The Seventh of December

He stopped me by raising one finger to my lips, and then leaned forward, his forehead against mine. "Don't you know guns and bullets bounce off Superman?" he whispered, and then rested his chin on my shoulder, his arms around my waist. With his head still on my shoulder, he raised one arm and flexed it. "See, feel the steel in my bicep."

"Save it for later, Clark Kent, when you take your suit off," I said. I laughed and then pressed my cheek against his. He chuckled against my ear and rubbed the small of my back. The gesture filled me up with "him". His smell, the warmth of his cheek against mine, the comfort of his arms holding me close, and the remarkable strength of his being that for a day less than eight weeks had lit up my soul.

"Shorty …" I said.

"Shh!"

"What?"

"Save it for later, Jimmy Olsen," he said.

"So, you're the hero and I'm the office boy am I?"

"Well, ya know … late nights alone together at the Daily Planet, the lights down low in the copy room, Clark and Jimmy leaning over the latest scoop …"

My laugh was smothered as he kissed me.

There was a hint of desperation in his kiss. And mine too, if I was honest. I didn't want to dwell upon what might have happened had Blaise's gun not been a dud or the ammo had gone off in our supply canister. Instead, I turned myself to returning his kiss.

"Come on, let's get back," he said eventually, taking my hands in his and rubbing my fingers. "We need to sort out this mess with the locals. I've got a few ideas how we can provide a cover for the gamekeeper and his wife. They'll need some story when the collabos don't resurface."

"Oh, yeah?"

"Sure, Tommy. Gamekeeper, two black eyes; his wife, ripped underwear; the house ransacked, their savings gone; an indignant visit to the local Kommandantur. You get the idea?"

I chuckled. It was a good cover story, one in which Blaise and his mates had turned up and confronted the gamekeeper, tried to have their way with his young and beautiful wife, beaten him up when he tried to defend her honour, stolen his valuables, and then disappeared into the night. One of us would have to sock the man in the face to provide the shiners, but it would be the least of his worries if there wasn't a plausible story when the Germans came looking for their tame Frenchies.

"It's a story Perry White would swallow," I said. "I can just see the headlines …"

"Then grab your camera, let's get going. The people of Gotham City are waiting."

He tore off into the night. All I heard before his voice faded into the blackness was "Faster than a speeding bullet …"

I hadn't read the comic books, but the radio programme had been aired, three episodes a week, for most of a year—everyone knew the lines.

I called out after him to wait—Blaise's body still lay at my feet. Oh, well, we could come back and get it. I balled my fists and rubbed my eyes with my knuckles. This was exactly what I didn't need—an operation that had nearly ended in disaster before it had even started. As I put my knife back in its sheath I thought of the boy and his excitement at seeing what I'd done. I'd bet London to a brick he wouldn't be quite so happy if ever he had to do it himself some time down the road. Right at that moment, I couldn't work out whether training the foul-mouthed young rascal was going to be testing or rewarding.

As for working on a covert operation with the first bloke in my life I'd ever fallen for … Well, we'd cope. We were both professionals and trained soldiers, after all.

What could possibly go wrong?