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[Paris, February 2040]
Art museums are always tricky to handle.
(Tricky, not so much in the sense of alarms and failsafes.)
(Tricky, more in the sense of having to take clean shots and clean getaways. Apparently, the cautionary tale of 003 getting blood splattered on the Mona Lisa still gets circulated throughout the Academy.)
Max and Charles station themselves in the main hallway, positioned to view the room in its entirety but careful not to draw attention to themselves. The security detail looks minimal tonight, but it’s non-standard issue guns that give them away. Charles makes a mental note of how many there are, tapping Max on the shoulder each time he spots a new one.
“Getting a little touchy tonight, are we?” Pierre’s drilly voice comes through the earpiece and Charles has to stifle a giggle, shooting Max a glance to see whether he noticed. Max rolls his eyes and gives Charles a not-so-subtle finger, before adjusting his suit to blend in with the crowd and make his way to the drop off point. On the way, he reaches out and picks up a champagne glass from a roaming water, and Charles has to admit it is the slightest bit attractive.
Really, it’s the clicking of the tongue from Pierre in his ears that brings him back to the present.
Charles shifts his hand up to fiddle around with the tie of his suit, but he doesn’t get very far before he stops short and moves it back down, opting to adjust his coat to cover the outline of the equipment instead.
“You’re going to crumple it again.”
“I know how to handle a suit, Pierre. It’s MI6, success is dependent on the suit.”
“So much for your promising career in espionage.”
Intimacy is the privilege of having a quiet laugh in a crowded room, the silent victories of pulling off the same James Bond quote time and again and still eliciting a response out of the other.
-
[Bali, September 2045]
“Okay Charles, if you look to your left-”
It’s one last mission with MI6, one last time in the field. The roles are right back as they are, with Pierre’s voice coming through the earphones and Charles sitting in a tropical bar. Pierre had groaned at his choice of fabric, but what could he say?
A spy worth his salt would do his best to blend in.
And in his opinion?
This floral print shirt-- slightly unbuttoned down the front and pooling around his forearms -- blends in perfectly fine with the situation at hand.
“If you look to your left, you should be able to spot six of them.”
“I think there are 7, Pierre.” Charles takes a sip of his pina colada, quite possibly playing the role of a tourist a little too well.
“Just because he’s wearing a floral with yellow and purple doesn’t mean he’s a criminal Charles.”
“Well it should be illegal.”
Charles hides a smile behind his drink.
15 years in the academy. 10 years in the field.
He still has a flair for the dramatic.
(Pierre recognises that -- maybe that’s why he snuck a pineapple shirt that says BITCHES <3 into Charles’s bag.)
Intimacy comes in strange ways. It comes in nuances of habit, little quips of snide banter, little gestures of thoughtfulness.
If Charles closes his eyes, he can almost see Pierre seated behind his desk, palms folded under his chin and shaking his head. It’s equal parts exasperation and disbelief, and the comment Charles, you’re full of shit hangs loosely on his lips.
“Charles, you’re full of shit.”
For them, to be intimate is to be familiar.
-
[London, October 2045]
The retirement ceremony is wonderfully brief with formalities. Charles and Pierre are awarded with medals of valour, and Charles has to hold back his tears as Pierre gets presented with his plague.
They introduce him as Pierre Gasly, Quartermaster.
(He is so much more than that.)
(But, Charles will keep that to himself.)
After all,
Intimacy is being known. Being known in fragments, memories, stories that are yours to keep and no one else’s to discover.
-
[A little town in France, September 2046]
It’s one of those odd, odd days where summer turns to autumn so quickly you barely notice it. The leaves curl up and turn brown, orange, red, yellow, a smattering of colours so vibrant and warm that you barely even notice the slight chill.
A walk would do them both good.
Charles grabs his coat, and passes Pierre his brown one. Somehow, Pierre ends up getting tangled in his own coat, and Charles huffs a little as he gets Pierre adjusted.
“You’re absolutely hopeless.”
Charles can feel Pierre’s shoulders move up and down slightly, shaking as he chuckles and bats Charles’s hand away to adjust his beret and scarf.
(Charles has an extra set of gloves in his pocket. Just in case Pierre gets cold, almost as he always does.)
No state is their state forever, Charles knows. Everything is fleeting, things come and go, and they too will come and go.
But maybe, this will be forever.
Intimacy is the silent act of caring, the loudest act of love.
-
[A little town in France, January 2047]
The MI6 retirement package is all inclusive. The ever accounted for groceries come twice a week, packaged in sealed boxes while still somehow retaining its freshness. Each package is checked meticulously, run through three scanners before arriving neatly on their doorstep. Still, whether by habit or by paranoia, Charles makes a habit of doing his own tests first. Pierre teases him mercilessly, complaining about the sheer lack of necessity.
Let him scoff, Charles thinks, often with an air of indignance.
Even retired, there are things to do, routines to stick to.
Even more when you are retired, there are people to watch out for.
