Fic: N.I.C.K - Part One of Two

[secretshipper]

Title: N.I.C.K

Pairing: Nick/David

Rating: R

Synopsis: Nick wakes in a room he does not recognise with no memory of how he got there and a note telling him to go to a house in Witney.

Author's note: Now Livejournal isn't being such an ass I can post this.

Disclaimer: Not mine. Didn't really happen and is unlikely to.

Part One

Nick woke in a room he did not recognise and stared around, taking in the details of the softly patterned wallpaper, heavy velvet curtains, and lush furniture. He had no memory of how he had come to be there.

Sitting up, Nick noticed that he was dressed in simple cotton pyjamas, across the room a suit was hung on the door of an antique oak wardrobe, neatly pressed and ready to be worn; there was a note attached to the lapel that read: wear this. Rising from the bed, Nick walked over and examined the note carefully, looking for some clue as to its origin, but he found nothing.

Reeling in confusion, Nick searched his mind, desperately trying to recall how how he had arrived at his current location, but could find no memories further back than his waking in the unfamiliar room. Frowning, he picked up the suit and headed into the en-suite bathroom located to his left.

Showered and dressed in the suit - blue, five buttons at each cuff, white shirt and yellow tie - Nick stared at his reflection in the mirror. It was him, he recognised the face without question, but although he knew that he was definitely himself, and remembered his name - Nicholas William Peter Clegg - he could recall nothing else about his life; not where he lived, his family, friends, everything was shrouded in mystery, like a blanket had descended over part of his mind, hiding it from his view.

Where was he?

Looking around the room he had woken in, Nick spied a note pad on the ornate desk in the corner. He picked it up and saw the logo for The Marriott Hotel; that at least provided limited knowledge of where he was. Scribbled on the top sheet was a note: Go here, you are expected, followed by an address he had never seen before, at least, not that he knew. It was for a house somewhere in Witney, wherever that was. Also on the desk was a wallet; his, he recognised it, the small gleam of knowledge burning brightly in his mind. He flicked through the contents: money, credit card (he remembered the pin number), a stack of meaningless cards for taxis and other nonsense. No pictures, nothing with his address, nothing that would shed any light on his life before he had woken in a hotel room half an hour ago. He pocketed the wallet and turned back to the note with the address, thinking to tear off the top sheet but changing his mind at the last moment and shoving the entire pad into his jacket pocket; for some reason he did not want to leave it behind.

It was ten past nine when Nick left the hotel room, walking to the lift and pressing the button. Since he might find answers to his predicament at the house in Witney, Nick decided to head there straight away and when he arrived on the ground floor he walked up to the front desk with his key card.

“Checking out,” he told the smiling blonde who was behind the counter.

“Of course, Mr Clegg. I trust you've had a pleasant stay.” She punched numbers into the computer before her. “No additional charges, Mr Clegg. Would you like a copy of your receipt?”

“No thank you.”

Nodding, the woman turned back to the computer, clicking and typing a few more things. “Is there anything else I can help you with this morning, Mr Clegg?”

“Could you call me a taxi to the train station, please?”

“Of course, Mr Clegg. Shall I have the porter bring your luggage while you wait?”

Nick nodded assent and moved away from the desk. Luggage? It was a good thing that the woman had mentioned it because he had no idea that he even had any luggage. Rubbing his forehead in distraction, Nick walked to the entrance and looked around anxiously until the porter came and handed him a single, black suitcase. Nick wanted to open it then and there, needed to know what was in it and if it contained any clues about his life, but that would look odd, so he stepped from the building and waited underneath the awning until his taxi came.

“Going to the station?” the taxi driver asked as he put Nick's suitcase into the boot.

“Yes, please,” Nick replied, sliding into the back seat and fastening his seat belt. The conversation with the taxi driver during the ten minute journey was stilted; the usual friendly questions of taxi drivers answered vaguely as Nick had no idea if he'd had a pleasant stay. When the taxi driver asked where Nick was headed to, Nick lied and said London, though he could not say why he did so. He felt uncomfortably like he was evading something; hiding from someone unknown to him. The peculiar feeling of being on the run did not subside when he arrived at the train station (Swindon) and purchased a ticket to Oxford, paying with cash rather than his credit card.

