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Vauxhall Cross, London.
16:57.
He couldn’t stop staring at the digital clock, punch-drunk, with heavy eyes that he didn’t know felt like sandpaper until he closed them without his knowledge. Roundabout’s face was as warm to the touch when he leaned his chin on his hands, like he’d just pulled an itchy bally off of it after a skiing trip (which he couldn’t bring himself to the brink of fathoming, by the way, he’d never been a sports person—despite having been enrolled in lessons of prestige like tennis and dressage by his dutiful mother). Roundabout puffed out a breath and tried to press his significantly cooler hands against his aching temples, his ruddy cheeks, pushing into his eyelids as he removed his glasses with his other hand.
Roundabout never really smoked the peace pipe with sleep. He’d always been a busy man, always having something like a stack of forms that needed to be filled out for clearance in his hands, or a phone pressed like a lifeline against his ear, or his shoulders tensed and hair thrown off course in an unsolved investigation. Roundabout’s duties had him in a vice grip, even in his own home where the blackbirds’ hypnotic songs racked through his brain—and even still, when he laid down on his side he barely, barely had a taste of the fogginess he so desperately craved to feel again like a high. To the Jezebel that sleep was to him, Roundabout was a persona non grata.
His fingers blocked off the sickly green glow of the lamp on his olive wood desk, a fine one at that. When he removed his digits, his headache hurt more, the kind that sneaks up on one for no apparent reason and lets its cold fingers slowly crush his head into mush. Roundabout flared his nostrils, and it took him a while to realize that his eyes were still closed, spotting the universal redness from behind his eyelids. Roundabout didn’t open his eyes until he heard a knock on the door, one, two, three, and he could have sworn he felt his soul leave his body.
It was a brisk yet stupid reaction, and Roundabout wanted to say that it wasn’t justified because he wasn’t doing anything bad—but given his affiliation, that wouldn’t be the most fitting choice of words. He knew that knock, and could perfectly time each space that went along with it. Roundabout didn’t need the knocker’s name to be called after his hand had done the talking for him.
“Sir, it’s Jonsey.”
Roundabout felt his stomach suddenly fill with air with his sudden movement, it suddenly coming to mind after countless hours trailing after the other that he hadn’t eaten in a while. Maybe on the plane he’d take something, he wasn’t sure. A sliver of his being hoped that Jonsey had brought a small saucer filled with canapes from the weak retirement party (for an unknown face, just another John Doe that Roundabout barely remembered from the creases at the corners of his eyes when he told a joke) that was undergoing in the breakroom, but he doubted it.
“Come in, Jonsey,” Roundabout said with a voice that was heightened to allow the other man to hear, placing both index fingers to his lips, “come in.”
The door in front of his squeaked tentatively, and Roundabout wondered with a hard bite of his inner lip if it was possible that the tension coming off him in practical waves could be sensed from beyond the walls. He wouldn’t be surprised. Nevertheless, he put on a tight-lipped grin like a Band-Aid and took in an uneven breath. Jonsey looked around the room for a moment, his pointed blonde hair moving in mutuality with his gestures.
He stepped inside and kept a considerable distance from Roundabout’s desk, maybe a social cue, fiddling with a laminated paper in his hands that was unfortunately the farthest thing from the aperitifs Roundabout had hoped. His stomach protested and he tried to recall if he had any leftovers from his rather early “lunch,” if one could call it that, but he doubted it.
“Your chauffeur is here. Outside, that is, sir.” Jonsey spoke simply, his tangy Southern English accent filling the room like it always did. His lips opened and closed after the sentence had breathily left his mouth. Maybe he ran up to his office. His head tilted a little bit with every word too, almost airing something of distrust, but never daring to speak anything out loud. It was something Jonsey always did, but with intentions and reason behind the gesture never verified.
A few days ago, he had told the man that he was to take a business excursion to Fairfax County, Virginia, in the States to trade info with some no-face CIA agents. He’d forgotten the exact string of successfully deceitful words he’d told Jonsey, but it was convincing enough to have the man offer to pack his briefcase for him and wave his hands when Roundabout tried to awkwardly offer assistance. Yet he still gave Roundabout an odd, glassy side-eye every now and then, smile never quite reaching his naturally lugubrious eyes. Was it an earlier grudge? A suspicion? Or just an asset of Jonsey’s irreplaceable personality, like a cog in Big Ben? Jonsey had rubbed his chin, tilted his head while he glanced up at the man and asked about the weather with his amicable accent following him everywhere.
