This story copyright © 2003 Mia McCroskey
Characters from The Avengers and other sources are the property of their respective owners.
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Steed keeps a low profile
Emma finds her way home
Chapter 16
Beep. Beep. Beep
They've bugged my office again. Emma listened to the sweeper signal speed up and grew more annoyed at Weems and Plath. Where is it this time?
"Emma?"
Steed.
"I'm here. Where is what?" He sounded puzzled and weary.
"The bug," she whispered, her throat almost too dry to allow it.
"There's no bug darling."
She opened her eyes. He hovered over her, his face lined with worry, dark shadows under his beautiful eyes. The beeping continued. "You're in the clinic. The ministry clinic," Steed said.
"And they've bugged my room?" she asked.
Beep. Beep. Beep.
Steed frowned, trying to understand her insistence. "The sweeper is beeping," she croaked. His face lightened. He grinned and looked across the bed.
"It's your monitor, Emma. It's telling me that you're still with me."
She turned her head slightly and saw the device on a stand by the bed. A thin green line jumped up and down, synchronized with the beeps.
"How am I?" she asked, looking back at Steed.
"The bullet entered just under your left breast and hit a rib. It broke the rib, but that slowed it down. It grazed across your lung, and lodged in the next rib up in your back. It missed most of your critical parts. They repaired your lung. They told me you must have more luck than me. It came very close to your aorta and your spine, but just missed." He described the wound dispassionately, knowing she wanted the simple, unvarnished truth. Hours before he had absorbed the information, dealt with his own understanding of how it had felt, how much it had hurt, how much it would still hurt for a long time to come. He'd also asked the same question that she asked next.
"And did it -- did they have to take my breast?"
"I told them if they did they'd have me to deal with," he said, finally allowing himself to touch her face, running the back of his fingers from her temple to her jaw. She closed her eyes. "They are very good. The plastic surgeon did the final work. Only you and I will know, once you're healed."
"No more bikinis, though," she smiled and he could see she was slipping back to sleep. "Thank you darling," she whispered.
"Steed?"
He jerked out of a doze and bolted to his feet. She was much more awake this time, and her eyes were bright. He leaned over and kissed her, desperate for the warm, life-filled contact. "Right here," he said softly.
"How many times have you been shot?" She squirmed in the bed, then closed her eyes, wincing in pain. He winced too, knowing how she felt.
"Six -- no, seven times," he replied.
"How do you bear the pain?" she sighed. "It hurts so much."
He found her hand and gripped it, wishing he could absorb some of the pain for her.
"I'll call the nurse. They'll give you something," he said.
"No. It's not -- unbearable. I need to feel it," she looked at his concerned face, "for a little while. I need to know it's real. I feel like I've been dreaming for so long. . ."
"It's been three days," he said to distract her from the pain. "You were in surgery for nearly three hours. You first regained consciousness eight hours after that." I was so worried I nearly died, it took so long. "You've been awake once more since then -- do you remember?"
"Sort of. But I've dreamt, too, and it all seems the same. Did you tell me what happened? I'm not sure I remember."
Steed reluctantly told her again, watching the same desperate play of emotions cross her face as she imagined the effects of the bullet.
"Was I -- am I -- pregnant?" she asked at last. He shook his head. He'd asked that, too -- warned the doctors that it was possible. They'd said no, and just as well. She needed all her energy for healing. She closed her eyes, a rim of tears trapped in her lashes. He swallowed hard, realizing for the first time just how much she must want a child, to mourn its absence in the face of such pain.
"So we'll have to get back to that, when you're well," he quipped, squeezing her hand. She smiled, opening her eyes.
"I can't imagine it, being well," she sighed.
"You must. Trust me, you must set that goal now and never stop reaching for it. Please, Emma. For me."
She stared listlessly into his intense eyes. He wanted to grab her shoulders and shake her out of her complacency, but he just squeezed her hand again. She was still in great danger, and she had to keep fighting as hard as she had back in her office.
"I need you, Emma. Don't leave me." He realized instantly that was the wrong thing to say. She closed her eyes and rolled her head away from him. "Emma," he sighed, lowering his forehead to her shoulder, still holding her hand. But she seemed to have fallen back to sleep.
"There's someone here to see you, Miss Knight," the nurse said. For the first time Emma had awakened to an empty room. She'd found a call button in her hand and pressed it. The nurse had come and explained that Mr. Steed had been there for four days and they'd sent him home on Mother's orders. Emma had a vague sense of anxiety about Steed. Something she'd said? Something he'd said? She couldn't remember. Whatever it was, surely it didn't count when she was hardly conscious.
"Steed?" she asked the nurse.
"No, Mr. Bond."
James!
"Send him in, please."
James came right to her bedside, his blue eyes bright, his white teeth shining through a grin.
"Emma, haven't you learned to stay out of the way of bullets?" he asked flippantly.
"I thought I had, James," she said with a little shrug. Sharp pains shot through her chest and she winced.
"Are you all right?"
"I just haven't yet learned how not to move," she said as the pain subsided.
"Well I have it on good authority that you'll be up dancing in two weeks. Can we make a date?"
