Title: The Lucky Ones
Author: mindy35/mindy_makru_tutu

Rating: this chapter, K+
Disclaimer: Characters belong to BBC, Netflix, Jed Mercurio, et al.
Spoilers: up to ep3
Pairing: David Budd/Julia Montague
Summary: Rewrites the last half of the series with Julia in it.

She sits at the table, hands clasped in her lap. She smooths her damp palms down the skirt of her dress, interlocks her fingers. Her hands continue to wander though, they can't stay still. Her fingertips touch the napkin in front of her. The knife, the fork, straightening both. She'd about sell her soul for a drink but she doesn't dare order wine. Not yet. She sips her water compulsively. Her mouth is dry and there's nothing else to do. Nothing but sip and sit and wait.

Julia takes a compact from her purse, checks her lipstick, pats her hair. She's painted her eyes a little darker, gone to the trouble of wearing a dress, hoping against hope that such minor feminine gestures might make a difference. If he shows. She hopes he shows. God, she hopes... She's not entirely sure where they're at, so she's not entirely sure that he will. She snaps the compact shut and throws it back in her purse. She takes another large sip of water as a waiter approaches her table. He scuttles sensitively away when he sees that her dinner companion hasn't shown.

She glances about the place. At the white tablecloths and the expensive crystal, at the oppressive chintz and the dated wall hangings. They probably don't get many unmet dates in this place. It's not a place people go to to date and flirt and hook up. Nor to be stood up by vengeful ex-lovers. She and Roger used to come here when they were married. Rob, for some reason passing understanding, thought it would be a good idea to continue the tradition. She responded by walking out on him in favour of eating take-out with her handsome new PPO.

Julia fingers her glass, nails clinking impatiently against the crystal. She kind of hates the place. Everything so pricey, everything so perfect. Everyone behaving exquisitely in the polite hush. She'd like to break the silence, get up and pace. She'd like someone to tell her why the hell he's kept her waiting like this. She's not accustomed to it. She's usually the one people wait on, defer to. But, of course, she knows the reason for this silent, sustained torture. It's her penance. Well-deserved. And as such, she must endure it, just as she must endure any other trials he might choose to put her through. She must stifle her sigh, conceal her nerves, sit in her seat and keep her hands neatly folded. Even as the grandfather clock in one corner marks the seconds with a thunderous tick. Even as two blank-faced security officers witness her humiliation.

Kim and Tom sit several tables away looking distinctly out of place with their matching suits and slick hair and dour expressions. They really ought to do a better job of blending in with the clientele. But not even she does completely. This place still tends to attract old-school aristos, high-ranking politicians and the occasional camera shy celebrity. Discretion is their speciality. Their staff is chosen for their secrecy. Grim doormen are posted at every entrance, barring entry to any unwelcome elements, including, and most especially, the British press.

That's the one thing this place is good for, the only reason to choose it. Julia peers at the closest window. They'll be clambering out there. Just as they've been clambering outside her home and the Home Office since the story broke. She trusts David will have the sense to use the back entrance. If he decides to show. She checks her phone.

No messages.

And deliberate or not, he's definitely late. Julia shifts in her seat, sips her water, clasps her hands. And waits.

-x-

She unclasps her hands and smooths them over the linen tablecloth. She mutters thank you when one of the wait staff places her tea in front of her. Julia lets it steep a moment, gazing out the window.

She doesn't frequent these old boy clubs, despite the fact that they now grudgingly allow women members. The armchairs still smell of cigar smoke and antique aftershave. And the fireplaces are always hotly guarded by some bloated, bearded patriarch. Still, she'd needed somewhere they could meet in private. Somewhere respectable but discreet, professional but comfortable. Moving through the cloud of cigar smoke, past the flickering flames in the grate and the officious gazes of the club's greying patriarchy, she'd claimed a table in a corner by a window. Even as she took her seat, she felt unsure.

This is not a wise move, she can feel it in her gut. But she had to do something, had to talk to someone. Unfortunately, the person who'd been closest to a friend to her was hauled off to jail three days prior. So now the next best thing is one of the women who incited him to spy on her. She's hoping Anne Sampson can shed some light on that aspect of David Budd's character. It was, after all, an aspect he never fully revealed to her.

Julia turns back to her tea, pours the contents into the cup and adds milk. She lifts the cup to her lips and blows away the steam. When she thinks about it now, the whole scene plays out in slow motion, with every sound and colour and emotion muted. David's red face and straining muscles and desperate eyes. His distant form being shunted into a police car as darkness descended on the city. She hadn't slept a wink that night. She'd stared at the ceiling instead. Her security detail hadn't dared to put anyone in the room next door. They'd simply left it vacant and locked the door.

