Sam looks lousy. He's limping nearly as much as I am, his ribs are sore from the way he's walking and his eyes are barely open. He's been answering the doc in monosyllables and glowering at me for going down there with him, but at least I'm satisfied it's nothing more than bruises and a sprain.

Malone peers at him from the doorway to his office as we walk back into Ops.

"Go home, Mr. Curtis. Now. Take the weekend off."

Wow. The old bastard's gone soft, hit the alcohol… what's with him?

"I'll just pick up the laptop," Sam says testily, oblivious to the generosity, the fool. "For the report. I suppose it's urgent."

"Get some sleep." Miraculously, Malone doesn't react to the unusually brusque tone from the normally polite Sam. "Another 48 hours won't change anything."

I expect Sam to show a little gratitude at this, but he just nods.

"I can't leave just yet or I'd drive you, Sam," Backup says. "Shall I call you a cab?"

"I'll take him," I interrupt. I'm well overdue for going home anyway – I only hung around to wait for my partner.

Backup raises her eyes and looks pointedly at my cane.

"I hired an automatic," I explain to both her and Sam. "Got sick of taking cabs."

Sensibly, Backup doesn't comment and Sam just nods vaguely, stuffing his laptop into its case. He looks about one inch from crashing – I'm surprised he's kept going this long – the doc extracted a confession from him that sleep hasn't really been on the menu for a while.

He does stir himself for a minute as we reach the garage and he sees exactly what I've hired. The rental company had this cute little BMW Z8 among the few without the stick shifts the Brits love so much, so what was the point in going for one of those tacky sub-compact things? It's not like I can't afford it. It sure beats the CI5 fleet of Nissans and Fords and stuff.

"You're not going to put this on your expenses?" he says with an attempt at a grin. "Malone's probably not got over you crashing the plane yet."

I just grin back, enjoying the feel of the leather seats and the rich, throaty purr of the engine.

This, I decide, is the silver lining to 6 goddamned weeks out of action with a broken leg – fortunately the left one. The car is the only thing I'll miss when it's over, because physio and paperwork are not my idea of a fun time. Three weeks down, three to go.

This last week, in particular, has been tough. We're short of people (situation normal) and Sam's been working his butt off either on his own or with anybody else going spare. I in turn have been frustrated as hell about being out of action the whole time and driving the Ops management people nuts. I am not, as my partner has put it more than once, 'God's gift to paperwork'.

When I caught Backup frowning and trying Sam's number over and over yesterday, I moved on from frustrated to downright scared. I knew what he was working on, because rather than working my butt off I've been sitting on it, collecting background on the same subject – Mavoy's little gang of contacts in London.

Then, a couple hours back, he rolled in looking like he'd been in a fight. That, hardly surprisingly, was because he had. Luckily, he'd also won it, and single-handed too, as he'd informed me dryly as I half-strongarmed him down to see the doc. So would I please shut up and stop fussing?

I tried, but keeping 'Keel does mother hen' within reasonable limits wasn't real easy. Okay, so he didn't fuss after I crashed the plane, and from what I remember of our bits of conversation between the crash and Mavoy's place, I was a whole lot more than just tetchy, too.

I can sort of understand how he felt earlier though, because Sam's the sort of guy who keeps up some sort of 'Mr. Indestructible' façade - so his pride's probably as hurt as anything else. He got me worried, though, which is why I went down to Medical and hung around, ignoring his bad temper.

I owe Sam, big time.

I think I'm gonna spend the rest of my life owing the guy, in fact, but when I said so he just did that 'sardonic Brit' thing and said it was normal.

We've been getting to know each other pretty well I guess, and have gotten to the stage where we're as comfortable together off the job as we are on it. Until things turned crazy at work, Sam even drove me around, cooked for me once or twice, and one time even did my grocery shopping and took care of my dry cleaning. Without fussing, of course.

On reflection, I decide as I look across at him, we're buddies as well as partners now, in total defiance of Malone and his goddamn rules about emotional involvement. Does it bother me? No way. Small gestures of rebellion are my trademark. Besides, our beloved leader was the one who decided we'd 'form an effective partnership' in the first place.

