✓ | 3. soldier, soldier, spy [STEVE HARRINGTON]

one.

CHAPTER ONE:
BIRTHDAY BASH

[ SUZIE, DO YOU COPY? ]

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           "Thirteen!"

Joyce Byers' voice, loud and demanding, stirred Thomas Mirkwood out of the comfort of sleep, and he pulled the duvet over his head to block out the intruding noise. It was a Saturday, distinctly twenty-past-ten in the morning, and outside of her window, the sun was out and high, but it was too early for a wake-up call this harsh. No matter what time it was, it was too early. It was also cold in his bedroom. His toes felt like ice and a draught was creeping up his legs. He curled his knees up to his chest, nuzzling into a little ball of warmth in his small bedroom.

July. July. And his room was still fucking cold.

"Thirteen, wake up! Come look at this! It's important!"

He didn't move. Whatever it was, it could wait five more minutes at least.

"Now! I mean it!"

"Joy — "

"Thirteen!"

Now Rufus was barking. Stupid dog.

He pushed the covers off and sat up, angry. What the hell was so pressing? It was his fucking birthday, it was a fucking Saturday, he didn't have work until this afternoon... He scanned his bleary memory, head pounding from sitting up so fast. No late-night snacking so no pizza boxes or Coke cans abandoned in the kitchen. No TV left on. He'd locked the door and pulled the chain across for extra caution. All he'd done was shut the door and go quietly to his room before passing out as soon as his head hit the pillow. He wasn't even up late.

"Thomas!" Louder that time. Firm.

"Coming!" he shouted back, his early morning voice like gravel as he shoved on his glasses and tugged on his joggers. Conversation with Joyce first thing in the morning was not what he needed, but he obeyed anyway, mainly because conversing with her was a better idea than having to put up with her being annoyed.

He scraped a hand through his hair to push it away from his eyes, dusted a few crumbs off his bare chest, eyed up the fading scars on his stomach, and then shuffled out of his sanctuary, checking the time on the clock at the side of his bed on the way to the door. Twenty minutes past ten o'clock.

There was murmuring out in the hall — multiple, excited voices. He frowned, confused by the amount of sound; who the hell was visiting this early?