bakerstreet | they are the hunters, we are the foxes

they are the hunters, we are the foxes - and we run

the ON THE RUN meme

Sometimes, these things happen. Sometimes, you're in just the wrong place at just the right time, or you've made the wrong (or right, depending on your intentions) person mad. Sometimes it's better for everyone if you just go. Sometimes there isn't time for good-bye.

LOST
You've managed to lose yourself somewhere out there, for whatever reason it was. Maybe you took someone with you (willingly? not?), or you found someone else who needed to disappear as badly as you did. You're in your car, or a cheap hotel, or a house by the side of the road. What else can you do but watch, and wait?

FOUND
It could have been as simple as being glimpsed at the 7-11. Your phoneline wasn't as secure as you thought. You locked eyes with the wrong person across the room. Now the house of cards is collapsing, and maybe not just your life, but the lives of everyone you love could be in jeopardy now. The walls are closing in, and your arms are giving out.

RULES
- post with your character's name and canon. if you have an on-the-run AU, or scenarios you might want to play out, mention them here.
- find others. tag them.
- and then, run.

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See, the thing is, significant others aren't supposed to know about the MI-6 thing until after you're married, because (as Q had surmised and M had confirmed) by then it's too late, they're stuck with you. Q has been miraculously good about keeping it from Rachel for as long as he has, considering she's a reporter and he's got an overconfident streak as wide as the Thames.

All good things have to come to an end. Q just wishes it weren't necessarily in a diner just outside of Scranton, of all places. He'd recognized the second-in-command of an international smuggling ring as they'd been ordering, but he didn't think he'd be recognized in return. The Quartermaster is behind walls of security and layers of anonymity. Only a few people in MI-6 even know he has a name beyond Q. But somehow, some way, he'd been compromised.

They'd made it out of the diner, barely. Guns had been drawn (including his own) and their car had been shot at. Q keeps glancing in the rearview mirror, watching the road behind them, one hand on the wheel and one on his gun.

"Check to see if there are hotels within walking distance of each other," he says, glancing over at her. "We'll need to get rid of the car."

"Downtown. Get on Third Street and take that through, it'll take us right to the area around the convention center. There's, like... six hotels in a four-block radius around it."

Her voice is measured and even, her hands steady as they hold and tap at the touchscreen on her phone. To a casual observer, someone who didn't know her, it might seem she's handling this surprisingly well.

It's true that her line of work requires a measure of nerves of steel. She has confronted powerful figures, demanded answers, sat through trials, had to approach people on the worst days of their lives and ask them to relive it again on the spot. She has seen, heard, digested, and written about things that would make the average person turn away in shock or horror. She's tough.

But it's been more than two years since she dropped onto a stool next to him at the bar of an upscale club, unaware he was there to check out the same public figure she was. She'd slipped him her business card because he'd seemed nice. He had been nice. She'd been pleased with her choice for all that time, until ten minutes ago.

He knows her too well by now. It's probably evident to Q that it's not--all right, not just--her admirable fortitude at play right now. Her voice is too measured, her hands too still. She won't look anywhere but at the screen of her phone.

This isn't strength Rachel has summoned to get her through these next few minutes. It's restraint. Every bit of it she's got, to hold back everything she's feeling in the moment. Fear. Confusion. Anger. And betrayal.

It's been more than two years, and she clearly doesn't know the first thing about the man beside her, the man in whom she now has to place her trust if she's going to get out of here without being shot at again.

"The next light is Third Street; turn right."

"Okay." He should apologize, but there's no time for apologies right now. Right now, his top priority is getting them out of the mess he, however unintentionally, got them into. His jaw clenches as he glances in the rearview again - is the Civic following them or is it just following them? He doesn't see a gun, but he still cases the lane next to them for any evasive action he may need to take.

He doesn't signal at the light, just merges and turns right. The Civic speeds on, then he sees the brake lights flash. Shit. "Which hotel is the closest?" They have to get rid of the car now. "Then figure out which hotel is the second-closest to that. Once they've figured out we've dumped the car, they'll check the closest hotel, which will give us some time to get a new car and get out."