Sam seems to feel the same way, although being British he doesn't say much. He's thawing a bit more all the time, though – I was kinda surprised just how open he was about stuff when I took wine around a few weeks back after messy job.

I bet his refrigerator's empty right now as well – he's hardly been home for five or six days. I guess he needs sleep more than food, though. Yeah, he's already out of it.

He wakes up when we stop, peering foggily at me and frowning.

"This is your place."

"Smart observation," I tease. "It's a place with a spare bed, food and drink in the refrigerator, and I'll drive you home tomorrow."

I present it as a fait accompli (although no doubt I'd pronounce it wrong if I said it). Sam looks too tired to argue or even accuse me of nursemaiding.

In fact, he's too tired to do much at all, only pausing to apologise for not having the energy to shower and protesting vaguely that he should take the spare bed. Then he virtually topples into mine.

I have things to do, I realise, and turn the computer on after remembering to put some clean sweats beside Sam, now out to the world. I also have the weekend off, but I don't intend to spend the whole time on this so I might as well get ahead.

Geez, personal paperwork is even worse than paperwork for the job. Does the spell checker work? No idea but this is hardly something I can tell Sam to look over.

Hours later, I'm pissed with Microsoft, the Internet, my ISP, some asshole in Boston who doesn't understand simple instructions when I call him, and bureaucracy in general. This should all have been so simple.

One more mail. Why is there a red line under 'utilize'? Uh-huh. Sam must have reset the goddamn computer to UK English again. And the green lines are nuts. I know the difference between 'their' and 'they're and 'there', thanks. And if I want a comma there, then no Bill Gates is gonna stop me.

Small rebellions.

The connection breaks yet again as I'm trying to send, and I groan in frustration. Well, I can try tomorrow morning before the US is awake. At least the rest seems pretty much OK now and I'm pleased with myself.

Keel is not only capable of paperwork, Keel is a genius, I congratulate myself silently and offer myself a whiskey as a reward. That's whiskey with an 'e'. Even if it's Scotch. And why are the people Scottish and the drink Scotch? Go figure. Some mysteries in life don't worry me enough to lose sleep over.

Sleep. Good idea.

I wrestle with the sofa, and it finally deigns to unfold itself and looks pretty good – another triumph. I guess I bought it with some vague idea of having a place for guys from the Navy to stay if they come visit, but I probably knew all along that it'd be the usual story of making promises to keep in touch and then never doing it.

Do I miss them? Yeah, in a way because we were pretty close as a unit – we had to be. They'd also have carried me across the African bush, I admit to myself. It's just that the bond between Sam and me seems a tad different from the brothers-in-arms stuff, I think. Maybe because it's a one-to one thing. Or because it's more…

More what? Deep? Real?

No, I'm not gonna start thinking about that right now.

But I do. I hadn't planned on getting close to anybody after Teresa, so I was always one of the gang but kept emotion well out of it – obeying Malone's rule before I knew it existed. Then some ex-spook decided to pull my ass out of the fire three times in as many months, and in between taught me to drink wine, remove stains from laundry, and even made me laugh.

In fact, we're a pretty good team as a whole. Richards, Spence, Backup, Rebecca… I guess the UK's brought me what I'd hoped for and more besides. I'm actually happy. Which is nice.

I drift off to sleep, and dream about elephants and choppers.

At one point I hear Sam telling me to stay with him again, like I did when I was slung over his shoulders. The despair and determination in his voice had somehow gotten through to me, even though I wasn't in any shape to tell him that I'd be fine.

When I wake up, I'm half-surprised that I'm not in Mavoy's weird old bed for a second or two, then realise that it's morning and I'm asleep on a fancy Futon-thing in my own living room. And why.

OK, time to get the show on the road. I power up the computer again, turn on the coffee machine and wonder if Sam'll wake up if I take a shower. No, first I'll go buy some stuff from the convenience store, although I wish Mr. Patel knew about bagels. A bagel would be nice.

I scribble a quick note to Sam and leave it on the coffee table, swear when AOL once more refuses to play the game and refuses to send the message. Then I cheer up at the sight of the sleek little BMW outside the window and the thought of croissants.

