Lost Boys

By J. Ferguson a.k.a. Timeless A-Peel

Disclaimer: I don't own The New Avengers, nor the characters of Mike Gambit and John Steed. Sadly. They're the property of The Avengers (Film and TV) Enterprises. This story is for entertainment purposes only.

Timeline: Zero in a series. Takes place in June, 1975, a full ten months before the start of the TV series. Those interested in the rest of the series are invited to read the subsequent stories in the arc, Aftermath, Dance With Me, The Anniversary, Merry Christmas, Mr. Gambit, and Brazil.

For more information about the series, please see my profile.

Author's Note: Yes, a brand new fic! And a prequel at that. I've long planned this story, but didn't expect to write it for awhile yet. But I got an idea for the plot and decided to write it out while it was still fresh. This chapter is more of a teaser, really. I meant for it to be longer, but I've been too busy to edit enough for a full-fledged chapter, so this will have to do for now. I wanted to upload something, though, because as of today it's been two years since Gareth Hunt, who played Mike Gambit, passed away from cancer, and I wanted to do something to mark that date. The character of Gambit meant a lot to me when I was younger, and continues to do so. Thanks, Gareth.

I thought this fic would be fitting because it's something a bit different from all my other stories. Mostly I write about the Purdey/Gambit relationship, and I plan on continuing to do so. But I thought it would be a challenge to write a Gambit and Steed story for once. So be warned: you are entering a Purdey-free zone. Steed and Gambit haven't even met her yet. So Steed's going to get much more of a look-in this time round.

Just a note that this does not mean I've abandoned Brazil, which I plan on winding down in the next few weeks. There will be an end, at which point I'll switch to updating this fic full-time. I hope you enjoy both stories, and stay tuned for more TNA adventures.


John Steed woke up. This was not in itself a bad thing. In fact, seen from most angles, it was undeniably good. It meant no one had slid a knife between his ribs while he slept, that his lifestyle hadn't caught up with him, that the food at the restaurant last night hadn't been bad. No, on the whole John Steed didn't mind waking up, provided it wasn't too early. But the exact time of his return to the land of the conscious was causing him a mild degree of annoyance. That was because it was 8: 23. The same time as yesterday. And the day before that. And the day before that.

And what was wrong with that? some may have asked Steed as he pushed back the bedclothes and swung his lemon silk pajama-clad legs over the edge of the bed and stretched. It meant his body was on a schedule, it was consistent. He was in a routine.

Routine. That was the dreaded word, a word no agent, certainly not John Steed, was comfortable with, certainly not when he was describing himself. In fact, one of the main features of a career in espionage was that one's life never settled into a routine, or at least, not for very long. But John Steed, though he hated to admit it, was in a routine, and had been for something like two and a half years. He glanced at a wall calendar as he passed on the way to the bathroom. Yes, June 17, 1975. Thirty months since the last major upset in his way of life, the breaking of the last routine.