She can't wait to get out of the place now. She wants this whole awful mess wrapped up so she can go back to her nice, comfy flat and her simple, single lifestyle. She wants her own bed and her own towels and her own extensive wine collection. For a short time, The Blackwood had felt like a secluded paradise. Now it feels more like a suffocating prison. She dreads going back to it each night when once she craved her return, craved the lover who only existed within its black and white walls. Julia blinks rapidly and sips her tea. At least she can count on Anne's discretion on that point, even if it is compelled.

She's one of only a few people who know that the now Head of Counter-Terrorism Command had engaged in an inappropriate relationship with a junior officer several years before. When rumours began to circulate, Anne promptly broke off the liaison. The other woman was reassigned, any witnesses were hushed and what little evidence existed was swept under the carpet. Decision made and priorities affirmed, Anne continued her meteoric rise to the rank of Commander. Julia's knowledge of the whole affair was one of the many large and small resentments fuelling their at times acrimonious relationship. Though now, as luck would have it, without even a word on the topic, she can use it to her own advantage.

Julia places her cup on its saucer and straightens her spine. She spots Anne on the threshold, her sharp eyes scanning the lavish lounge. Her harsh hair and basic suit look out of place against its warm, faded tones. A waiter approaches but Anne's eyes have already located her. She murmurs to the man then moves through the maze of armchairs and footstools to the corner where she sits.

Julia stands and extends a hand. "Thank you for meeting me here."

Anne looks confused but gives her hand a limp shake. "No problem, Home Secretary."

"Julia, please." She smiles and gestures to the waiter who has trailed Anne to their table. "Would you like something to drink?"

Anne sits as if she's hurried to make their meeting, tucks a stray strand of frazzled hair behind her ear. "Alright…" She glances up at the waiter, orders a coffee then tucks her purse down by her feet.

Taking her seat, Julia draws a breath and smiles kindly. The other woman oozes anxiety and, unlike her, Anne has never possessed the charm to hide it. "I just wanted a chat really."

Anne half-nods, anxiety in no way alleviated. "Of course."

"I have some questions," she goes on, feeling the scales of power begin to shift. "About the bomb found at St Matthew's."

Her brow wrinkles. "A report is pending—"

"It's not really a report I'm after." Julia picks up her tea, takes a sip then cautiously reveals her hand. "PS Budd," she murmurs softly, "is he…still a suspect?"

Anne's frown twitches but doesn't soften. "He's still in custody. We're not sure how much he knows. Perhaps nothing. Perhaps everything. But he's been very tight-lipped."

"I see." She lowers her cup and lowers her eyes. "Has he said anything…about me?"

Anne speaks slowly, mind clearly connecting the dots. "I've read transcripts of all the interviews and your name is mentioned by Budd. Several times."

Julia nods her head and says nothing, colour rising to her cheeks. The waiter slides in to deliver Anne's coffee. After he leaves, she fingers the handle of the cup for a moment.

"Home Secretary— sorry. Julia." The name sounds awkward but her tone lacks any sense of judgment or alarm. "I'm sure you're aware that there have been rumours. About you and Budd."

Julia rotates her cup on the saucer, gulps thickly. "Yes."

Anne leans in a little. "Is there any truth to them?"

Julia pauses a moment. Then meets the other woman's gaze with a knowing look. "I think it's best if I don't confirm anything. Don't you?"

Her eyes widen as she retreats in her seat. "I'd say so, yes…" Anne sips her coffee, casts a wary glance about them then adds in a deliberately low voice, "He's not revealed anything personal, if that's what concerns you. Nothing that would expose or compromise you."

Julia nods a few times, looks down at her tea then back at her colleague. "Do you think he's guilty?"

Anne gives a wry little shrug. "You know the man better than we do. Do you think he's guilty?"

Her mouth opens then shuts. Her eyes drift away and her head shakes in indecision.

Anne leans forward again, putting her coffee to one side and placing her elbows on the table. "Look, if you want my opinion, Budd doesn't know a thing. Actually, we're starting to pursue the idea that this wasn't an act originating from an Islamist terror cell but one initiated by a well-known figure in organised crime."

"Organised crime?" Julia frowns at her, head tilted to one side. "That's not an angle I've heard before. Where did that line of enquiry spring from?"

"The suggestion came from Sergeant Budd in fact."

"You're taking investigative suggestions from suspects now?"

Anne's head pulls back, her face taking on the silently miffed expression Julia knows from so many of their meetings. "We're exploring all avenues open to us," she replies, blank and stoic.

Julia drops her eyes, softens her tone. No wonder she has so few friends if she treats them all like inept subordinates. "May I ask you one last thing?"

Anne dips her chin. "Go ahead."

Julia hesitates. It's a stupid question. An infantile question. But it's the question that's kept her awake all night every night since his arrest. It nags at her twenty-four hours a day. And yet it's the one question she cannot trust herself to answer alone. "Should I go there, speak with him?"

Anne blinks at her a few times then answers carefully, "I wouldn't recommend it. Not if you want to keep this thing under wraps. Which I assume you do."