Mr. Patel stocks those – he's into all sorts of 'European delicacies', insisting there's more demand for those than 'transatlantic speciality items'.

I exaggerate my accent every time I go in there, just to hear him struggle with it, but it's a game we play. I like the guy (hell, I like everybody these days – I'll be praising Malone next) and I wonder what I can ask for this time. Oreos? Jell-O?

He did relent and buy in a case of peanut butter last month, hoping that I would 'somehow succeed in depleting his stock over time' as he put it. Hell, I nearly bought all 24 jars then and there.

Today, I walk out with smelly French cheese, Swiss black cherry jelly, a Danish-style loaf, some of that Italian Mer-something wine my partner likes so much, plus cereals and juice. That's made from Florida oranges, I tell him. Transatlantic. And did he know that cornflakes were invented in the USA?

Mr Patel's in a great mood too, though, so he just waggles his head at me. I grab another jar of peanut butter in a burst of generosity, mentally imagining Sam's rolling eyes if I decide to mix it with the jelly. Jelly is jam, I remind myself. And he doesn't know what he's missing.

Swinging the bag in one hand and doing fancy stuff with the cane and the door, I go up the stairs deciding my leg's definitely getting stronger too. This is a good day, I know it.

Sam's up – the door to the bedroom's open. I dump the shopping in the kitchen, wondering where he is and then see him standing by the computer.

"What the hell are you playing at, Chris?" he says, with ice in his voice.

Pardon? I rush into the living room as fast as I can hobble, and stare at him. He looks furious, I realise. Furious and shocked, which is not Curtis-like at all.

"I got breakfast…" I start. "What's –"

He doesn't even answer. I move towards him, but he's exuding an aura of 'don't you dare come near me' that I've never seen before.

"I don't know what's stopping me going straight to Malone," he says tightly. "Although first I'd like to know what's going on."

He points to the computer, to my desk, and the 'oh, what a glorious morning' feeling turns into 'oh, fuck.'

The screen's still showing my still unsent mail to South Africa, and the cursor's still pointing to the line that says 'ensure the sender remains anonymous'.

"I can explain," I say weakly. "Sam…"

"Explain sending fifty thousand dollars to Cape Town? Or having what looks like half a million in Boston? Or this?"

I see red, suddenly, seeing him waving other stuff around that looks like my share portfolio – the one I've opened this last couple weeks on advice from my bankers.

"Once a spook, always a spook, huh?" I yell. "What the hell do you think you're doing, poking into that?"

"Poking?" he explodes. "What the fuck do you expect when you leave the entire system open? Not to mention scribbling your sums on a Post-It?"

I glance over at the small yellow pad, lost for words at my own stupidity. Yeah, I guess it looks weird to see all those figures with lots of zeros.

I am not going to yell any more. No. We can salvage this.

"Let's sit down," I say, fighting to stay calm. "It's not what you think."

Sam just glares at me.

"You thought you could pay me off as well?" he half-spits. "Worth three hundred thousand, am I? Who exactly was going to offer me that, and for doing what? Was leaving all this where I could find it your way of telling me that you've found something that pays better than CI5 and wanted me to join in?"

Jesus, I'd forgotten that part of it. My partner's name and the little arrow pointing to one of the figures on the list. The salvage job just got harder.

Sam's voice has risen now, and there's no stopping him.

"You love the high-flyer stuff – that's more than obvious. So who's paying you? One of Mavoy's competitors? Are you glad you brought the old bastard down so's whoever else it is can go on making a fortune? And who are you bribing over there to keep quiet about it?"

"Shut up," I go up to him, grab him, my good intentions shot to hell, and find myself flung backwards.

"I thought better of you than this, Keel," he says curtly. "And don't try to make a run for it."

"I'm not running anywhere," I shoot back from where I'm sprawled over the goddamned Futon. "And you can either listen to me now or look like a fool if you do go to Malone."

He raises one eyebrow, but his gun has materialised into his hand and it's pointing at me.

This is not a nice feeling.

It's just so surreal, so Hollywood, that I half-expect him to squeeze the trigger.

Except I haven't done anything wrong, and Sam going down for murder isn't a great scenario either.