(Apparently, just because you’re wrinkled and aching from joint pain does not mean you are pardoned from a fate of assassination.)
But Charles digresses.
This week, the grocery arrives as it always does, wrapped immaculately in packaging. There’s fresh fruit and vegetables, a box of ice cream as a treat, and-
Pierre plucks the apple right out of his hand, and takes a fresh bite, much to the chagrin of Charles who snatches it back.
(Or at least, attempts to.)
“If you get poisoned, that’s not on me. I’ve tried my very best to keep you out of harm’s way, but sometimes you’re just an ass.” Charles holds his hand up in mock melodrama, looking in disdain as Pierre heartily chews his apple like there’s not a single care in the world apart from his grumpy husband staring back at him.
“I know, I know.”
-
[A little town in France, August 2048]
Funnily enough, it takes one balmy evening in the summer for Charles to truly come to the realisation that he is a little cracked.
A lifetime at MI6 will surely do that to you, he thinks in amusement.
(Even if there is some masked regret behind those words, Charles is too far into his years to think about what could have been.)
A scar on the back of his elbow, from the time he stormed through the building trying to find Pierre in the chaos of the infiltration.
A miniscule cut on the bottom of his chin from the shave he gave himself this morning.
Calluses on his palms, from hours spent gripping guns and turning knives and-
He closes his eyes.
It’s good though, he muses. To have someone by your side that understands what it means to be cracked.
(The wood of the rocking chair creaks a little beside him. Charles vows to head down to the store this week just in time for Pierre’s birthday, and build him a new one.)
Pierre, who has eyebags that rest under his oceanic blue eyes that are still as fierce and piercing, as if any amount of years could diminish the strength in them.
Pierre, who’s hands crack in the harsh French winter when he doesn’t bring gloves outside despite repeated reminders from Charles.
Pierre, who is flawed when he fails to recognise simply how beautiful he still is, even when they are now grey and old and sitting in a porch chair watching the world go by.
“What are you thinking about?”
“Regrets.”
“You know, you never actually told me what yours was.”
“I thought it was obvious. That I waited until I was bleeding from all sides to grow a pair and tell you I loved you.” Charles deadpans, as Pierre slaps him lightly, eyes twinkling in amusement.
“At the very least, you would be on the other side if I rejected you.”
“You’re the worst.”
-
It’s a little game they play, weaving banter together like two threads never meant to be separated. They travel through a single tapestry of time, diverting and winding away but always coming together to form a patchwork, melded and held together by the singular needle force of love, directing and guiding each and every stitch.
(He has yet to see what exactly the patchwork entails, what story it has painted, but he hopes-)
(He hopes it’s beautiful.)
-
“What’s yours?”
“That we never got to live a normal life.”
“A normal life?”
“Yeah.”
It’s a quiet French neighbourhood that they’ve settled down in. The new M, George, was kind enough to work a deal with the French government to give them honorary citizenships and fake passports. The least he can do, George said, for a lifetime of service.
There’s a playground right around the corner, where children gather at dusk to play and scream. Sometimes, a few come to Charles and Pierre’s home, where they know for a fact that the old men will be more than happy to spare a few candies that they always seem to have in their back pocket.
Does he wish this came earlier, this “normal life” Pierre envisions?
(Where they dare to go out and travel the world, without fear of being discovered by old enemies and older associates?)
(Where Charles no longer wakes up in the middle of night even at the age of 70, thinking of things he’s done in the name of patriotism and lives he should have saved?)
(Where Pierre breathes in short and quick pants when he handles television wiring with clinical precision all the same, hands shaking after even as he tries his best to hide them?)
It’s a lifetime of regrets and repercussions for things said and done, a lifetime of thrill and happiness for all the things that went right, a lifetime of tears.
But.
(Charles chooses his next words carefully.)
“Maybe we weren’t destined for the normal life.”
And truth be told, he believes that.
He spares a sideways glance at Pierre, who’s wrinkled face spreads into a grin.
From the looks of it, Pierre believes it too.
-
[A little town in France, July 2054]
It’s a silent promise that when Death comes, they will give each other permission to let go.
Charles is under the impression that when Death comes, it will be silent. And fast. They have lived a life this long, running from torture chambers and interrogations, escaping trains and cargo ships.
It’s been a lifetime of running from Death that when he catches up to them, Charles hopes that it is painless. And for a lifetime of sin, they are still welcomed with open arms.
What Charles does not anticipate, is that Death plays along to no one and everyone.
“Charles? Charles I can’t-”
Death arrives in the early hours of a Wednesday morning, where the grass is just starting to break through the thin sheet of ice and frost on the ground.
Charles wakes up immediately, and turns to see Pierre’s chest heaving. It’s years of instinct that kick in, and he curses, turning on the bedroom light and tries to get Pierre to sit up.
He passes the pantry of their home, knocking on the door of the bedroom, robed knuckles echoing against the mahogany door.
“Come on Pierre, stay with me, stay with me.”