On the train, Nick carried his suitcase to the toilet and locked the door. Quickly unzipping the case, Nick flipped through the contents: a couple of shirts, some jeans, a casual sweater, a pair of trainers. Nothing but clothes, and not even enough clothes for a holiday, if that was what he had been on. A weekend away perhaps? A glance at the morning newspapers had revealed that it was a Saturday. Frustrated by the lack of any further information about who he was, Nick closed the suitcase and went back to his seat, attempting to relax as the train sped its way toward Didcot Parkway, where he would have to change trains in order to get to Oxford.

The journey was not very long, and Nick soon found himself standing outside Oxford station, looking at the information board and trying to figure out how to get to Witney. There was a bus service that ran between the two locations, and Nick made his way to the indicated stop on George Street to wait. Boarding the bus when it arrived, Nick paid the fare and slid into a seat at the rear.

Who or what was in Witney? Why had he been told to go there?

Nick had no idea, but for some reason he felt that his destination was a place of safety, a refuge from whatever he was running from, and he was certain that he was running from something, he just did not know what. Whatever it was, he sensed that it was dangerous.

Climbing off the bus when it arrived at Witney bus garage, Nick asked a passer by for directions to the address on the sheet of paper, and having received a set of instructions, he set off walking. He was nervous as he approached the front door, not knowing who might answer, and certain that he would not recognise them when they did. Nick pressed the doorbell, trying to remain calm as footsteps sounded beyond, approaching the door. It swung open, revealing a man who Nick presumed was about his own age, tall (though not quite as tall as himself), brown-haired; posh-looking, Nick decided out of nowhere.

“Hello, I'm-”

“-Nick Clegg,” the man finished. “I've been expecting you. Come in.”

Nick stepped over the threshold and into the house and the man closed the door behind him.

“My name is David Cameron,” the man added. “I have your room ready for you.”

“My room?” Nick asked, puzzled by the fact that this all seemed to have been arranged in advance.

A crease of concern settled on the other man's face. “I take it you have lost your memories,” he stated.

“Yes,” Nick answered. “Do you know who I am?”

“Only your name, I'm afraid, although I was warned that the procedure you underwent was likely to cause temporary loss of memory. It will come back in time, I'm sure.”

“Procedure?” Nick questioned.

“Sorry, I don't know what that was either. I was simply told that you needed a place to stay for a few weeks.”

Frustrated, Nick rubbed at his face and let out an exasperated sigh.

“I'm sure you will remember in time,” David repeated, and Nick felt a little comforted by the kindness of the man's words and demeanour. “Come on, I'll show you to the guest room.”

Nick followed David down the hallway, praying that what he had said would turn out to be true. Nick needed to know who he was, and who he was running from.

Part Two

“The beacon is offline, we've lost the signal. We don't know where he is.”

“Fuck it, triangulate again! We can't lose him, he is very important to the project!”

“I know that as well as you, but he's somehow disabled the tracking system, and the CRS. We have no way to find him.”

“Run the credit card, he must have used it somewhere.”

“Already have, there is nothing beyond two days ago when he withdrew a large sum of cash at a machine in London. He's been off the radar since then. Forgive me for saying, but he knows what he is doing.”

“That's only because we taught him. He can't outwit us.”

“I think you are underestimating his abilities. We may have taught him, but we taught him well, and he is adaptive; highly skilled.”

“He's nothing more than a rogue on the loose.”

“He is much more than that and you know it.”

“Run a search, find his last known location apart from London.”

“There's a booking for a hotel in Swindon in his name, the day after he went A.W.O.L, but after that there is nothing more than a taxi to the train station.”

“Get the driver in here! Right now! He must have said something about where he was headed.”

“Right away.”

Part Three

“So you only remember your name, huh?” David commented as Nick entered the kitchen the following morning. “Hope you still like toast.”

“I'm sure toast is fine,” Nick replied, smiling, “though I don't know if I like it with butter or jam.”

“Well,” David said, plonking an unopened jar on the table in front of Nick, “this is home made, so I reserve the right to be offended if you think it unsavoury.”

Catching hold of David's arm as the other man prepared to move away, Nick said in all earnest, “Thank you.”