For long seconds I just lie there, staring up at a pair of eyes that are grey and cold. His face is as blank as it was when we were playing poker rather than angry now, but there's a hardness there too – the look he usually reserves for criminals, I realize.

He thinks I'm a criminal. Jesus Christ.

Slowly, very slowly, I struggle to at least sit up, not liking the feeling of him towering over me one little bit. My leg's still stiff and awkward so it takes a little effort, and that gun barrel is still pointed at me unwaveringly.

Would he shoot me if I make a wrong move before I get the words out?

I don't want to find out. Strangely, I can hear my Mom saying 'never ask questions if you aren't going to like the answers, Christopher.'

"So talk," he says.

I talk, although my mouth's dry at first from the sheer shock.

First, I fell him where the money came from, and that there are copies of my parents' wills in the second drawer to prove it – he obviously hadn't got that far by the time I came back. The share portfolio is new, sure, but the transfers behind it came from accounts in Boston that have existed for two years.

Then I add that the e-mail address in Cape Town belongs to a lawyer who is going to forward my donation to the rangers for the wildlife protection program. Anonymously. He only has to look in the directory called 'elephants', I add, but he obviously hadn't got to that either.

Finally, I tell him about the trust fund – also anonymous – that accounts for the amount linked to his name. I don't have family, I say coldly, so why not put some of the Keel fortune to good use. Or so I'd thought when I started to set it up.

Sam's so pale I think he's gonna black out. The gun droops before I've got the first few sentences out, and he's steadying himself on the desk by the time I've finished. He hasn't said a word.

I get to my feet slowly, and watch him. I'm still too mad to make any gesture of reconciliation, even when he makes a sound like a bitten-off gasp as he puts the gun down on the desk with a clatter, looking at it with a mixture of surprise and disgust.

We stand there facing each other for what seems like hours after that. I realise he's shaking, and I can feel the tremors running through my own body. It's a mix of indignation plus anger – anger with myself for being sloppy enough to leave the evidence of my night's work in full view and with Sam for being so goddamned nosy and for suspecting me so easily.

"Oh God," Sam says finally. He swallows, turning his head away from me. "What a mess."

"Yeah," I say quietly, wondering how in hell we can patch this up. At least the anger's starting to drain away now. "Coffee?"

As if coffee is going to make it right. Well, it's better than calling him a fucking asshole.

"I think I'd better go."

"Won't solve anything," I say. "Talking might."

Sam manages a bitter chuckle.

"Doesn't alter the fact that I'm stupid."

"Stupid, no." I try for a grin. "That was me for not putting the stuff away – been trying to send that mail for hours. You *were* a tad fast in seeing me as a mercenary who likes to earn a fast buck…"

"Don't," he says, his features only just in control.

"I can see how it looked though, I guess," I say magnanimously.

"Yeah? Well you're right about the always a spook thing. I saw the .za on the mail address and flipped. The guy I brought in yesterday admitted that Mavoy wasn't the only one running ivory, remember… so –"

"You jumped to conclusions."

That part of it still hurts, even though I know he's hurting more than me right now.

"I don't blame you for being mad," he half-whispers. His knuckles are clenching the desk, and there's sweat on his upper lip. I give in and steer him to the settee, and he doesn't fight me, moving like a zombie.

"Stay there," I say, not unkindly. He just nods.

Then I limp rapidly into the kitchen feeling like Scotch might be a better idea than caffeine. In the end, I make coffee anyway as it gives me a little time to try and think things out.

Sam's still sitting as I left him, but he manages to meet my eyes as I come in.

"I'm not very good at apologising, Chris."

"I guess I'd make a pretty bad spook too, huh?"

I pass him the cup, seeing him wince as he reaches to take it. "Let's just say you're not in great shape, which doesn't help."

"No excuse," he sighs. "It's my bloody ribs and ankle that are the problem, not my brains. I suppose I didn't even dream you had that much money, let alone that you'd start giving it to people like the rangers – and as for me…"

"You gonna start on the 'I don't want charity' stuff?" I say, trying to lighten him up.

"There is that," he admits. "Showing you where I grew up wasn't intended to make you sorry for me. I told you that."