"I don't know, James. Have you seen Steed?"
James heaved a heavy sigh of mock disappointment. "Still stuck on him, huh?" he asked. "Well, my sources say he's under house arrest until he sleeps for at least four hours. I expect he'll be back here any time. Until then, I'm here to entertain you."
By the time James left Emma was remarkably exhausted. He'd been full of news, having checked up on things that he knew she'd ask about. Sally was installed in her apartment and, as today was Monday, had reported to work at Knight. Mrs. Emerson had taken her under her wing. Peter was still at large, much to Steed and Plath's chagrin. Birch was in custody and had brought in very expensive lawyers. Dixon and Stafford had also been arrested based on the evidence in Peter's papers and on the recordings of their meetings with Emma.
James had also explained what Peter was doing with Steed and Plath that day. He had provided the names of every contact within Knight, and Steed and Plath were taking him back to jail. Weems had correctly guessed that Birch's attack on Emma would spur many of them to flee, so even as the ambulance was carrying her to the clinic, agents had sealed the offices and arrested everyone on Peter's list. Some had been in the lobby, one was at the door as Weems entered and stopped him to check his identification.
Emma longed to see the list, to know who had been betraying Knight, and how badly the company was affected. But when she'd asked James he'd just shook his head and told her she wasn't allowed to worry about it for at least the rest of the week. That Harper, Benson, still bandaged and using crutches, and Edmond Stanton had things under control. She's looked surprised at his mention of Harper and he raised one eyebrow at her. "You know about Harper, don't you?" he'd asked. She'd shrugged, then winced at the pain, but refused to admit anything -- for Harper's sake.
After he left she drifted back to sleep because she couldn't stop herself.
"Comfortable Mrs. Peel?" Steed asked as he placed the fourth pillow behind her head. She was sitting in her own bed, the windows opened wide to admit the pleasant breeze of a peculiarly spring-like day. Doubtless they'd have to be closed within the hour, but for the moment it was quite lovely.
"Yes, thank you. It's so good to be at home."
Steed walked around to the other side of the bed and sat down, bringing his legs up to sit beside her. With no pillows left, he had to lean his shoulder against the headboard. He reached up to stroke her hair away from her face, then leaned close to offer a gentle little kiss. She returned it, equally gently, and when they finished he stayed close, eyes searching hers for signs of unexpressed pain or discomfort. She would hide them from him, if she could.
"I'm fine, darling," she said, reading his thoughts. He smiled. Her recovery was going very well. She'd spent two weeks in the clinic, but was up walking at the end of the first. The doctors offered every hope for a complete recovery, scar not withstanding. "Now, tell Sally to come in here, I know she's hiding in the kitchen."
Steed complied, leaving them to talk while he made tea. Sally was on her lunch break, and would soon return to the office where Mrs. Emerson had her working on a multitude of projects. Contrary to Emma's fears that Mrs. Emerson would resent the girl, she seemed to be enjoying training her. And Sally, always thirsty for learning, was absorbing all she could. Seeing Emma safely at home -- even though it meant she would have to begin commuting from the country -- went a long way toward making her feel more comfortable at Knight, too.
Sally excused herself when Steed appeared with the tea. He prepared Emma's, then pulled up a chair so he could sit by the bed.
"Steed, I understand that you were questioning Peter that day, that's why you had him with you," Emma said after sipping her tea. Steed set his own cup on its saucer and braced it so it wouldn't clatter. She smiled coyly at him from under lowered lashes.
"Yes," he said carefully.
"So you were working with Weems, and Plath, after all." There was nothing in her tone to suggest anger or resentment.
"I had to. I couldn't let them bungle the job."
"Were they bungling it?"
"They suspected you," he shrugged off his disgust.
"That's when you got involved, isn't it?"
"Yes. When I stopped them that day I made Mother put me in charge of the investigation. He was reluctant. I couldn't tell you a thing or he would have changed his mind."
She nodded, taking another sip of tea. He couldn't read her, she sat so stiffly because of the healing wound.
"You couldn't tell me because you thought I'd be angry at you for getting involved with my business," she said. He cringed, avoiding her eyes.
"I thought you'd be more than angry, after I promised to stay out of it. But I couldn't stand by and let them destroy Knight -- ."
"If anyone was going to do it, it had to be you?" His eyes shot to her face, trying to think of a way to explain that didn't sound so callous. But she was smiling at him, a warm, loving smile. "I knew you were protecting my interests, Steed. I was worried that you were doing it at your own expense -- that you were going to get into trouble with the ministry. I'm relieved to know that you had authorization."
His whole body relaxed into his normal, lazy posture. He sipped his tea and eyed her narrowly. She cast him a curious look.
"Just how did Peter Peel get out of those handcuffs, do you think?" he asked.
Now she looked nervous, she opened her mouth, then closed it and stared at him for a moment, then she sighed and spoke: "I taught him. When he first came back. He was teasing me about playing spy and wanted to prove to him that it wasn't a game."
Steed snorted. He leaned forward and set his cup and saucer on the nightstand, chuckling. Then he leaned over Emma and kissed her. "You're completely mad, Mrs. Peel. And I adore you for it."
fin