“Just doing my job,” David replied, waving Nick's arm away in a casual sweep. “Do you remember anything this morning?”

“I... There are snatches, things like memories, but none of it makes sense. It's like remembering fragments of dreams,” Nick confessed, frowning. The memory loss was not total, Nick remembered some details, small things: how he liked his hair, that his favourite biscuits were hobnobs, that he liked his coffee milky. It was almost as though whatever procedure he had undergone had carefully severed only the section of his memories that contained the knowledge of what had happened before he had woken in a hotel in Swindon. He knew that he was being hunted by someone - no, a group of people - and that if he were caught it would mean - death? He knew that he should not use the credit card under any circumstances. But the why... that was an illusive shadow in his mind; infuriatingly beyond his grasp.

“How did you get involved in this?” Nick asked as he buttered his toast.

“You arranged it, actually. Over the phone, three days ago.” Nick blinked at David in surprise. “Though you don't remember that, do you?”

“No, I don't,” Nick said, “I wish I could. Did I say why?”

“No, just that you got my number from someone who said I could be trusted,” David replied, he turned and looked at Nick sincerely, adding, “I can, you know.”

“I know.”

How he knew, Nick could not say, but he did know that David could be trusted not to turn him in, could be trusted with whatever secret he had that he did not remember. David seemed as in the dark about what was going on as he himself was, with only the knowledge that Nick needed somewhere to stay for a couple of weeks, had been through some kind of procedure that had caused memory loss, and was obviously hiding from someone.

“I'll be going out to the shops in about an hour, is there anything you would like me to get for you?”

“Pack of smokes, if you don't mind,” Nick answered without thinking, then his mouth fell open in astonishment as he realised that, yes, he did smoke, not much, but sometimes.

David creased up his face, but nodded. “You'll have to smoke in the garden,” he said.

“Sure,” Nick agreed.

Nick idled around the house while David was out, flicking through the newspaper and feeling relieved, though not surprised, that there was no mention of himself among the pages. Of course, there would not be, whoever was looking for him did not want his name screamed in the national press, that much he did know. His capture, although important, was a matter to be handled with furtive secrecy, not broadcast to the public. His existence...

The train of thought spiralled away from him, and though he tried to pursue it to its conclusion, he failed and clenched his fists against the frustration it brought. Why this deliberately selective lack of clarity? Surely it had to be deliberate, because it was so specific, so carefully precise; allowing him mere glimpses and never disclosing the full light of truth that he knew instinctively still lay somewhere in his head. It was like a short circuit, the burned out pathway of a computer that blocks any attempt to retrieve the information beyond - and how strange to think of his mind in such terms, more so for it to feel entirely natural.

David returned and tossed a gold packet at Nick from the doorway, “You didn't say what brand, so I got you those.”

Catching the cigarettes, Nick thanked him and retreated to the garden, tearing off the plastic and foil and lighting up straight away, feeling dizzy as he inhaled the bitter tasting smoke. Obviously it had been a while since he'd had one. The questions again: how long? What brand did he smoke anyway? He could not remember and slumped down on the back step to finish his cigarette. He felt rather than saw David behind him; the minute disruption of air at his back as the other man approached with quiet steps that registered loudly in his ears.

“Tea?” David asked. Nick shook his head. “Company then?”

Shuffling sideways on the step to make room, Nick patted the space beside him. David's doorway, while a little wider than most, was still small enough that they were pressed into each other as they shared the step. Nick could feel a rush of warmth seeping into his skin through his clothes and found it oddly comforting, just the silent companionship; a firm presence in a sea of uncertainty. He took another drag on his cigarette, worrying the tip of his thumb with his teeth as he exhaled blue smoke.

“I'm sure your memory will come back,” David said kindly, putting his finger precisely on what was troubling Nick. Tears welled in Nick's eyes, a flood of emotion washing through him both at the words and at the predicament he had found himself in, the feeling of futility surrounding his attempts to grasp the memories of his former life. He threw the nearly finished cigarette to the ground and crushed it with his foot, wiping at his eyes with his fingers, not wanting to cry in front of a man he did not know very well, or at all. Squeezing his eyes shut in embarrassment, Nick felt an arm loop around his shoulder; a soft voice whispered in his ear, “It will be all right, you'll see.”