She nods absently. "Of course…"

There's a pause. The room murmurs, the fire spits. A waiter laughs at the unfunny joke of a patron. Honey is stirred into tea and silver clinks against china. Anne eyes her shrewdly and seems to wonder whether they're done.

"I can keep you updated," she adds, "if you like."

Julia gives another nod. "Thank you."

"But best to let us do our jobs, let this thing play out."

"Yes…" Julia takes a breath, summons a smile. "Well. Again, I appreciate your discretion, Anne."

Anne rises, collects her belongings, then bobs her head. "Home Secretary."

Julia watches her go then turns her gaze out the window again. She sips her tea, scrolls through her messages then calls for the bill. Tom escorts her through the foyer and down the stairs to her car. She could easily head home now. Take her ministerial box and briefcase up to her suite and work from The Blackwood for the remainder of the evening. The place no longer feels like home though. It dents and distracts her with its memories and associations and its inescapable lack of him. It won't forget. So neither can she.

She asks them to take her back to her office instead. There are still plenty of people about, wrapping up for the day, making those final phone calls, sending those last minute emails and arranging those collegial post-work drinks. Julia moves straight through to her office, dispensing with her coat and cases. Tom takes up his all-seeing position as her door swings shut. She paces back and forth in the silence, step slow and pensive. Then she moves to the window, folds her arms and gazes out at the city.

She knows Anne's advice is sound. However much she might wish to, she cannot go down there. She can't sign a logbook of visitors, leave a paper trail, create witnesses. She can't use her station to gain access to him, she can't interfere in an investigation into an attempted act of terror. She cannot stand, face to face with him, and demand he tell her the truth. She must simply let this thing play out.

Julia moves to her desk and picks up the phone – then pauses with the handset halfway to her ear. Because the police have asked to speak with her. The female detective with a chip on her shoulder – Louise something – did call. More than once. She brought that file to David's arrest, knowing perhaps that she might need some persuading. No doubt she'd heard the rumours too. No doubt she wished to establish the exact nature of her relationship with her potentially murderous PPO. Julia knows she'll have to be prepared for such questions and, so far, she hasn't been. She's been reeling. She's been in shock. But she's catching up now.

She lowers the handset, takes a breath and holds it. She could go to Counter Terrorism Command, apologise for her unavailability. She could say that she has been busy dealing with the fall-out from her no-show at St Matthew's. She could call right now, tell them she has some time and is willing to come to them, to work with them. And while she's there, she may be able to get a read on what's happening. She may be able to ask some questions of her own. She may even be able to wrangle an unofficial visit with their suspect. Julia reaches for the phone again – just as it rings.

A media officer from one of London's major trauma centres is on the other end of the line. In a measured tone, she says that she's been authorised by a representative of Number 10 to inform her that the Prime Minister is in critical condition following a car accident earlier that afternoon. Julia's heart hiccups in her chest, her knees wobble under her. The woman gives no further detail on the accident. She just tells her that she has been cleared by the Prime Minister's wife and staff to visit, if she wishes. Julia thanks the woman, tells her she will come immediately then hangs up the phone. She calls Tom in, has him arrange her transportation and protection.

In the car, her body thrums with anxiety. Her heels bob, her fingers hover at her lips. She glances in the rear-view mirror at Tom. Then looks out the window instead. She needs that friend again, that trusted confidant. Because she can't help entertaining the idea that their country's leader was targeted, just as she had been. It could be paranoia. Or it could all be part of one big plot. Police swarm the hospital and she speaks with them willingly. She finds the most senior officer available and gets as much detail on the crash as possible. No one seems to be able to give her a straight answer on whether or not the accident was suspicious, or is being investigated as such. So in the end, she excuses herself and moves through the throng.

She has to talk to half a dozen people from the police, the hospital and Number 10 before she's led through to the Prime Minister's private room. She's warned that, following surgery, she will find him in a medically induced coma. Julia nods impatiently and steps through the door. The room is empty except for John and all the machines he's hooked up to. They blip and breathe and scan and spike around him. His robust form lies in white and blue sheets, making a mockery of the medical paraphernalia that would make him appear weak. But then he'll always be larger than life to her. Stout and hearty and endlessly energetic.

She moves to the bedside and takes his hand. It's loose and dry and covered in hospital tape. She squeezes his fingers in hers, releases a long, sad breath. She's trying to think of something comforting to say to the silence when the door cracks open and the guards admit his wife. She's carrying a cup of tea in a shaky hand and her eyes well with tears when she sees her.

"June," Julia moves towards her, takes her elbow and guides her to a chair by the bed. "I'm so sorry…"

June pats her hand and thanks her for coming. Julia encourages her to drink her tea, listens to her account of day, hands her tissues for her tears. She watches the older woman reach for her husband's hand and hold it tightly in both of hers. June whispers to John under her breath as Julia retreats a few steps and prepares herself to wait.

TBC...