It's been a bitch of a job, but now I'm finally searching through filing cabinets looking for what we've been chasing for nearly a week.

Fun.

I suppose the one good thing about it is that we've spent the whole time working so hard we haven't had time to irritate each other. Even my own side of the long-awaited session with Dr. King, the shrink from hell, has had to wait until this afternoon instead of yesterday.

Curtis, however, did manage to see her last night and I admit to wondering what he said about me.

Malone did say that if *either* of us felt the partnership didn't work he wanted to know. First, though, there's the compulsory session of being put through Doc King's wringer at the end of the 8-week trial period.

What am I going to say? This fucking interview has been bugging me for days, because I don't know what to tell her. That I hate the guy? Because I don't. There's nothing to hate. He just barely acknowledges my existence as anything more than strictly necessary. He's never rude, never angry - the most emotional I've ever seen him is when he was giving me the 'I'm cool' stuff in Tom Perry's hospital room. It's the only time I've ever seen him edgy like that - uneasy enough to actually more or less hold a conversation, even if it was more like a lecture.

Oh, he didn't leave me when I was in the rigged car, because (pause while I try to do the British accent) it wouldn't be *done*. Then he'd called me a slob when we'd gone to my place, corrected himself because that was a little too emphatic, and even tried the 'open book' stuff when he caught me during the nightmare. A token effort, I guess. Ever since - the last couple of weeks - he's been more distant than ever.

I do know he worked solo before, and from the odd comment I've picked up from the others, that's the way he likes to operate. Malone, however, decreed he should be partnered and nobody argues when the old man makes that sort of decision. He said we were 'complementary'.

I'm not so sure about that.

When we're on missions, though, the partnership works - I can't deny that and neither can I escape the fact that he's good. Very good. Probably nearly as good as me.

That sounds pretty big-headed but hell, I didn't stay alive this long by wondering if I could handle myself. Whatever he thinks about the rushing in and stuff, I'm not going to let myself doubt my capacities. That's my first rule, slightly different from Malone's.

Well, the old bastard needn't worry about me getting emotionally involved with Curtis. That would be a bit like asking me to give a lecture on wine. Libation of whoever it was, I don't give a fuck, thanks.

And speaking of fuck...

The biggest problem with Curtis, if I'm honest, (and apart from the fact he's a wine snob) isn't the fact that he's reserved, not particularly gifted with interpersonal skills - whatever fancy terms the shrinks use - is that he's extraordinarily sexy. Highly fanciful and even more lustful dreams have coloured my nights (the ones without nightmares) ever since we were partnered.

Oh, I can just imagine telling Dr. King that. She of the 'I am going to be so friendly you'll spill your guts to me' attitude. I'd almost like to tell her that I need to be separated from Mr. Ex-MI6 with a face and body to die for because otherwise I may rape him or pick a fight with him just to get him to show some emotion. She'd just love that. Curtis, however, would probably kill me if he even got a whiff of my - what's the shrink-word? - sexual orientation. Just as Malone would.

Maybe the one good thing about having been married for 2 hours and 35 minutes is that it's probably stopped the psycho-squad in general from even suspecting anything about my tendency to favour men these days.

In particular, judging from recent form, I favour guys with dark hair and green eyes. Which is rather surprising because my last - okay *only* two male lovers were both blond.

I needed comfort after Teresa. They - one from the SEALs soon after and one from a guy at the racketball club - offered it. It meant none of the emotional involvement stuff, was highly enjoyable and no strings attached.

Even a casual night out with a girl in London is so goddamned complicated. Not that I haven't found plenty who are willing and even a few who made sex a whole lot of fun, but it just doesn't work out. One of them said I was 'not ready to get close'. She should meet Curtis.

I've seen him turn on the charm with women, of course. He's very talented at it too, but I've never actually heard him talk about his conquests. Wonder why? I don't even know if he has a girlfriend. Or maybe he picks 'em up, processes 'em and waves goodbye, like me?

I wonder what he's like in bed? Does that cool façade hide smouldering passion? Would he throw the reserved stuff to the winds and let his animal instincts take over?

Stop this, Keel. *Now*.