Nodding mutely, Nick buried his head in the fabric of David's shirt at the angle of his collar bone, and - quite why he did it he could not say - put his own arms around David's waist and gripped tightly.

When he let go, he moved his head from its position on David's body and looked up, catching David's gaze with his own, blue-grey meeting blue. He could feel the vulnerability in his own eyes, the carefully pleading look that said: please don't say anything right now. David's hand settled on his shoulder, a soft weight that shifted the material of his t-shirt as it squeezed gently, and Nick gulped, because he knew what he was going to do even before he swooped and caught David's mouth with his own, their noses bumping awkwardly for a second. Where had this come from? The thought snagged in his mind as he felt the sensation of stubble and slightly rough lips; the hand on his shoulder moved to his neck as the kiss deepened naturally, evolving into gentle flicks of meeting tongues. At the impossibly uncomfortable angle, it could not last more than a few seconds before it had to be broken, but David's mouth followed to snatch another kiss, quick, impossibly chaste.

“I think I'm gay,” Nick said in an amused voice.

“Really,” David chuckled, “whatever gave you that idea?”

“I don't usually kiss men I've only known a day,” Nick stated softly, then added, “At least, I don't think I do.”

David laughed helplessly, “Oh Nick, you look so confused, if only you could see your face.” Nick laughed too, then, feeling the amusement well up inside him, making his chest shake.

When their combined laughter subsided, Nick said, “I think I could do with a cup of tea, actually.”

“Come on then.” David stood up and offered Nick his hand. Nick took it, and together they went back into the house.

Part Four

“Did he say anything about where he was going?”

“He said he was going to London.”

“Anything he told you that you think might be important?”

“Not that I can think of, he was a quiet sort of guy.”

“Right, you can go.”

“Yeah, thanks.”

The door closes.

“He wouldn't come back to London, too risky, which means he was smart enough to lie to the taxi driver.”

“The CCTV footage from Swindon station shows him buying a ticket from the automated machine, he paid cash.”

“Fuck!”

“Calm down would you.”

“Get the computer records of all tickets purchased that day at the time he was there.”

“That's illegal.”

“Do it. I expect to know where he went by tomorrow.”

“I'll see to it personally.”

“Good, and bring me the nurse, the one who let him out. What's her name again?”

“Durántez.”

“That's the one. I refuse to believe she knows nothing of where he was going.”

“I'll fetch her straight away.”

Part Five

Starting awake in the dim light of dawn, Nick's mind grabbed frantically at the snatches of the dream that was slipping away from his conscious mind. A woman, dark-haired and slim, speaking to him in rapid Spanish, telling him that he had to go now or they would catch him; wishing him luck. He was not sure which was more pleasantly disturbing, that he knew her name, or that he knew with certainty that he could speak Spanish. As the dream receded, Nick saw flashes of a nurse's uniform, crisp white cotton, and the clinical environment of a hospital room, though what those meant he had no idea.

Glancing at the alarm clock on his bedside table, Nick saw that it was almost four-thirty am, and feeling wide awake as the questions that never stopped coming crowded his mind, he decided to get up and make himself a cup of tea, maybe have a cigarette outside. Shuffling down the hallway toward the stairs, Nick stepped as softly as he could, knowing that he would have to pass David's room and not wanting to wake his unexpected benefactor. The door to David's bedroom was slightly ajar, and Nick glanced inside. David was curled on his side, head nestled on the pillow as he slept soundly.

For no reason that he could explain, Nick stopped in the doorway, watching the other man sleep, noticing the way his hair splayed out on the white pillowcase and the steady rise and fall of his chest; the long curve of his arm and the hand that was tucked next to his stomach. About to move away, Nick spied a photograph clutched in David's hand as it rested atop the quilt, recognition springing to life within him. Pushing the door silently open enough to go inside, he crept over to the bed, sliding the picture carefully from David's grasp and studying it with curiosity; it was him, head tilted back in laughter at some unknown thing, wearing the blue suit similar to the one he had donned two days ago when he had travelled to David's house. Next to him stood David, also laughing, wearing a suit that was a few shades darker than his own; arms cast causally about Nick's waist, he was looking at Nick with open affection, eyes crinkled at the corners from happiness. Nick turned the photograph over in his hands. On the reverse, written in neat script that he knew was David's, were the words: Me and Nick. Third anniversary bash. 2010

Looking from the glossy paper to David's sleeping form, Nick could see, in the dim light shining beneath the closed curtains, that David had been crying; his face was set in a grim, weary line that had a faint edge of misery to it, as though he had fallen asleep thinking of some dreadful, painful memory, and the sight sent an unexpected pang of heartache shooting through Nick's chest. He knew David, had known him, apparently for at least three years, and David had never even mentioned it. Why?