"Telling you I had so much goddamned money I didn't know what to do with it didn't seem like a great idea after visiting your past, y'know," I half-chuckle.

"No wonder you managed the role of a high-flyer so well," he says a little sharply.

"My family weren't like that." I decide to put him right. "They didn't do ostentatious. They were just…"

"Rich."

"Loaded," I say gloomily. "Even I didn't realise just how much."

"So why the hell do this job?" Sam's frowning.

"Why not? Or you think I'd be better buying an island and a yacht and all the rest?"

"Maybe," he sighs. "I think that's what I'd probably do."

"Yeah? Might get kinda boring after a while."

"Might save me from being kicked in the ribs. Or getting shot at, or…."

"True," I admit. "Might even save me from standing on bombs or breaking my leg, huh?"

"It might," he answers thoughtfully. "But I don't want the money, Chris. That's final."

I was expecting that if he ever found out, which is why I'd talked to bankers and lawyers to make sure he wouldn't know where it came from but that it was perfectly legal.

"Well, you only get it if I die or you get invalided out, and the latest when you retire from active law enforcement work."

"Thought it all out, then," he mutters. "I still won't take it."

"Your choice. Give it to a cats' home. Or whatever. You weren't supposed to know about it."

Sam puts the coffee down and rubs his hand over his face.

"Is this just because I carried you when you broke your leg, Chris? I told you then you didn't owe me."

"No. It's because – well –"

Whatever I say is gonna sound like some sort of crappy, soap-type statement. In fact this whole scenario is just too crazy for words. In real life, one guy doesn't tell another he's turned into a true friend, somebody who took away the loneliness and the void. Even if it's true.

I fumble around for words, about the day of the laundry and the wax museum, the evening I went over to Sam's on impulse when he'd shot the woman with the Uzi, and a whole lot of other stuff like me nearly getting blown up, crashing the plane.

After a few disjointed sentences, though, I end up just sitting there watching the hunched shoulders.

"You're nuts," Sam says finally, looking up. "Did I ever tell you that?"

"Probably."

"And you don't think I might have appreciated you as a partner – a mate – as well? Oh, and if you have to do the guilt thing, how about bearing in mind that it could have been either of us that sat in the rigged car or stepped on the mine?"

"That's not –"

"Yes it is the bloody point. You do *not* owe me, Chris. And out of interest, d'you remember the last thing you said to me before the plane crashed?"

I shake my head.

"You told me to get in the back where I'd have a better chance."

"Don't recall," I say honestly. "Anyhow, it was logical. And it's not about owing you. It just seemed kinda logical to share it out a bit."

"You might have a wife and kids one day. Save it for them."

"That's…" I hesitate, deciding that this is one particular subject I don't want to discuss right now. "There's enough. Like I said, I'm loaded. Just call it thanks, then."

Sam sighs deeply and takes a long, deep breath.

"None due – I'd say it was me who should thank you as well in that case."

"Me? For?"

"Same reasons as you, I think. While we're doing the 'true confessions' bit, Chris, MI6 was a pretty lonely place to be as well. It's not exactly somewhere conducive to trust and close friendships on the job. It was… a surprise when it turned into that with you."

He's the one struggling for words now but the sincerity is more than clear.

"Hell, I'm not used to anybody being sympathetic because I get a few bruises, let alone you fussing, and as for the money…" he says miserably, "you're nuts, Chris. Like I said."

"I guess yesterday was about bruises to your pride as much as the ribs," I chuckle. "You're nuts yourself. Shouldn't argue about 48 hours off either, Sam - Malone doing nice is something to be treasured."

"Yeah," he admits slowly. "I'm not great at admitting weakness - or accepting that there are people around who aren't like a lot I've met. Which means I fucked up completely."

"I guess we both fucked up but it's nothing serious – at least you didn't shoot me. How about we do breakfast?"

"Nothing serious?" He's amazed. "I pointed a bloody gun at you. And… breakfast?"

"As in 'breaking fast'. The Indian guy at the store down the road has these great croissants. Or I think I still have bacon…"

Sam's still staring.

"Eggs? Pancakes?" I offer. "I even got cereals…?"

