Page 65 of The Words Beneath the Noise

“Don't mention it. We've all got to look out for each other, right?” He took a gulp of his own tea and grimaced. “Christ, even with sugar this stuff tastes like it was brewed in a boot. But at least it's hot.”

We sat in companionable silence for a moment, and I found myself studying him. Really looking, the way I'd been trained to observe targets and threats and anything that didn't fit the pattern.

“How's work been?” he asked now, stirring his tea with the same restless energy he brought to everything. “Heard you were away for a few days. Somewhere exciting?”

My gut tightened. “Routine transfer duty. Nothing exciting.”

“Right, right.” He nodded, but his eyes were too sharp. “Must be strange, guarding the boffins after being on the front. All this quiet and routine instead of action.”

“Quiet's not so bad. Prefer it to getting shot at.”

“Yeah, but don't you miss it? The adrenaline, the purpose, knowing you were actually fighting instead of just... babysitting?”

Babysitting. As if keeping valuable personnel alive was somehow less important than pulling triggers. As if Art's work cracking codes wasn't worth protecting.

“Fighting's not what they show in the films,” I said, keeping my voice neutral. “Mostly it's boredom and terror in equal measure. This is better.”

“If you say so.” He took another drink, then: “That intercept business the other day. The one that had everyone in a twist. V-weapons or something? Must be intense, knowing what's coming and not being able to stop it.”

My hand tightened on my mug. “How'd you hear about that?”

“People talk. Can't help overhearing things.” Quick grin, disarming. “Not that I know details. Just that something big came through. Made Pembroke look even more haunted than usual.”

“Art always looks haunted,” I said, testing. “Comes with the job. Staring at encrypted text all day would make anyone look half-dead.”

“Art, is it?” Peter's eyebrows rose. “On first-name terms with the boffins now. Finch know about that?”

“Finch can mind his own business.”

“Fair enough.” He laughed, but his eyes were calculating. “Just saying, might want to be careful. Finch has been on the warpath since that speech about leaks. Looking for someone to blame. Wouldn't want him getting the wrong idea about you and Pembroke being friendly.”

Warning or threat? Hard to tell. Could be genuine concern. Could be subtle intimidation, letting me know he'd noticed the growing closeness and could use it if needed.

Either way, I didn't like it.

“Thanks for the sugar,” I said, tone making it clear the conversation was over. “Need to finish this and get back to patrol.”

“Course, course. See you around, Sarge.” He stood, tray in hand, and paused. “Oh, and if you ever need anything. Cigarettes, chocolate, whatever. Just ask. My mate can usually sort things out.”

He left before I could respond, disappearing into the crowd, and I sat there with my sweetened tea and a gut feeling that something was wrong.

Art wasin the library and he was curled into the window seat, legs tucked beneath him, a book open on his lap. The lamp beside him cast warm light across his face, catching the glint of his glasses and the dark shadows beneath his eyes. He was so absorbed in whatever he was reading that he didn't notice me approach, didn't look up until I was close enough to see the title.

Spy fiction. Seemed fitting, given everything.

“Brought you tea,” I said, holding out one of the two mugs I'd carried from the canteen. “Thought you might need it.”

Art startled, the book nearly sliding from his lap. His eyes went wide behind his glasses, then softened when he registered it was me.

“Tom.” He took the mug, fingers brushing mine in the transfer. “You didn't have to.”

“Wanted to.” I settled onto the other end of the window seat, leaving space between us but close enough that I could feel the warmth radiating from the lamp. “Actually, I wanted to thank you. For the other night. When you came to check on me.”

Art's fingers tightened around the mug. “You don't need to thank me for that.”

“I do, though.” I stared down at my tea, finding it easier than meeting his eyes. “You were the first person who. Who actually seemed to care. Not about whether I'd completed the mission or followed orders or done my duty. Just about whether I was alright.” My voice roughened. “Can't remember the last time someone asked me that and meant it. Really meant it.”

The silence stretched between us, heavy with things neither of us quite knew how to say.