Craving answers, and also, he suddenly realised, the indefinably familiar comfort that David brought, Nick climbed onto the bed, trying not to wake the other man as he crawled beneath the covers and settled down beside him, wrapping an arm about his chest, pulling him closer. Nick's breath hitched as a memory flared with sudden, vivid brightness; of doing this exact thing, over many nights, for many years. David shifted unconsciously to accommodate him, burying his face in Nick's hair and mumbling sleepily, “Missed you.”

Nick choked back the sob that rose in his throat, eyes brimming with tears as other memories settled in his head, a fragmented series of events that began with the party shown in the picture, being at David's side as they celebrated; laughing, smiling, oh so happy. The back of a taxi as they leaned sleepily into each other, heading home. Then the sound of screeching tyres, the heavy crash and clunk of folding metal; David pulling him from the wreckage in the murky gloom of street lights, pleading in a pained voice, “Nick, please don't leave me, please? Stay with me!” And in spite of his want to do as David asked, the ache of his bones was too great and he could not help but slip away into the overwhelming blackness.

Shaking with grief, Nick barely heard David speaking, “Nick? What are you-”

“Why didn't you tell me?” Nick sobbed, clutching at David's top, using it to pull David closer, needing the nearness that he had missed for so long. “Why David?”

“You told me not to,” David answered, gathering Nick to him, wrapping his arms tight around Nick's body. “You made me promise. I was so shaken when you called, it's been nearly six months since you-”

Since he died, Nick heard what David did not say. He had died that night, glass tangled in his hair, bleeding on rough tarmac as David pleaded for him to stay. The shock of the knowledge halted his tears in a single second. How had he come back? Where had he been for six months?

“So what were you going to do? Cry over my picture every night and never tell me that - that..” Nick broke off, unable to finish the sentence, and felt David's hand smooth through his hair.

“I'd have given anything to have you back, just to be near you,” David whispered, the force of the sentiment so tangible that Nick felt he might be able to physically touch it.

“Please tell me what I said to you?” Nick implored, “I need to know who I am.”

“You told me that you were coming home and that you wouldn't remember me to start with. You made me promise not to say anything. Then you said people would be looking for you. I didn't believe it was you at first, I thought it was a sick joke, but then you told me what you'd said to me on the night of our wedding.”

“If I gave you a rose every time I thought of you, your entire life would be a garden,” Nick mumbled, the words seemingly coming from nowhere. Next to him, David gasped, and Nick suddenly remembered the night in question, the soft shadows of the honeymoon suite and both of them collapsing with laughter at the matching “groom and groom” robes that their friends had left on their bed as a joke. The feel of David's hands on his skin.

Oh, I know this. I know you.

“You never told me anything else, I swear,” David said earnestly, “and I never asked because I was so happy. I've missed you so much, it's been unbearable.”

“How long have I known you?” Nick asked, pressing his face into the side of David's neck and breathing the familiar, now remembered also, scent of hair and skin.

“Six years,” David replied, “we've been married for three and a half, almost.”

Six years of memories and all Nick had was the night of his wedding and the night of his death. It was grossly unfair to find himself with his life snatched away from him like that, and that was just the start, he knew nothing of his childhood, his family. Where had he grown up? Did he have brothers and sisters? What were his parents like and were they still alive? Endless questions that he could not find the answers to, so he clung to the one thing that was certain, he knew David. In time he would remember the rest, he felt sure of it, but right now David was all he needed. He curled himself around David's body and held tight, and David did not let go.

Part Six

“Where did he go?”

“I have told you many times, I do not know. Far away from here.”

“You let him out, you must know where he was going.”