"You actually mean it? The nothing serious bit?" His face is showing something like relief and exhaustion now, with a touch of wariness there still.

"Uh-huh."

"You definitely are nuts then. I think if you'd held a gun on me I'd have kicked you out rather than offer you breakfast."

"It crossed my mind," I grin. "But we've got the weekend off and what's the point in spoiling it? Hey, Richards says it's only an hour's drive to the ocean, and I was thinking about taking the BMW…"

"Can you drop me at home, then?" he says wearily. "Or I can get a cab."

"You're kidding. I was thinking we could both go – tomorrow maybe, when you've had some rest. And sure I'll take you home but I'm hungry, so let's get some food first."

Sam shakes his head, still looking confused. Then grimaces. Then smiles for the first time.

"You and your stomach."

"I got peanut butter as well," I say over my shoulder as I head for the kitchen. "My Mom used to think that solved most problems from grazed knees to disastrous love affairs."

"Mine used to pay for us to go to the chippy," Sam says softly, getting up to follow me. "You do know what a chippy is?"

"Where they make chip butties," I beam proudly.

"No, fish and chips."

I'll never get this language. Sam's still grinning at least so I suggest croissants and juice and he doesn't argue. In fact he even pokes into the bags I brought back from Mr. Patel's.

"I got some of that Mer Morte wine," I say proudly, resisting the urge to joke about his curiosity.

"Merlot," he says automatically. "It's a type of grape. Mer Morte is the Dead Sea."

"Still goes well with pizza," I retort. "You got beer in your refrigerator yet?"

"Funny you should say that," he murmurs, not refusing the croissant as I tear open the bag. "I might have picked a couple up, yeah."

"Excellent. So we hit the ocean tomorrow? Gotta make being a high-flyer with a smart car worth its while, huh?"

He raises his eyebrows.

"We can go to a chipper for lunch," I add hopefully as he doesn't answer immediately.

"Chippy. And no bloody way. There's this really smart restaurant in Brighton, which by the way is on the English Channel, which is not an ocean – and it's my turn to pay."

"Yeah?" I say through a mouthful of croissant. "Done."

"Right. And about the money..."

"Forget the money. It doesn't buy friendship." It's a cliché, but I mean it.

"My Mum said that. I honestly don't need it, Chris. I'll get a pension, you know. And we're not exactly paid peanuts."

"We'll talk about it some other time," I say firmly and the 'peanuts' reminds me of something I'd nearly forgotten.

"I like the idea of the money for the elephants," he adds thoughtfully, ignoring what I just said. "Maybe you're not that nuts. Although you aren't seriously going to put peanut butter on that? That's worse than nuts. That's sacrilege."

"Small acts of rebellion," I inform him airily. "Make me happy. The French don't know what they've been missing."

"So putting crappy stuff on perfectly good croissants is a form of rebellion like the BMW's a reaction against the CI5 fleet and London's taxi companies, right?"

"Uh-huh," I grin. "But the car's also as a compensation for being forced to sit on my butt for weeks."

"Don't blame you," he says. "Pass me the jam. But no more talk of money?"

"Okay."

It's too late anyway, I muse as I dig into the peanut butter jar, because the mail confirming it did get through, unlike the one for the elephants.

Sam eyes me thoughtfully, and I hope he's not reading my mind.

"Runs well, does it? The BMW?"

"Like a dream," I tell him. "Wanna give it a try?"

He sighs dramatically and points to his right foot.

"But you are keeping it for the next couple of weeks, right?" he says hopefully.

"Right. You just gotta learn that if you damage a foot or a leg, make it the left one."

"Good point. And I suppose there's got to be some advantages of having a mate who's a millionaire," he says contentedly, grabbing the last croissant before I get to it.

I smear a little more peanut butter on what's left of my own breakfast, and Sam actually chuckles as I add some black cherry jam to it as well.

"Small rebellions, small pleasures… small discoveries," I tell him cheerfully. "Can't beat it."

"Yeah?" he says thoughtfully. "Discoveries, eh?"

Then, to my amazement, he reaches out with his knife and tentatively sticks it into the jam and then the other.

"You're learning," I tell him cheerfully.

"We both are," he says softly.

And he's right.

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