Let's get back to 'close' and the latest in my long line of short-lived affairs. It's not that I don't want to get 'close' to anybody. I'm just a tad scared of it, which I suppose makes me a bit like Sam if I'm reading him right. But hell, a beer now and then wouldn't hurt. Except he doesn't drink the stuff unless he's desperate.

OK, let's summarise. I'd love to develop some sort of relationship with Curtis, but he isn't prepared to go halfway. In fact, I have this constant feeling that something like friendship could be there. It's like it's simmering just below the surface but then he pulls back. Every time - well, on the rare occasions - we get into conversation about anything more than work, it's as though just as I start to see a warmer, more human side of Curtis showing through he thinks better of it.

It's frustrating. Yeah, that's what it is. I'd like it to work as a friendship and I'm getting nowhere. I'm used to getting what I want, I guess.

Speaking of that, I'd also love to fuck him through the mattress of course, but I could probably live without that if he was prepared to be a human being.

Neither being possible, I'll ask for another partner. Decision taken.

What's more, and despite all my good intentions since I've been in this miserable, grey country I know I need to fuck a guy, and soon. Or be fucked. I don't mind which. Somehow, I guess I feel that going with men is being less unfaithful to Teri.

Gee, I should have been a shrink myself.

Hell, if I'm honest I enjoy being with guys. It started off as one of the crazy things I was famous for, and it was - amazing. I was so hooked on Kyle's body I couldn't get enough of it. Then he was killed in action. Was given a funeral with stars and stripes. By then, I was pretty immune to funerals but I still miss him even after just two weeks of sharing a bed. He was one reason why I quit the SEALs, but nobody knows that. I can hide stuff if I have to. Curtis doesn't have a monopoly on that.

As for Nick, I knew he was gay. The surprise on his face after a game on evening was almost funny, when I came on to him. Jesus, he was good. Had a body like Sam's. Lean, inviting... I was almost sorry to leave the States in the end, but apart from his physical talents, he was an asshole.

Oh, very funny, Keel.

I need to get laid. Desperately. That adrenaline-fuelled feeling where you just *have* to find release somewhere. Like I said, it's been a bitch of a job and once the friendly chat with Dr. King is over, I'm gonna hit town and do something about it.

OK, Keel. Thinking about this is maybe not the greatest idea because we still have to tie up the loose ends here. I think I've got what the Great White Chief needs now, looking at the documents I've just pulled.

Just dandy. All wrapped up. Done and dusted as I've heard the Brits call it, and we've saved the world again. Or rather cracked a ring of arms dealers, who - just for a change - hung out in a warehouse.

There was a whole lot of nice metal machinery for ricochets in there and just the two of us versus three goons. Two have gone to their maker and the last one wasn't going to go very far, knowing my partner. Thorough is another word to describe him.

It was an interesting fight. I was even impressed by Curtis the last time I saw him before he yelled into the com link that his last opponent was down and would I like to go find the papers?

He's light on his feet, fast...

That's enough. He might look and move like the most eligible candidate for the Keel seduction scene, but he'd probably give me a black eye -or more - if I even tried it. Which I wouldn't. I value my life nowadays.

Stop it, Keel.

"3-7?" I flick the com link.

"You finished?" Curtis' voice sounds weary.

"Yup. On my way."

Clattering down the iron staircase I see No. 3 motionless on the floor. He won't be dead though, knowing Curtis. He's thorough, but only kills when he has to.

Careful, I'm finding more non-sexual type good things to say about my soon-to-be-ex-partner.

The holder of the title, I finally realise, is sitting on some sort of pallets, gun trained on his captive. He's in heavy shade so I don't realise at first that he looks like shit.

"You okay?" I ask, giving him a quick once-over and not seeing any blood. His face is impassive enough but something's hurting. It's the eyes that tell me, and the very way he's sitting.

"Fine," he says. Surprise, surprise. "I've called for a police team to clear up. Coroner for the bodies and ambulance for him. Police to seal the place off. Backup's on her way as well, with Harley.

"Oh yeah?"

I'm still wondering what's up with Curtis. He's pretending nothing's wrong but he can't think I'm that stupid.