They were tedious conversations, but Roundabout knew enough about this tactic that they were never just conversation. It was Roundabout’s second nature. They were like crowbars, ways to get into someone but ever so lightly jacking the window open.
Jonsey was a puzzle, an insanely complicated one at that. He could never tell what he was thinking, and it irked him beyond belief. Sometimes Jonsey would try to do everything for him, and he’d clench his fists and unclench them, clench and unclench them, and the cycle went on infinitely. He appreciated what he did in every sense of the form, because Jonsey never asked questions—but the blonde man’s quizzical nature had Roundabout wondering if he was planning to, because Jonsey paid him an uncomfortable amount of attention.
And if his “excursion” went well, and he did get the seat, he’d only wonder what other kind of suspicions may be raised like hackles among his ranks, what kind of lips may be curled and rumors spread like maladies.
Who am I kidding? Roundabout barely stopped himself from voicing his thoughts. I play people like marionettes for a living.
“Thank you, Jonsey,” Roundabout did speak up this time, his fingers absentmindedly tracing the creases of his bow and straightening them out, the phrase he’d uttered almost becoming like a pre-recorded tape at this point. “I can take care of things from here, don’t you think?”
Roundabout hasn’t meant for the sentence to come off the slightly icy way it did, and Jonsey, ever like a staff, only barely showed it: pursed lips turning white, nose ever so slightly wrinkled like a pale sheet of parchment, complexion in general like a slightly saturated pineberry.
Roundabout sighed and rubbed his temples. “Jonsey, look, chap, I’m sorry, I… I.. didn’t mean it that way.” His headache intensified, not made any better from the bitter wind that streamed in through a crack at the bottom of his window. Since when had it been opened?
He cast a glance at the dark waters of the River Thames churning up outside of the building beside them, a boat or two peddling slowly as they traveled along the trail of deep, spilled ink. He had to strain to see at this point, not dark enough for the lights to turn on, but not light enough to be able to see with liberty, either.
“I value your help.” Roundabout murmured without looking, and then eventually did, Jonsey’s features pepping up a little bit alongside the paper he held in his hands. “Forgive me, I’m just not feeling that well today.” That, he could say, was the truth. Whether physically or mentally was another question.
He glanced at the time, 17:04, knowing he had two hours or so before his place departed. He’d be taking first class—what a shame—as Roundabout would be dropped off at the Lisbon Airport in Portugal, and then from there presumably be picked up by the unmarked helicopter he’d recently come to accustom himself to.
Despite working for VILE for many, many untallied years, it made the center of his chest ice over at the thought of being simply disposed of when the stakes were as high as this, the competition hair-grabbing and skull-bashing between himself and the other vying senior operatives to snag that stiffened Faculty chair.
It was a useless race, yet necessary. Despite this, Roundabout knew he had this secured in the bag. Or at least he hoped.
Roundabout’s cheeks twitched at the forced smile he didn’t know he was holding, a habit that had stuck to him since his deceptive nature was decreed at an unnamed point of his life. It wasn’t ever a specific snap that he could smack his finger in and say precisely, no. It was more of a generalized feeling. He hoped Jonsey, the fool, would buy this façade and store it among his many others, like a cache.
And lo and behold, he did.
Jonsey nodded and tucked the laminated paper under his arm, extending a bare hand towards Roundabout as a gesture, with no intention of having it shaken. “Don’t worry about that, sir, no need for pardon.” The blonde echoed twice. He shrugged nonchalantly, his sharp and pointed shoulder rising up and down like an elevator, his head bouncing twice in an incomplete nod. “It happens to the best of us.”
Roundabout didn’t respond but instead nodded and began to rise from his chair, his rather unfavorable leg only made more gritty and achy by the shrewd weather outside. Jonsey handed him his cane without a word and only tightened lips, expression unreadable, looking like a knight bestowing a king a sword, and Roundabout took it with his left hand. Before he was even able to utter his artificially enthusiastic thanks, Jonsey spoke up:
“Enzo has your luggage and everything you need ready, good sir. The drive from here to Heathrow is clear. You might need to wait quite a while, though, once you’re there, because—“ Jonsey rubbed his fingers together in thought. “—well. You know how night flights are. All the business trips happen then, don’t they?”
