Title: I Will Never Let You Fall

Summary: Companion piece to Breaks Through My Soul, as suggested by mecuppaTee. Rather wordy, I will warn you now, and this didn't quite turn out as I'd expected (but then nothing ever does for me). There will be a third and final piece to go with this an BTMS – it was going to be part of this fic, but then I thought it felt better on its own, as it's a bit different to this one. That fic, to be called Now That I'm Strong, will be up shortly (time and internet dependent).

Characters / Pairings: Ros/Lucas

Warning: No real spoilers other than what we learn in S7 of Lucas' past 8 years, and even those are minor spoilers.

Disclaimer: I own no part of Spooks, its characters, or its plots. Not do I make any claims to the title of this fic – it's from the song 'Your Guardian Angel' by The Red Jumpsuit Apparatus. (Thanks to everyone who helped me pick which title to go for.)

A/N: Please leave a review to let me know what you thought!

I Will Never Let You Fall

When she wakes up in the middle of the night – or the early morning, depending how you look at it – it is not the sight or feel of an empty bed beside her that she is expecting.

After all that she has seen in her life, something so small, so trivial, ought not to perturb her. But this is usually so standard, such an unspoken norm now for the bed to have two occupants, until she is the one to extract herself from the crumpled sheets and dress and depart before he wakes, that this deviation from normal disturbs her.

She doesn't turn on the bedside light – she knows all too well the benefits of appearing to be still asleep so as to have the element of surprise if one is in danger – but instead lets her eyes adjust to the darkness of the room, almost pitch-black but for the threads of moonlight seeping in through the half-closed blinds. It doesn't take long – it never does when you are Ros Myers – before she can make out her surroundings, and her eyes are drawn to the far wall. She knows the room, and its inhabitant, well enough by now to see that for the wardrobe door to be ajar is unusual; it is always, without fail, firmly shut to stop it from creaking open and closed in the wind. And it was closed earlier, so someone – and she knows who – has opened it to fetch something out and, not wanting to wake her by banging it shut, has propped the door in place with a pair of shoes – her shoes – on either side.

She can see the culprit of this endeavour now, lying stretched out on the floor at the foot of the bed, perpendicular to it. As she throws off the covers and slips off the bed, her bare feet silent against the cold, impersonal lino, she can easily make out Lucas' inert figure, lying entangled in the blanket she suspects was intended as a rudimentary mattress.

If she is surprised to learn that he prefers the hard, cold floor to a soft, warm bed, she doesn't show it. Not even a flicker of puzzlement crosses her deadpan face – not even here in the dark where there is no one to see it. But then, she is supposed to be able to hide these things – they both are. It is what makes them so good at their jobs, and what has allowed them to keep secret their nightly rendezvous for so long. Hide any weakness. Don't let them get in the way of your job. Or better still, cut out the weaknesses altogether. But they both knew that was impossible.

She is trained not to betray her emotions, no matter the circumstance, so something as simple as this has just fallen into habit. Even so, she does not check her frown – of confusion? of concern? – as he rolls suddenly to one side in his sleep, his fisted hand thudding against the floor loudly, violently. They might be trained to display the emotional range of a statue, but even ice-cold marble looks different depending on the light in which you view it. She stays rooted to the spot, almost enthralled, as he starts lashing out into the air, unable to move as anything within his reach – the floor, the blanket, the base of the bed – receives a thorough pounding as he is thrust about in the wake of his dreams. She can see where the moonlight casts shadows on his bare skin, picking out the ink that marks him with the memories of his incarceration, the scars that will never truly fade.

It is only when he starts crying out that she kneels beside him, takes hold of his wildly flailing arms firmly, and eases his head into her lap as she murmurs soothing nonsense into his ear until he is still again, fallen back into a deep – now peaceful – slumber. She leans back against the bed, still tenderly caressing his sweat-soaked hair, and slips back into sleep herself.

It is the first time that he will wake with her beside him.

It will not be the last.