There's an audible, wait-a-second huff of breath from his passenger; she can do it, she will do it, she's just a bit exasperated with the emergency need for the information. She could figure it out just fine and be confident in her answer if she had a few minutes to do it, but they don't have that luxury.

"The Sheraton's the closest. About three miles, on the right. Second closest to that is..." Hang on, hang on, zooming the map back out with a pinch, squinting at the little red pins, zooming back in to compare distances.

"Second closest to the Sheraton is the Hyatt. But you have to pass right by the hotel between them to get to the Hyatt. We might be seen?" She doesn't know, this isn't her area of expertise.

None of this is.

"The Westin is the third closest hotel but it's in a different direction."

Q spots the sign for the Sheraton in the distance, and he tries to think. Christ, if this were someone else, he'd know exactly what to do; he'd say go to the Westin; I'll put a loop on the CCTV so no one knows you're there and then we'll get you a new car. But he's not the voice in someone's ear right now and there's no behind-the-scenes person in his ear, just his civilian girlfriend desperately researching on Google Maps while he just as desperately tries to make sure they make it out of this alive.

"The Westin," he says decisively, eyes flicking to the rearview again. The Civic has reappeared. Shit. Think like you would if this were happening to someone else. "We'll park around the back at the Sheraton and go to the Westin. How far is it?"

She gives him a curt nod, eyes still bouncing from red pin to red pin on her phone's screen. "The Westin's four blocks west of the Sheraton."

Rachel's gaze lifts for a second, to the rearview mirror, but she can't see whatever it is that's got Julian's attention. She's guessed it's a car. That they're being followed.

She has so many questions. A few of them possibly aren't constructive. But this isn't the time.

"What should I do if we get separated somehow?"

"Go to the Westin and check at the front desk if Nicholas Kendrick has checked in," Q replies. His eyes shift between the rearview mirror and the sign of the Sheraton. Too damn close and too damn far, in that order. His heart is pounding in his chest and his hands are sweating, but he forces himself to focus. "If they say yes, call me and I'll let you up. If they say no, then call this number - " he rattles off a string of digits - "and let the person who answers know that you need a car. It's a secure line."

It's a line directly to Q Branch. They'll get her a car and get her out. He'll muddle his own way out - the priority is her.

There's the briefest, surprised pause--though Rachel isn't sure why she should be surprised, a man who can draw this kind of trouble, a man as smart as Julian is, of course he's got aliases and plans upon plans.

Her fingers fly over the touch screen, in the note-taking app she uses. She repeats the string of numbers, and there's a slight rise in her voice with the final digit; a question, did she remember them right? She doesn't add the name, she can remember that.

He confirms, and finally, finally, they're coming up on the Sheraton. He glances in the rearview again, and sees that the Civic has closed some of the distance between them. Shit.

Without signaling, again, he merges into the right lane, then waits until the last second to turn into the Sheraton driveway. Once he's in, he floors it and maneuvers the car into the back parking lot.

"Grab only what's essential," he says briskly, once he's turned off the car, reaching into the backseat and grabbing his laptop bag. "We need to get going."

Rachel gets out of the car and opens the back door. She unzips the bag she'd left back there, just enough to pull her tablet, usb drives, and a notebook out of it. She dumps all these things into her purse, shouldering it. The rest she can leave behind.

She has so many questions. But they're not out of the woods yet.

"Now what?"

Q opens his laptop bag enough to confirm - yes, all of his essentials are in there. Even though this is supposed to be a relaxing holiday with his girlfriend, he'd still packed as though he were going to be running. Call it a lesson from too much time with the field agents. He slings it on, digs a pair of sunglasses from it, swapping out his regular glasses for them, then reaches for Rachel's hand.

"Now, we go. If you have some sunglasses, put them on. We're not going to run until we have to." It draws attention, and he doesn't want to die. "How far of a walk is it?"