“It was wrong to keep him, he remembered who he was.”

“It was remnant memory. We've seen it in other test subjects.”

“No. This one, he was different, he was aware. I could see it. I will not regret letting him go.”

“You know we must find him, he's dangerous.”

“He is dangerous only to you. Why will you not let him have his life?”

“He doesn't have a life, you know that.”

“That is untrue. If you would watch the tapes you would see it for yourself.”

“I've seen the tapes. As I said, remnant memory, nothing more.”

“You will not convince me.”

“I can always fire you, send you back home.”

“Then you will do so, but I still do not know where he went.”

“Get back to work.”

“As you wish. Ask yourself this after I have gone: if it is just remnant memory, why is it that you are unable to find him?”

“I said get back to work!”

Part Seven

When Nick woke for the second time that day, he found himself with his head pillowed on David's chest. David's arm was tucked around his shoulders, and gentle fingers were teasing through his hair in slow strokes. It was the most natural thing in the world, to be lying there in bed with David beside him, but something was different because... Nick smiled, because usually their positions were reversed and it was David with his head on Nick's chest. In spite of the unfamiliarity that he was now aware of, Nick did not move. He brushed his cheek along the soft material of David's pyjama top and said, “Good morning.”

“Mmm,” David mumbled in reply, fingers still tracing in Nick's hair.

Craning his neck, Nick looked up, still smiling. “This isn't our house, is it?” he asked. Somewhere inside he knew the answer, but he wanted it confirmed, more to grasp the surety of it than anything else.

“No,” David replied, “I sold our house and moved here after the fu-” David frowned as he cut the final word short, fingers stilling. “I couldn't stay there,” he said quietly, after a moment.

Nick let his fingers circle on David's chest in the silence that followed. This was difficult for him, having no memory of what had happened, but how much more difficult must it be for David, having not only the memories of their life together, but also those that had followed when he was gone. On top of that the shock of his return, seemingly from the grave, since there was no other explanation forthcoming right now - except for the distant memory of nurses and sterile hospital rooms which Nick could not quite fully grasp. He did not think he had been dead, something else had happened to him, and the desire to know what almost surpassed the desire to remember his life.

“We lived in Sheffield,” Nick said, mumbling the words into the air above David's chest. “In a semi with a garage and bay windows. You- you grew daffodils in the front garden, and you used to- used to-” Nick stopped as an uncomfortable sensation flared in his head, a disjointed series of throbs and a strange feeling of ... clicking? He pressed his hand tight against his forehead, giving a sharp cry of pain as it intensified, seeming almost audible.

“Nick?”

“My head is burning, David it hurts,” Nick groaned.

A succession of white-hot sparks flared inside Nick's skull, and he leapt from his place at David's side, sitting upright and wrapping both arms around his head, doubling over in agony. What was that, what was it? This had happened before, he knew it, he knew this pain, like pathways scorching their way through his brain, connecting dots. Falling forward until his face was pressed into the covers, Nick jolted and cried as knowledge leapt into his mind with great, stinging blows; David next to him, frantically asking what was wrong.

The house, he remembered the house; the day they had bought it, the day they moved in, the furniture, the way they had decorated together, ending up covered in paint. All of it. David used to cook for him and grow food in the back garden. Each burning line that erupted within him revealed another memory. The day he met David, their first date; first kiss; first everything. The day he had proposed.

Further back then, surging into the past in a wave of heat. His family; he remembered his family, siblings, parents, cousins, the whole lot in one go.

It was exactly like this last time, he remembered now, in the hospital, with the kindly Spanish nurse crooning in his ear as she stroked his back. A month after the accident, when he had finally remembered who he was. And with that recollection the undulation of pain swept back toward the present, tearing away the shroud that covered the past six months. Tests, endless tests; doctors everywhere. The yearning and pleading that he be allowed to go home. The way they treated him like he was not even alive, everyone except Miriam.

Then, with a final savage blow, the reason why.

The pain ceased and Nick slumped heavily against the mattress, breathing hard, tremors working their way through his frame.

Oh please no...

Rising to his knees as he stopped shaking, he looked at David with literally new eyes.

His name was Nicholas William Peter Clegg.

And he was not quite human any more.

Go to Part Two