"You've got to see Doc King, right? We've been on this all night. So we can hand over."

If he says so. That's what backup - with and without capital letters -teams are for, I guess, but normally we do the tidying up ourselves.

"Hand over?" I say stupidly.

"As in point to the bodies and to him," Curtis indicates the guy on the floor. "Hand over what we've found, say hi to your buddies in the police and go home. Or rather you can go and do your stuff with King."

Right. Can't wait. I can't tear my eyes away from my partner, though. I'm almost certain his hands are shaking and there's a tightness around his mouth that I recognise as pain. If this was one of my SEALs team, I'd get the medics in. With Curtis, I'll probably get my head snapped off but CI5 does have physicians on contract and he looks like he needs one.

"So what gives?" I ask, aiming at casual. "Put up a good fight, did he?"

"Fairly," Curtis admits, still sitting there and not moving.

This is like getting blood out of a stone, but I start getting ideas when I notice the piece of wood on the floor and my mind vaguely registers one of his opponents waving it around.

"Sam, you hurt?"

He makes an attempt at a wry grin, then starts to shake his head and get up.

And blacks out, sliding sideways.

Oh, shit. Keeping the guy with the hole in his shoulder in sight, I get over there, reach for the pulse and pull out my phone as soon as I realise he's breathing. Then a hand bats it away and he's looking at me with what looks like self-disgust.

"I'm all right. Just bruises. Give me a hand, Keel." He's trying to sit up, wincing, and manages it.

"Sure," I say, against my better judgement. "But you know the rules. You black out, you go get checked over."

"Fuck the rules," he growls. "Since when did they ever bother you? And no way."

This, from Mr. By-the-book Curtis, is really something.

I'm still hesitating as he sits back on the pallet, and he finally looks up at me.

"I'm fine now. Thanks."

"You're crazy," I say, seeing the pallor but not missing the 'thanks'. "You'd be better to go to the hospital, y'know."

Something like fear flits across his face.

"No. No hospital. Please, Chris."

Please? I don't think I've ever heard that word cross his lips before, and even less within seconds of a 'thanks'. Even 'Chris' is a relative rarity. There are times when I think he's not far from Malone's own "Mr. Keel" stuff.

"OK." I say it almost without thinking. "But you should at least get one of the docs to come over. Where'd he get you, anyway?"

"Side," he says. "And there's nothing broken. Just gonna have some interesting bruises."

I'm not entirely convinced by this, and it must show. As if to prove he's in great shape, he gets to his feet, not without trouble, because people are arriving.

For the next ten minutes, we go through the wrap-up and he makes a pretty good job of disguising it, brushing off Backup when she sees him wince. As soon as he can though, he heads out of there and I catch up with him, seeing him leaning on the Nissan looking like he's about to black out again.

"Sam..."

"Can you drive me home, you think? If you have time? Please?"

Another 'please'. He'll be saying sorry next.

We drive in silence. He's sitting awkwardly, gritting his teeth so I avoid the clever stuff around corners. That's his speciality anyway -the fancy driving.

And another plus point for Sam Curtis.

I'm no medical expert, but if something hurts enough for you to black out from it, it *really* hurts. I don't think this guy's the type who's into fainting, either. Hmmm. Is stoic a plus point or is this simply a goddamn fool playing hero?

Not sure.

We get to his place and I automatically start to get out of the car as well, but he waves me away.

"You sure you're okay?" I ask, trying to make it sound casual.

"I will be," he says. "I've got the laptop at home. You want me to do the report?"

I stare. Well, he usually does do the lion's share of the things, probably in self-defence rather than shudder at my own efforts. He's good at them, see.

Oops. Another item in the positive column.

"Yeah, whatever," I say, with a sudden regret that whoever I'm partnered with next might not have Sam's ease with words. "Thanks, Curtis."

"Fine." Is that a smile he's attempting? A real one, not the polite, mouth-only version we get when Malone offers drinks after missions?

Shit, yes.

"Need any help?" I offer, seeing him grimace as he lets go of the car door.

"No, I'll be OK. But thanks a lot, Keel," he says. "I owe you. And I'm sorry for the fuss."

