The thing about Shay, she tends to be incredibly bull-headed. When she’s bitten herself into something, when something has piqued her interest, she’ll see it through until wherever it comes to an end. I suspect it might be a left-over from her army days, when bull-headed powering through had kept people alive.

Tom Donnelly had her attention. Fox had assured her that whatever was going on probably didn’t have anything to do with his past. If it did, bigger institutes had to get involved, anyway.

Shay agreed to help Tom out, just to keep an eye on everything. Tom seemed to be hell-bent on actually making her help, because after the weekend, he called on her to help pick outfits for his volunteers. To everyone’s surprise, she went.

To no one’s surprise, Fox went with her.

(I don’t think any of us knew, at that time, what had happened in the pub. I know I didn’t, though Peter and I speculated that she’d broken Tom’s nose. It wasn’t until later that we discovered how untrue that was.)

(It cost me a fiver when we found out the truth.)

As it turned out, Tom’s plan was less putting together a uniform and more seeing how much merch he could get away with. Apparently, he’d gotten a few boxes of samples, and he was happily unpacking them onto every table of the pub when they arrived.

“Sam!” He warmly shook his hand, then turned to her. “Shay! Great you could make it!”

She looked around at the boxes. “That’s a lot of stuff for a volunteer’s outfit.”

“And you’re a good dancer for a war medic.”

She wasn’t even surprised. “Veteran war medic.” She rolled her shoulder. “I’ve had time to practice.”

Fox walked to one of the boxes. “What is all this, then?”

“Flags, mostly.” Tom handed him a box cutter. “We’re not talking about the elephant in the room?”

“We’ve skinned the elephant and sold it for parts.” Shay walked to one of the piles he’d already unpacked. “Is anything here for the volunteers?”

“I thought I could let them choose.” He started laying out different shirts on a separate table. “You finish opening the boxes, I’ll start sorting.”

She sighed dramatically but grabbed a box. “I feel like I’ve been roped into something.”

“You have.” Fox smirked at her. “Now you know how it feels.”

(Of course, when she does it, there are far less merch.)

After about an hour of sorting things into piles, Fox stepped out to answer one of his mysterious phone calls. (I’m still not entirely sure what’s up with those; he has a separate phone with which he texts all day, and whenever it rings, he answers right away. My theory is that he has some super-secret informant nobody's supposed to know about.)

Tom watched her as she straightened out the various shirts, leaned against the table with flags. “See anything you like?”

She tensed. He could see how her shoulders straightened. “Rainbow slogan shirts are not really my style.”

“I’m more of a dress shirt man myself, too.” He admitted, “But we all make sacrifices for the parade.” He moved past her, picked up a rainbow shirt, held it to his chest. “Might as well go all-out tacky.”

She huffed, “For all-out tacky, wear a ballgown. The more fabric, the more extra, I’ve heard.”

“Or… less.” He lowered the shirt with a smirk. “Less is extra.”

“Don’t-” She cringed at the idea. “As your bodyguard, please don’t.” She glared, “I have to watch you.”

“I could give you something to watch.” He laughed at the face she made. “So you really don’t want to talk about the elephant?”

“The elephant is an ivory piano by now.” She looked up at him, eyes serious. “There’s not much to talk about, is there? I know who you are, you know who I am. I’m gonna make sure no one harms you or your family, but I’m not wearing a rainbow shirt.”

He studied her for a moment. “You’d look good in pink.”

“Stop fishing.” She stepped back and looked at her work. “You’re as bad as that one.” She gestured to the door.

“Yet you resist us both.” His smirk rubbed her the wrong way, “What about purple? Or blue and yellow?”

“What’s the flag for I don’t give a fuck?” Her hand was flexing involuntarily, and she grabbed the edge of the table behind her. “Could you… grab me a drink?”

“More whiskey?” He seemed to know when to back down, at least. “You know, you could’ve just told me you weren’t drinking. I’d’ve gotten you Coke.”

“Don’t do drugs, either.” She allowed him a smile, let herself relax. “But thanks.”

He poured her a glass. “You know I’m going to circle back to the shirts, right? Eventually.”

“Eventually is good.” She leaned against the table. “Now, tell me about your family.”

He dug through his pocket with one hand, pulling out his wallet as he placed the glass at his side.

(Yes, he’s one of those parents.)

“This is Vanessa, my daughter.” He showed her a picture, the same little girl Fox had shown her. “I’m mostly a stay-at-home dad, but since she’s in school, I’ve been picking up projects.”

“What school does she go to?” She slipped into detective mode, pulled out her booklet. “Any trouble there?”

He shrugged, “The mothers all think it’s delightfully exotic that I’m not British. I never had any trouble from them.”

“I’ll bet, you charmer.” She studied him. He reached down, grabbed the glass and pressed it into her hand.

“Drink.”

She frowned, “Have you-”

“Shay.” Fox closed the door behind him softly. “We have something.”

He seemed off, somehow, subdued. There was a worry in his eyes neither of them had seen in a long time.

“What is it?” Beside her, Tom straightened, mirroring his pose.

“Carlyle just called.” As he talked, his face turned grim. “He got sent photos.”