Enzo was Roundabout’s trusted chauffeur, a French man that had come from the water homes of Strasbourg to the cobblestone streets of London in search of work many, many years ago. He was a wiry man that wore a black suit that made him look comical, like the mere weight would tip him over. Every time Roundabout would saunter his way to the sleek black car, Enzo would always greet him with an ahaha, Nigel! with his homelike and familiar accent clipping the -gel.
Roundabout’s breath hitched noiselessly. He didn’t like the open-ended way that Jonsey finished his sentence, and when he looked up from the polished wooden material of his cane, the young man’s head was tilted at the angle, but he smiled.
At that moment, Roundabout thought he looked like an off-kilter baseball player bobble head.
“Please, sir, enjoy your business trip. And stay safe, most importantly—we may have ends tied with the CIA for now, but it never does hurt to watch your back, does it?” Jonsey said as his fingers traced the door upon his exit, voice and face ever so bubbly and reassuring, but Roundabout didn’t move. His grip on the cane felt loose, and Jonsey wasn’t even the least of his problems or worries at this point in time.
They should watch their backs.
When he peered outside of his enormous window, several feet away, he could see the light was lacking; it was already dark.
Merely his eyes moved this time to land back on the clock. 17:15.
Shit.
The rides in the air gave him quite a lot of time to think (5 hours from London to Lisbon, and then 2 hours from that capital city to VILE Island) what seemed like he’d already mentally processed many times over. Roundabout felt… itchy being in first class, much rather preferring the absolute stillness and somewhat solitude of being on a private jet.
He’d stayed and bunked at a ritzy hotel in Lisbon, as it had been extremely late, past midnight, by the time that the wheels had screeched on the tarmac again. Roundabout had lied awake in the bed, more preferring to have a horizontal cushion to rest his body instead of the seat of the plane. Despite his new and much more comfortable surroundings, if Roundabout was ever to sleep, it certainly wasn’t now. Anxiety dwelled in his stomach, saturating his anticipations and dipping them in thick viscosity. His headache was gone by then, and he wasn’t exactly sure whether it hurt so bad he became numb to the feeling or the generic over-the-counter pills he had brought finally began to take effect. Roundabout couldn’t stop himself from overthinking, from playing out every possible scenario that could happen later that day. He might as well have been watching a movie about it, because his eyes were always cracked open one way or another. He might have gotten an hour or so, maybe not; it didn’t make a difference anyway.
Normally, he’d settle on VILE’s helicopter with an oddly familiar feeling, never giving it a second thought. Because he was an ordinary operative, nothing excessively ornate. He wasn’t on the line to move up to Faculty, and didn’t expect to get that trepid call while he was in a meeting discussing budgets (bad timing, Gunnar), but Roundabout considered himself a drooling fool time and time again for not bracing himself for it.
It was incredibly ironic: Roundabout prided himself in being one of the best, doing everything beyond the book—which was sure to have him advance in one way or another.
He just didn’t think it to be so soon, but then again, it wasn’t. Time flew. Two major jobs, then, if he got it: would he be up to the challenge, or drop like a shot mallard?
The stark contrast in environments 30,000 feet above: first yellowish warm first class, where he was at least able to distract himself and push down his concerns every time they tried to crawl up with chilled champagne. He let his eye wander on the women, men, exotic flowers, and perfectly manufactured dinner plates that were held in the travel magazines kept in the inconspicuous pockets in front of him.
Then the gelid green air of the helicopter was familiar (or at least it should have been), yet isolating, accompanied only by the two withered and drained souls of the Cleaners. Without having anything to do besides drum his fingers on his cane, his stomachache returned and his breaths unsteadied.
Now that he was entered into the race, he’d go to VILE island to discuss the terms of his new duty, that is, if he would prove himself one of these days. At one point, Roundabout thought of deliberately failing, maybe making it look accidental, but shook his head and pushed away the simulacrum with a disgusted scoff and it never touched his mind again.
Upon his arrival, as soon as he entered the foyer, Roundabout chewed on his lip again. How many years has it been since he had graced these polished floors (probably, certainly remodeled by now) upon his hushed graduation?