Only a Brit could apologise for creating a 'fuss' when they pass out, I'm convinced of it. But he's genuine enough. And the sorry is something I really didn't expect.

Jesus, those eyes. Greener than ever against a face that's paler than it should be.

"No sweat," I tell him. "Take it easy, huh?"

"Yeah. Leave Doc King in once piece."

*

Doc King is possibly up there among the more human among psychiatrists, if I'm honest. She was down to earth when I first saw her, just after I'd passed the induction course and been shipped over to the UK, and she didn't make a major fuss about my 'difficult past'. She presumed that if the US Navy decided I was over it, she wasn't going to go over old ground.

It doesn't mean she's not a shrink from hell, all the same. Although she's real bright. Not bad looking in a mid-thirties sort of way. Wedding ring. Good legs.

Concentrate, Keel. She's fiddling with Curtis' case file, also out on the desk. This could be it. We've done the 'coping with the job', and I've been honest. Sure I can cope. We've also done the 'coming to terms with its impact on private life', and that was okay. I don't have time for one, I tell her, and she grins.

"That bad?"

"Nah, could be worse. I've met a few people."

That leads her to sex. That's usually a fairly awkward moment but I can handle that, too. I tell her I'm hardly celibate, and she's cool about that as well.

"Still dating a Russian spy and a Chinese opium trader?" she asks politely, and to my embarrassment I'm blushing. So she *did* remember my flippant reply to the questions she asked last time about possible security risks.

"Hell no," I tell her. "I've moved on to Iraki arms dealers now. Oh, and there's this Mafia contract killer..."

"Excellent," she says. "And you can handle being irresistible, I take it?"

"Do my best."

Yeah, I could almost like this woman. If she wasn't a shrink.

"And can you handle your partner?"

Wham. Just like that.

I'm speechless, but she waits.

"He's - not that easy to get along with," I finally say, remembering my decision but unable to get the last image of him out of my mind.

"On what level?"

"Oh, the work's angle's great," I say quickly. "He's good."

She doesn't prompt me, and I'm starting to feel stupid. So I say something about him not being very communicative.

"And that matters?"

"Well - no. Yeah." I grimace.

"Any advance on yes?"

"Sort of. Like he - well it does, but..."

She sits there and patiently awaits a coherent translation of this.

"I dunno. Maybe he's shy. Maybe MI6 didn't go in for actually talking to people you work with. Maybe he hates my guts."

This gets me a slow nod.

"He probably thinks I'm a brash, conceited Yank who rushes into stuff," I finish lamely.

"You think so?" she asks.

"Well I don't know, do I? You're the one who does."

"Mr. Malone's policy," she says calmly, "is for me to interview the partners separately and then together, if necessary and if there are problems that arise but could be overcome. Does that help?"

No, it doesn't. Or maybe it does. Obviously one of my real decisive moments.

"So his objection is that I'm a liability?"

"He has no objections," she says, still laid back. "In fact Mr. Curtis said that considering he had never worked with a partner, he was extremely impressed by your capabilities. That's his assessment of you and he was happy for you to be told so. Are you saying that in your opinion there's no chance it will work, or would a discussion with all of us together help?"

Oh fuck. I didn't know we were up for this. And the last thing I expected was for Curtis to say it worked. Why couldn't have told me himself?

"You mean we have to sit here, both of us, and do this shit in front of you?"

She sighs. Normally it's a minor triumph to make a shrink sigh, but I'm too busy thinking about Malone's little games.

"It's one alternative if you think the partnership is viable. If you've decided you can't make it work, then that's the end of it. No information will be passed on to Mr. Curtis without your agreement. As I just said, he has no problems but had no idea how you felt."

So why the fuck didn't he *ask*?

I ask her that, and she shrugs.

"That's something you might want to ask him."

You bet.

"Sounds like marriage guidance," I say scornfully. "So what now?"

"Either you can tell him you have doubts or decide to work on it, or both. If I can help, we'll get together to discuss it within the next few days. Or you tell me straight out, here and now, that you don't want to work together."

"Fuck," I say. She doesn't turn a hair.

"If you were to read your schedule of assessments," she says gently and after a while, "it's all down in black and white."

Wonderful.

