not even your own heart. You were afraid of me, what I was offering you, and so you broke up with me and ran to another city. And when you came back you had a whole new relationship to hide behind."

"And you have an arrogant streak," Will stated, a little annoyed by what Andrew was saying. "World revolves around you, never mind that there are other people in it..."

Andrew grinned again, "We all know I'm arrogant, and at least I admit it. It's what makes me so confident." He sprawled a bit on the couch, yawning tiredly, "You used to like my confidence."

"And you used to like my stubbornness..." Will shot back.

"No," Andrew said patiently, "'you' liked your stubbornness, the rest of us just tolerate it. It must be the Brit in you..."

"How come," Will said leaning back himself onto the couch, "every time I say something you don't like it's 'the Brit in me' talking?"

"Well," Andrew said smugly, "you have to be stubborn to stay on that cold damp rock you call a country."

"Bastard!" Will stated firmly.

"Mmhmm," Andrew replied blinking a couple of times and yawning again. "Still, good to know you still love me."

"I never said that," Will stated, blinking and wondering where that had come from. "I would remember saying that."

"But you don't deny it," Andrew mused aloud, still smiling.

"I..." Will gave his head a shake, "I can't... Everything's all screwed up right now I..."

Andrew reached up with his good arm and gently tugged on Will's arm, and Will found himself leaning down against Andrew on the couch. How many times as kids had they shared that couch watching movies, tossing popcorn at each other and goofing off?

Will swallowed as he lay there, his head on Andrew's chest and feeling the rhythm of his breathing as it pushed his head up and down. They lay in silence for a moment, Andrew wrapping an arm around Will as they remained still, his fingers gently playing with the nape of Will's neck.

"Stubborn bastard," Andrew murmured aloud.

"Arrogant git," Will replied as he adjusted himself to be more comfortable. He glanced up at Andrew, and smiled as the man's breathing grew more regular. Asleep; even back when they dated, it always surprised Will at Andrew's capacity to fall asleep anywhere, it was like a gift. Will always had trouble falling asleep in awkward places.

He lay there watching Andrew quietly and wondered. He loved Marc, but it wasn't the same kind of love although he had tried to convince himself it was. But was he really just hiding behind another relationship to avoid being hurt by the man he really loved? It was convoluted, any which way he looked at it he was confused.

He wasn't supposed to be confused; hell, he made decisions that shaped Canada for christsakes, why was he having so much difficulty with his own private life? His career was never smooth sailing; holding political office was akin to holding onto a live snake, at any moment it could turn and bite him. But his personal life was a mire of confusion, bad choices and regrets.

The biggest regret of his life now held him in his arms and snored lightly.

Will rolled his eyes as he reached out a finger to push Andrew's mouth closed, silencing the snores. Too many years of being intimate allowed him a few secrets on how to deal with Andrew. Like the eternal battle for socks--Will smiled at the memory--two guys with two distinct sock drawers that never seemed to have enough clean socks. Both were convinced the other was stealing their socks in the morning.

Or hockey night in Canada; every Saturday night during hockey season, the television would be commandeered by the guys to watch the Senators battle their way to another spectacular, if short, run at Lord Stanley's cup. Will had learned to adapt, and during summer, Andrew had adapted to English Premier Football.

Marc had never adapted. He was the eternal student. Will wondered when he had stopped being a lover and become a father in that relationship. It wasn't healthy, and he knew it. Marc had slipped further and further towards his own insecurities, relying on Will more and more. And Will had accepted the co-dependency.

He realized that he wanted the kind of relationship he had had with Andrew with Marc. A partner that shared his life, and he could share theirs. Marc had been exactly that, once. And Will wondered if he could be that again?

Yet there he was with Andrew, lost in his own thoughts as he tried to make some sense out of his life.

***

They kept a safe house in the city for exactly that reason. Johnson sat in it breathing heavily. It had taken him a few hours hopping and changing buses to ensure he wasn't being followed before he had bothered to try the safe house. But once he was behind that barred door he began to calm down from the adrenalin high and take stock of his situation.

He was in trouble; getting out of the country, hell, getting out of the city was going to be next to impossible. He could hop into a car and try to make the border, but they would be looking for him there and the Canadian police would snare him easily if he tried to make a run for it.

He could try for the American Embassy in the center of the city; once he was safely on American soil they could figure out how to get him out of the city, a diplomatic car to a diplomatic flight and he would be gone. The problem was that attracted the wrong kind of attention.

He went to the desk and pulled out a laptop, the cellular modem connecting him to his handler in Langley by a secure telnet terminal. He sat and waited for the handler to respond, to give him some idea of what to do next, what his options were.

Hours of waiting dragged by as he took to cleaning and reloading his gun staring at the blank screen. The gun had saved his life once that night; he wanted to be sure that he could rely upon it again. He checked the barrel and slotted the gun back together as the computer beeped.

AGENT JOHNSON?

There was no need for passwords or hidden codes, the very fact he was logged into the telnet session was all the proof they needed, that and the web cam clipped to the top of the laptop gave them a visual confirmation that was better than any password could be.

YES, Johnson replied typing into the computer, COVER BLOWN, EVADED CSIS CAPTURE AND IN NEED OF IMMEDIATE EVAC.

There was a pause, then: NEGATIVE.

Johnson's heart fell; they couldn't--not after everything he'd done for them. WHY? He typed into the computer.

THE COMPANY WISHES NO FURTHER INVOLVMENT.

NO FURTHER FUCKING INVOLVEMENT? Johnson was pissed, he didn't mind letting it show, they were disavowing him cutting him loose to fend for himself or get caught. Typical cut and run that made the CIA Operations department so ruthless. No man left behind was impractical to an agency that needed to distance itself from a potential political crisis.

YOU ARE A LIABILITY... I AM SORRY.

Johnson sat staring at the type on the screen and rubbed his jaw. They were right, he'd been prepared for something like this to happen, and it still cut him deeply. He'd cut several of his own agents loose over the course of his career; some of them still languished in Middle Eastern prisons wishing for death to escape literally hell on earth. He hadn't expected it to ever happen to him.

GIVE ME A CHANCE TO FIX THIS, Johnson typed after a moment's pause; if there was someway to finish the mission, to ensure that it succeeded despite the setbacks then they might be persuaded to help him. He had no desire to wind up in a Canadian prison.

Again there was a pause on the line.

NO, came the simple reply.

Johnson slammed the laptop closed and seethed--damn them. The moment things got too hot for them they bailed out. Typical of a country so governed by the media; even the faintest hint of scandal and they would skitter away from taking any kind of decisive action.

Crippled by the media and public opinion it was a wonder they were able to accomplish anything at all. It took a ballsy man to stand up to the world and say "Fuck you I'm right." That was the reason Johnson had volunteered to replace Knowlan when he had failed to report in, to ensure a man not worried about public opinion got a chance to stand again and do what needed to be done, and to hell with the voters.

He gritted his teeth, there was one option he had; he slapped a magazine into the pistol and slipped it into the pocket of his coat, getting up and shutting down the computer. If the boys in Langley wanted to forget about him, then he'd just have to give them a reason to remember him again.

He got up and set out, intent to pay the American Ambassador a visit.