Just the simple act of him reaching for her hand momentarily leaves Rachel completely torn. Part of her doesn't want to, because she's afraid and confused and infuriated. But part of her desperately needs to, because she's afraid and confused and infuriated, and none of those things has managed to cancel out the fact that she loves him desperately.

"Just a moment," she murmurs, with a twitch of her mouth that probably means she tried to summon a smile. She finds her sunglasses in her purse, puts them on, shoulders the bag again. And then she reaches for his hand, lacing her fingers through his.

"Four blocks to the west. See, that's it there, the taller white building."

Q's heart skips a beat in sheer relief when Rachel takes his hand. She has every single right to be unbelievably pissed at him, and she very likely is, but she's still holding his hand. (That it helps with their cover is a bonus - people are likely to pay attention to two people hurrying down the street not holding hands, but two people hurrying and holding hands are a couple in a rush to get somewhere fun and couple-y.)

God, he loves her, and he's going to lose her, but not yet.

He tries to smile back at her, but it dies on his lips. "Okay. Let's go." Fixing his sight on the building, he starts walking - not fast, but with purpose. "I need you to check your phone every so often. We need to look like we don't know where we're going."

"Pissed" doesn't even begin to cover it. She's furious, more angry than she can remember being. With him, for getting her into this mess, for getting her shot at, for hiding things and for lying. With herself, for taking everything at face value, for trusting.

She's so mad--and hurt, and betrayed, and afraid--that she's not sure she ever wants to see him again after they get out of this. And in spite of all that, his smile never takes proper root, and her heart breaks anew at the sight.

She still loves him, so much. None of this has blunted that in the least, and she doesn't know how to reconcile the rest with this.

Rachel breathes past the tightness in her chest, tugging her phone back out of her pocket wordlessly as they walk. "Shouldn't be too much further now," she says, studying the map she'd pulled up in the car."

"Good." Q glances over his shoulder, checking for anyone who might be following them. He doesn't see anyone yet - but then, if they're any good at following, he might not spot them immediately.

Breathe.

"Once we're at the hotel, it'll be best for you to go to the bar and wait until I get a room." So if he's captured, or compromised, at least she'll have a chance to escape. "If I don't come for you in ten minutes, call the number I gave you." All the same, he desperately hopes that they do make it out safely, so he can apologize.

The hotel is growing closer, and Q picks up his pace a little more.

There is a fleeting, awful moment, where she tries to imagine what it would mean if he didn't come for her. It stills her heart, twists her stomach.

She's angry. She may never be over this. She's still not sure she can carry on. But she doesn't want anything to happen to him. She wants him safe. The rest she can figure out later, but no matter how this ends up for them, she wants him safe.

"Okay." She falls into step beside him, even mustering a smile as she glances at her phone again. "See? That's it, almost there."

He tries to smile back, for the sake of keeping up their paper-thin cover, though his eyes keep flicking back to the road. Every car that passes them on the street is a danger, and he's not sure if the car that just passed them is the same one that was following them, or if it's just someone with similar taste. Either way, he picks up his pace a little.

"Right." Keep up the cover, keep up the cover. "When we get there, the first thing I'm going to do is take a shower." This time, the smile settles a little more naturally on his face.

She nods, managing another smile, clutching his hand. Look at the two of them, they don't have a care in the world, do they? Only the cover, keeping up the cover.

"Sounds like a great idea. I might do the same when you're done."

They're nearly there now. They just have to cross to the lobby doors, and she'll split off to go to the bar, as instructed.

Q tries not to speed up any more, but he's not sure if he hears footsteps behind them or not, and how do field agents do this? If he tried to go for his gun right now, it'd fall right through his sweaty hands.

The doors split open before them, and he doesn't exhale until he hears them close. They're not out of the woods yet, but that light ahead might be sunshine instead of an oncoming car.

"Call our friend in ten," he reminds her. It takes him a second to let go of her hand, and his glasses can't entirely hide the look of agony and despair in his eyes when he looks at her for possibly the last time, ever. He wrenches his eyes away and turns towards the front desk.