"Next few days, huh?"

"A week at most. Tell me, Chris..."

I *hate* it when they start on the first names. But go on, doc. Make me really screwed now.

"... is it worth making the effort?"

I think for a minute.

"He can be human," I say, thinking aloud. "Like over hospitals and stuff."

"Hospitals?" For the first time, she looks a bit surprised. "What about them?"

"Like he doesn't like them. But who does."

She hesitates for a minute or two.

"Maybe he has reasons for disliking them. When did this come up? In conversation?"

I'm not sure what to tell her.

"Sort of. Why? What's the big deal about hospitals and Curtis?"

She looks surprised. You don't usually ask shrinks that sort of question, you see. And of course they can't answer. I know that already but I'm curious.

"That's something you'll have to talk to him about. Or wait for him to tell you. Does he know about your wife?"

"Hardly." I snap without thinking.

"So the lack of communication isn't just one-sided," she says, almost to herself, and then looks at me again. "He was also concerned about your nightmares... and no, I'm not breaking professional secrecy, Chris. Sam Curtis knows a few things about those himself. He said he'd like to help."

He did? I probably look surprised.

"Oh, I told him the same thing," she says. "Either ask you or wait until you're ready to talk. The past is the past. Except it can colour the present to some extent."

I think for a while, realising that I'm not quite as convinced as I was that Curtis and I have nothing in common.

"So if we - talk? What then?"

"Then we meet again next week, either you and I or all three of us. Your call. If you want to spare your partner the impression that you needed time to make your decision, you simply say our discussion wasn't finished. Simple."

Oh sure. Is all this 'procedure' aimed at making somebody feel as guilty as hell, I ask her.

"No, not at all. A partnership is a bit like a marriage, Chris, as you said before. Sometimes it just works, sometimes it needs a helping hand or some open discussion. Sometimes it's better to cut your losses."

I take a very long, deep breath.

"Give me a couple of days," I say.

*

By the time I've got out of the torture chamber, there's only a couple of people in the Ops room. Backus give me a sympathetic grin.

"Tough?" she asks.

"Sorta." I sag into one of the chairs.

"All finished for a while now, though?"

"No," I say, suddenly deciding to use my head rather than arousing any suspicions from on of the most intelligent people I've ever met. "She had to go - we have to finish off next week."

"Uh-huh," Backup says absently. "Shame. Although it's pretty obvious you two guys are good together, so it's no big deal, right?"

I try to stop my jaw from dropping.

"Yeah?" I manage.

"Oh sure. I mean, Sam's not the most talkative guy around, but from the results you're getting, it's pretty good. Malone's got some sort of instinct for pairing people."

He does? I think about this as she stabs at the keyboard and then grins at me.

"I'm glad to see Sam fixed up. He was saying the other day we could maybe all go and celebrate once all the assessments are finalised. Shame it'll be another week."

He said *that*? Oh, shit. But she's still talking.

"That job today - nice work, Chris. Sam looked beat, though."

I nod, silently.

"I was gonna call him. It was almost like he wasn't feeling good. He wasn't hurt, was he?"

Shit, shit, shit.

"He's - a bit bruised," I say. "Said he didn't need any medical attention, though."

She purses her lips.

"Well, he would. You sure he was okay?"

I wish I was.

"Backup?"

Well, she knows everything. Might as well give it a try.

"Yeah?" Another stab at the keyboard.

"What is it about Sam and hospitals?"

She frowns.

"You'll have to ask him."

I feel like punching something. That's two of them within ten minutes telling me that, but how the hell was I supposed to know he guy had some sort of problem with them? Hell, I don't like them much.

Now, I'm worried. I probably should have insisted he got checked over and stayed until a doc called around. I'm not the nursemaid type, but neither am I a guy who walks off and leaves somebody who needs help.

Not even Mr Freeze-'em-out, who did after all say please, thanks and sorry today. And actually wanted me as a partner.

Oh, fuck.

Backup's watching me, still frowning.

"I'll call him," she says.

"No," I say firmly. "I'll go over there."

I grab my jacket, pick up the car keys and cut up half of London. Sam isn't the only one who can do the fancy driving stuff if necessary.