Rating: M
Disclaimer: Characters belong to Jed Mercurio, BBC, World Productions et al.
Spoilers: Everything
Pairing(s): David/Julia, deals with Julia/Roger and David/Vicky.
Summary: She's a fugitive trying so hard not to exist. He's the lover trying so hard to forget.

Prologue

She should've known better. Than to listen to her scheming ex-husband. Not to mention her witch of a mother. A dried up old crone she hadn't had a consistent relationship with since she was shipped off to boarding school at the age of eight. What on earth had she been thinking? Taking their advice? Listening to the long list of allegations they presented to her?

In her own defence, she'd been heavily drugged. In shock. In fear of her life. Confused as to what that life could possibly look like now. She was black and blue and red and purple. Vulnerable and alone. She supposes the photograph Roger showed her of her trusted PPO and clandestine lover standing next to the Thornton Circus shooter was simply the last straw. Her eyes – much like the rest of her – hadn't been working properly. Everything still looked ashy and overexposed. She remembers blinking at it several times. It took her a full minute to comprehend what it was she was seeing.

But there he was. David. Her David. Only not her David. Someone else's David. Someone else's husband, someone else's father. Someone else's army buddy. He had his arm slung around the other man's shoulder. He was dressed in fatigues with his hair cropped close and a toothy grin on his face. Propped casually at his side was a tall, bulky rifle. A killing machine. Just like him. Just like her David.

The man beside him looked more subdued. There was sand in his hair and a small smile on his lips. But it didn't reach his eyes. Nothing did anymore, she could tell. There was something wrong with those eyes, something missing from them, even back then. He'd yet to suffer the burns that would mar his face for the rest of his life. She remembers those burns, those eyes staring at the ceiling of the morgue. She'd wanted to view the body. She thought it might ease her anxiety, put a stop to the nightmares, prevent her hands from shaking every time she approached a car. Facing fears head-on was a long-time habit with her. She did things because she was afraid, not because she wasn't. But this time her bravado proved unproductive.

Nothing had changed when the morgue attendant lifted the sheet. The woman took a few silent steps backwards, clasping her hands in front of her as if attending a funeral. David stood further back, just inside the door, arms stiff at his sides. He hadn't shown any sign of grief or regret or apprehension. No feeling whatsoever. She'd never have guessed he knew the man. Possibly because she didn't know him. Not as well as she'd thought she had. He hadn't said a word when she joined him at the door. He just nodded and ushered her out, down the sterile, white corridor to the service elevator.

He touched her once they were inside. His fingers slid down the inside of her wrist to her hand. He squeezed her cold, trembling fingers in his warm, rough palm. "Let's get you home, eh?"

She smiled gratefully. She knew he didn't like taking these detours. David liked knowing where they were going, what was coming, what threats might arise. She'd assumed he'd resisted their visit to the morgue for the same reason. Not because it held the body of someone he once knew. Perhaps still knew. Was perhaps in active collusion with all along, without her ever suspecting.

That photo threw everything into doubt. Everything she thought she knew about her protector – or had instinctively inferred or wishfully imagined – was suddenly suspect. Just as Roger intended it to be. How he'd found out about their affair she'll probably never know. He had his contacts just as she had hers. It would've been as easy as whispering in the ear of one of the officers stationed outside her rooms at The Blackwood. Though why she'd heeded the advice of her ex-husband she is yet to comprehend. But she did. And this is where it left her.

Julia glances around at the four walls and dated décor of her loathed limbo-land. She's on the top floor of the building, removed from the world and all its sounds, all its bustle. Unlike her light and sophisticated flat, this place feels dark and airless, timelessly oppressive. The polished wooden cabinets and dusty floral prints remind her of her childhood, a time she never particularly desired to revisit. But her surroundings weren't her choice. She could take nothing from her old life with her, nothing but what remained of her broken body, mind and heart.

She wheels herself to a solid oak dresser and gazes into its milky mirror. The piece seems immovable, utterly permanent in a way that she resents. Fears, even. Julia stares it down, hands intractable on the armrests of her wheelchair. She takes in her naked face, her yellowing bruises, her still bandaged body parts. Her injuries continue to heal. She persists with her rehab and follows the advice of her doctors, though she's not sure what they're all attempting to preserve. She's neither dead nor alive. She's no longer an important politician, a cabinet minister and minor celebrity. She's not woman, wife or lover. She's simply a patient, a victim, a has-been in hiding. A scorched and brittle shell staring at a picture of a boy who'd grow up to betray her. A fugitive still enthralled by the forbidden figure that incited her flight.

TBC...