The Cleaners took away his watch, so Roundabout had no way of knowing the exact time. He felt a heavy breath escape his lips, and his gaze swept around the room, graced by only a few operatives that didn’t seem to notice him. The details of the invitations left his memory like steam, not remembering whether he was supposed to stay in the main area, or go to the Faculty’s lounge.
Roundabout decided on the latter, hoping they wouldn’t think of him as too audacious—maybe it would be a good kind, however, showing he wasn’t a little meek thing—beginning the trek up the facility with a path that he knew like the palm of his hand.
Roundabout led himself to a secluded hall he didn’t recognize, but from the sudden change of material and lighting he assumed he had to be on the right path. His fingers barely touched the cool steel of the wall, the tips abruptly changing temperature, trying to recall how long, how long it had been since—
“Tardiness is one of our least favorite qualities in a new member, wouldn’t you figure?”
Roundabout almost choked on nothing but pure air, his fingers that were touching the wall suddenly retracting and clenching. The voice behind him, that was like bitter honey, taking him by surprise when Roundabout knew, absolutely would have bet his life that he’d pull some sort of stunt like that.
Roundabout pushed up his glasses and straightened them before slowly turning his head around, and then his body. Maelstrom’s skin was so goddamn pale in real life, so much so that it looked almost transparent; faded out into the rest of his surroundings. Roundabout let out a shuddery breath after the initial surprise had passed, and Maelstrom’s words soaked in and encompassed his entire form, like a delayed rainfall.
“Gunnar.” Roundabout responded with an index finger and a thumb grasping the temples of his rounded glasses, holding them as a force of habit. After a moment, he raised his voice a little bit. “I don’t have a method to tell the time, but from when we touched down I’d like to assume I am here on the dot.”
“More like…under the wire, dearest Nigel,” and Roundabout felt his jaw clench. Maelstrom pressed on, taking a step with each pause between each word.
“You do remember the memo, do you not?” When Roundabout didn't respond, mouth tight and devoid of anything, he continued, “If you’re on time, you’re late, and if you’re early—“
“—you’re on time.” Roundabout finished once the sentence had been awoken from the chthonic depths of his memory, from lessons dating back years. His jaw felt stiff. It made him feel so infantile, to have Maelstrom talking to him like it was his first day, when they had a history one dispersed behind them like trails of birdseed yet always with them at every point in time. Maelstrom could never simply wipe that from his mind, and neither could Roundabout.
“Pre...cise...ly.” Maelstrom drawled on, hands still folded behind his back, Roundabout half wondering if he’d have to do that as well. “One of our rules to take even more into consideration. Have it wax sealed into your memory if need be.” Maelstrom was suddenly in front of Roundabout, the latter able to catch sight of his thin fingers interlocked with one another. True to the Faculty member’s erratic nature, he turned around to face him this time, changing the subject while still holding an equal amount of sting. “You’re lost, aren’t you, dear?”
The addition of the term of affection at the end was enunciated more prominently, having Roundabout’s face feeling suddenly more temperate than before. Maelstrom took Roundabout in with that semi-crooked smile, opaque eyes darting here and there, and Roundabout tried to only focus on the lapel of his blazer out of fear somehow he’d sense his fragment of apprehension—he knew how Maelstrom relished that.
“I’m not lost, per se.” Roundabout said deeply, trying to edge in a more intimidating factor into his tone. “Please do pardon me if I seem to forget a few workings about a facility that I haven’t visited in years.”
Maelstrom laughed, a sound that slowly and huskily incremented into something that brought a chill up Roundabout’s spine; always had, but it gave him a high—but that was back when he was stupid enough to love the floaty feeling it gave him, like a roller coaster that one eventually never finds the same thrill in. He took in a breath to try to keep himself calm, his muscles untensing nd the arson in the back of his throat being put out arduously.
“Aren’t you Mister Obstinate?” Maelstrom sneered, one hand coming out from behind his back and extending a bony finger. “As always, I’m glad to see you haven’t changed.” The professor had one of his traditional cat-that-ate-the-canary looks, leaning a little forward to meet the British man head in. Roundabout felt like his bow tie was going to suffocate him: he doesn’t know how much I’ve changed.
