Title: Five ways Lucas didn't want his eggs, and one way which might have done
Fandom: Spooks (MI5)
Rating: G
Length: 465
Summary: Even eggs bring back bad memories for Lucas

It had been a long day, and Lucas North was grateful to Jo Portman for driving him home.  He was already battered, bruised and physically tired by the time Harry Pearce had begun asking him for specific details of the last few days in Russia before his capture.  He stumbled out of the car when they arrived and didn’t even have the strength to protest when Jo insisted on following him into his flat.

He made his way into the kitchen and slumped down at the table, whilst Jo put the kettle on.  Lucas sat with his head in his hands.  Harry’s questions had begun to bring back old memories, which he was desperate to push down again.

Lucas became conscious Jo was hunting around in his cupboards.

“You need to eat something,” she said.  “You’ve got plenty of eggs, I’ll just see what else there is.”

Lucas turned his attention to how he would answer the inevitable, “How do you like your eggs?”

Soft-boiled.  That was what he’d had as a child when he was ill.  Although being ill wasn’t encouraged.  If you were ill you were either in bed, or possibly, allowed to lie on the settee.  Either way there was never any company; it was as if you were being punished for your illness.

Hard-boiled.  He and his father used to take hard-boiled eggs as part of their picnic.  They would walk for miles in the countryside; his father striding out, Lucas hurrying to keep up.  And then his father would spot something of interest and he had to remain silent whilst the bird or animal was observed.

Fried.  His father used to fry eggs for breakfast, but only for himself.  The mornings were a rush and there was never time to cook Lucas an egg.  Occasionally Lucas had asked if he could have one too, but the answer was always, “There’s no time, you’ll miss the bus.”

Scrambled.  Generally leathery, and always a sign that money was tight.  The implication being it was Lucas’ fault; he had needed new school shoes, or they’d had to pay for a school trip he was desperate to go on.  Sometimes he wondered whether the eggs were cooked to that texture simply to make a point.

Poached.  He’d once mentioned a friend had poached eggs and been told in no uncertain tones that ‘such eggs aren’t for the likes of us’.  This had been followed by the regular complaint of ‘don’t start getting those sort of ideas in your head’.  He’d retreated rapidly to his room, where he’d immersed himself in his books again.

Lucas stood up and seeing Jo about to speak said, “Don’t worry.  I’m going to bed.”

He didn’t hear her say softly, “I was going to offer to make an omelette.”