The look on his face as he turns away guts her. Whatever else she may not be willing--or at least, ready--to forgive, she can't deal with that obvious pain in his eyes.

Rachel isn't sure what she's going to do, long-term. All she can do now is what he's asked. There's no "long-term" if they don't both make it out of this.

She goes to the bar as instructed. Summons a friendly smile for the bartender, asks for a drink, tries not to watch the time tick by on her cell phone display as she waits.

He goes to the front desk and gives the clerk the name Nicholas Kendrick, then gives them a credit card that will, if traced, lead directly to an account in that name, provided as a company card from Universal Exports. Its history shows a steady and rather expensive Starbucks habit, and some cinema tickets.

He waits impatiently as the clerk runs the card, verifies it, and then seems to take forever to find and assign him a room. It's an agonizing seven minutes and thirty-eight seconds later when he hurries into the bar, resting a hand on Rachel's shoulder.

"Come on. Let's go. Sixth floor."

Seventh floor. They'll take the lift to the sixth floor and take the stairs up the last one.

"Oh! That was quick," Rachel replies, with a bright smile and pleased tone when she feels neither. She settles the bill quickly for the entire drink she's already gotten into herself, and then she slides off her stool, reaching for Julian's hand again.

She follows him to the elevators wordlessly, though she keeps the smile on her face, keeps her chin up, acts as if she hasn't a care in the world. An elevator arrives, they step in, and she swiftly jabs the "door close" button with her free hand just in case anyone out there was thinking of rushing to make it in.

She can barely hold back her questions, her emotions. But she's mindful of the fact that there's usually surveillance in elevators. Might that make a difference? It seems like it should.

So she merely watches the floor indicator above the doors, her fingers still laced through his.

He's impressed with her ability to pretend. After all this time, he supposes he shouldn't be; he's seen her smile and chat her way through any number of seemingly impossible situations. Still, he tries to smile too, even looking over at her a few times.

The ride on the lift is silent, and when the floor indicator lets out a 'ding!' on the sixth floor, he steps out, still keeping a hold on Rachel's hand (hers feels warm, which means his must be freezing).

"Oh, damn," he says, looking at her in apparent exasperation. "Wrong floor. We need seven. Let's take the stairs."

Not letting go of her hand, he takes her to the stairs, pushing open the door.

Footsteps.

"Go!" he says, pushing the keycard to the door into her hand. "738. Run. I'm right behind you." He glances anxiously down the stairs, his other hand moving to the gun tucked into the back of his trousers.

For a fleeting moment she nearly hesitates, nearly lingers. But good sense, and the understanding that she's not the expert here win out. She takes the key card and does as he tells her.

Rachel takes the first flight of stairs two at a time, turns, takes the second at a full run. She stops short when she's stepped through the door, back into the hotel corridor, reading the little plaque on the wall to figure out where room 738 is.

She doesn't run in the hallway; she doesn't want to draw attention to herself if someone should come out of one of the rooms. But she does walk as quickly as she can manage, headed for their room.

He's glad when she goes, because an enclosed stairwell with tight walls is basically the worst place to have a firefight. Bad enough it's going to be a tough time keeping himself alive - he couldn't live with himself if she got hurt, too. Once he's sure she's headed up the stairs, he pulls the gun from the back of his trousers and aims it down the stairs. He can't be sure if the footsteps belong to someone who means them ill, but he's got to presume they do.

He gets his answer when he hears gunshots. For a moment, he considers yelling something pithy, then decides he'd be better served getting the hell out. He shoots a few times down the stairs in answer, then bolts as quickly as he can. Something hot blazes past his temple, knocking his glasses askew, and he can't help but cry out. He bursts through the door to the seventh floor, glances around to get his bearings, then bangs on the door to 738 as soon as he finds it.

"Rachel!" Heat on his neck. He touches it, and his fingers come away red. "Let me in!"

they are the hunters, we are the foxes - and we run

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