“Gunnar, please,” Roundabout sighed, running a hand through his hair, some flyaways here and there from the day’s events. “Let us… just… cast aside this idle chatter, shall we? I need you to show me the way to the Faculty room—it’s been a rather extended day.” He didn’t mention his absolute lack of sleep, because he was certain it was purely evident on his features.
Maelstrom narrowed his eyes a little bit, but regardless moved his head in agreement. “Mmm.” His eyes bore deep into Roundabout, the latter certain he could read every single one of his thoughts. His teeth gritted.
“I suppose you do have a point.” Maelstrom said flatly, diverting his eyes to one of his ostentatious silver cufflinks, folding his arms across his chest this time. He gestured to the hall ahead of them, and they both began to walk. Roundabout noticed that the deeper they went, the colder the air got, like if it was water they were traveling through.
“I can show you the way once,” The Faculty member grunted beside him, Roundabout only looking at his form through the corner of his glasses, “because it would certainly be a disaster if our future fifth member had no knowledge of the corridors, wouldn’t it?” He preferred to end his sentence with open ends, never tying the frays, seemingly always insinuating something.
Roundabout hummed. “I learn fast.” A few steps later, he wholly processed what Maelstrom has said, in the manner that he did (Roundabout was a complete mess for the time being, jet lag had never favored him) and stopped in his tracks, even though it could have been an error in his part, some hope he didn’t want to feel but was obliged to.
Maelstrom stopped and looked behind him with an irritable huff. His left eye twitched a little bit, just barely noticeable. “What is it now?”
Roundabout’s words seemed to leave him for a moment, and he shook his index finger up and down in front of him as he tried to recall. “You sounded so… certain of my initiation.”
The pale man frowned a little bit but turned around, meeting him halfway. “Yes? You’re a capable man, much more so than all the…” Maelstrom stopped to shudder, the top of his right lip curling up. “...ragtag varlets some of the others have fished from the gutter.”
Roundabout swallowed thickly, and let his arms fall parallel to his sides. Maelstrom glanced at the wall beside them. Silence fell, a plague, between them, and Roundabout just realized how close to contact they were standing. His heartbeat picked up, and desperately prayed it wouldn’t be audible through the absence of noise. Roundabout was positive that the heating of his face wasn’t from the sudden shift in temperature.
“We’ll further discuss your capabilities tonight during dinner,” Maelstrom finally spoke up, and Roundabout nearly dropped dead.
“D-Dinner?” He croaked, pulling at the end of his coat. “But I’m not nearly in the proper attire…” Roundabout’s voice crackled out, trying to make a list of what he packed, hoping there was something presentable folded meticulously in his suitcase; there had to have been.
When he looked back at Maelstrom after spacing out for a few seconds, the professor was flitting his eyes up and down Roundabout’s form, his eyelids half shuttered. Roundabout felt like shrinking instantly, his thoughts, worries, memories of every kind racing a million miles a minute.
“I believe you’ll be fine,” Maelstrom said distractedly, looking up at Roundabout. He bit the inside of his lip hard without realizing it until fresh, warm blood gushed into the vicinity of his mouth. He knew this tone, he knew this demeanor, the whole package he thought he’d sworn to avoid—but he no longer wanted to.
In an impossibly fast, spur-of-the-moment decision, Roundabout’s previous decisions were torn asunder, and by one single look alone that overwhelmed him with nostalgia (how weak) he decided he’d go with the flow.
Maelstrom looked like he was grading papers, a serious and concentrating face, despite the fact that he’d slipped one of his hands beneath Roundabout’s coat, over his back. Roundabout could feel his hand, like if it was carved from ice, but inside him it elicited a warmth, buried for so long he couldn’t read it.
Roundabout's eyebrows knitted and his mouth opened ever so slightly. He didn’t know what to say, as Maelstrom’s hand traveled up, slowly, reaching the nape of his neck.
He shuddered.
“Nigel,” Maelstrom murmured, casting a look aside for a moment too long. His finger went around the semi-circumference of Roundabout’s neck, and then traced Roundabout’s jaw with tenativity. “It’s been much too long.”
The latter felt like melting at the feeling he’d been starved of for so long, welcoming it with a look into Maelstrom’s eyes, like pools of acid.
Maelstrom retired his hand and leaned both his arms over Roundabout’s broad shoulders, brushing a leg up beside the Brit’s. His breath caught in his chest, all irritation at the professor cast aside like stones. He wanted nothing more at this moment to relive the past, even if it was for now and no other time.
“Then let’s make up for lost time.” Roundabout didn’t know the words had left his mouth until he heard them, almost in a delayed fashion, shutting his lips tight. But it was too late: the offer already hung in the air, Maelstrom’s feline-like sneer intensifying.
Their lips met in a single frame, fluid like wine. Roundabout felt the intensity that Maelstrom moved with, the floodgates opened, and he in return felt obliged to follow those movements as if they were his mirror.
Roundabout took a breath and placed his hand on the nearby wall, the other one going around Maelstrom’s significantly smaller waist with ease. He heard a purr, rumble, something emanate from the back of the Scandinavian’s throat, and drew Roundabout in closer, digging his fingers into the material of his dark mauve coat deeper.
Their heads tilted to the sides, here and there, never quite settling in a spot to lock lips in. They were like teens, and Roundabout hated it so much—but they weren’t, they were just both… he’d like to put it as deprived.
Maelstrom’s hand twisted up into Roundabout’s dark hair, messing it up even more than before, but there wasn’t a moment where he could care less. He moved himself skillfully to avoid his glasses. Roundabout let out an audible, nasally groan when he felt delicate digits trace down his bare neck, only wishing they were lips.
Roundabout’s lungs burning for oxygen, he drew apart ever so slightly to rest his nose on the side of Maelstrom’s. From where he was, Roundabout was forced to focus in on his eyes, half lidded and looking at him enticingly.
“Do you know,” Maelstrom rasped huskily into Roundabout’s ear (he tried not to shiver, he tried not to give Gunnar that satisfaction but somehow did it anyway) “how much of a temptation you would pose to me if you were to take this spot?”
Roundabout noticed dully, like static, that he had used the word “if” this time. But he paid no mind to it, not from the way Maelstrom’s hand was gripping his upper thigh.
“Gunnar, you know I’ve moved past that,” Roundabout whispers choppily, and it’s the stupidest thing he’s said all day. He knows that Maelstrom knows, because his shoulders quiver with repressed laughter. Silently he curses himself, and slowly traces his hands down the man’s sides around to the small of his back. As if they weren’t just parched a few moments ago, with their hands going places that they faintly recognized like old maps.
Maelstrom chuckled audibly this time, a deep baritone against Roundabout’s cheek. He went back for his lips, this time more tender, one of his tapered hands moving back up to the collar of Roundabout’s shirt and grasping it gently.
He broke apart after a little while, Roundabout still with the warmth lingering on his lips like a fever.
“Strong words for a man kissing like a youth.” Roundabout’s face flushed when Maelstrom had snarked that phrase, though knowing very well that he deserved it. He took in his first breath of crisp oxygen when they stepped apart, and not just the warm air that had settled between them for those few, too quick minutes.
“I do believe that if you keep me around here longer, they’ll go for your head, eh?” Roundabout chuckled quietly, voice low. They, in this case, was referring to the Faculty.
Maelstrom pursed his lips. “Yes, about that…” he brushed a stray lock of hair behind Roundabout’s ear, behind his glasses, letting his land linger there for a moment before retracting it behind his back. Probably as if nothing ever happened. “...I suggest you go clean up right now. You look as if you were trampled.”
I feel as if I was just trampled, Roundabout thought with a shake of his head and a tight smile, trying to place a few more stray strands of hair back. “I’ll heed your advice.” He placed a hand inside his pocket. “Yes, I know where the guest rooms are.”
“Ah, a shame, I thought I’d have to escort you again this time.” Maelstrom laughed, his head tilting back just a few inches, mumbling a phrase that sounded distinctively like something I wouldn’t mind. He placed a hand on Roundabout’s shoulder and moved it to and fro. “The Cleaners brought your things. They're in the loft as we speak.”
Maelstrom placed a finger, now ever so slightly warm, under his chin, and walked off with his hands behind his back as wordlessly as Roundabout.
Roundabout watched him go, rooted to the ground, only realizing like a sting after a slap what he had done. He absentmindedly brushed his hair back with a few of his fingers, knowing that this was not going to be the end—in fact, he comes to realize it never really was—of his troubles with the man.