Charles feels like he’s 22 again, riding back in the same train carriage, roles reversed. The blood that oozes like honey from his wounds is the same sharp exhalations that Pierre is doing, each one shorter and quicker than the last.
There are frantic, frustrated tears in his eyes, fingers flying everywhere at once to try and get him to breathe. It’s a feeling of helplessness, uselessness as Pierre’s lips and fingertips turn blue and cool, and all Charles can do is hold on tight and grip onto them, pressing them to his forehead.
Death does not wait for you to answer. He turns the doorknob on his own accord, and glides silently across until he is beside you. He places his fingertips on your shoulders, waiting for you to exhale the final breath.
He is coming.
Hide.
He is in pain. He is in pain. And he is holding on.
Hide.
Charles can see Pierre fighting. He can see Pierre’s heart working, desperately trying to fill his failing lungs with oxygen. His eyes are wide and he makes eye contact with Charles, pleading, pleading for him-
Hide.
It’s almost like they’re back in the field. Fighting nail and tooth to survive, eyes communicating more than words ever will to each other. One last time. One last time.
“It’s okay Pierre, I’m here, I’m here-”
(It’s a silent promise that when Death comes, they will give each other permission to let go.)
Death carries souls in both hands. Legend has it that when he goes around collecting them, he always closes their eyes before departing. Just so they don’t become blinded by the light, or see their loved one one last time before they leave. It’s a cruel, necessary act of kindness. One last gift that Death accords the Living.
Pierre stops trembling. His fingers loosen in Charles's grip, and his shoulders slacken.
Intimacy is to know when it is time to say goodbye.
-
“The song has ended, but the melody still lingers on.”
-Irving Berlin
-
The authorities find a pair of bodies together the next day. Their arms are wrapped around each other in an eternal embrace, heads tucked into each other’s shoulders. The newspaper reports that they died just hours after each other.
The town holds a small funeral for them, in the park where the children used to play. Some come and leave lollipops at the side, tagged with colourful post-it notes.
( Thank you for always giving us candies. I’m going to miss you. )
( You always told us the best stories. Maman says not to believe you, but I do. )
In the distance of the processions, a group of men bow their heads. Overnight, a bouquet of flowers appear on Charles and Pierre’s doorstep -- a bunch of lilies, symbolising the restoration of innocence of the dead.
( Thank you for your service. )
-
[?, ?]
The floors that seem to be constantly shifting and swirling yet feel solid to the touch. It’s a singular hallway, where the walls take shape as he moves nearer to them, always seeming to be one step ahead of him.
Almost instinctively, his hands fly to his ears, expecting to find the hard casing of the earpiece and Pierre’s voice over the intercommunications, telling him how to navigate the unfamiliar area. There could be agents lurking at the next corner, bombs hidden under panels, assets to contain-
Old habits die hard.
There is no earpiece. Neither is there a voice. There are no more missions to be fought, countries to save, plans to salvage.
(Neither is there Pierre.)
Tentatively, he feels his way around, taking a few steps forward. Underneath him, the places where his feet have graced the floor light up in a soft, golden glow.
If this is where he thinks he is, then perhaps-
Perhaps, Death is not so bad.
(Lonely, but not bad.)
(Can they mutually exist? Time devoid of company, does it hold value?)
The hallway spans long and far, but Charles can see the end. There’s a veil in front of him that’s tantalisingly close as he takes one step closer.
His fingertips are outstretched. They flirt with the soft, silken texture of the veil, light as air. Charles feels like he’s floating all over again.
He pulls it aside.
-
It’s a little game they play, weaving banter together like two threads never meant to be separated. They travel through a single tapestry of time, diverting and winding away but always coming together to form a patchwork, melded and held together by the singular needle force of love, directing and guiding each and every stitch.
(He has yet to see what exactly the patchwork entails, what story it has painted, but he hopes-)
(He hopes it’s beautiful.)
And it is.
-
In front of him, hanging from a vertical backdrop of evergreen leaves and wildflowers, is a tapestry. A finely stitched tapestry, held together by hundreds of thousands of threads, tightly weaved to show the picture of two boys sitting under a willow tree, against the chemistry labs of the Academy. The brown haired boy presses the ice pack to the blonde boy’s nose, his face scrunched up and lips pursed as he examines the cut.
“You shouldn’t have done that,” Charles whispers, tears burning, his left hand moving to grip the tapestry, his right fingers tracing the delicate threads that have painted Pierre, burned him into the cloth and the tendrils of Charles’s memory.
Perhaps, there is no distinction between the realms of Heaven and Hell. They blend together and Charles just toeing the line-
And maybe this is Hell, Charles thinks through the fogged and faded train of memories. Where he is destined to walk the halls of tapestry alone, their beautiful but haunted memories playing like an old song that can’t be sung, a tale that can only be told when they are together-
There’s a voice beside him.
It’s accented in heavy French, tingled with amusement.
A hand that slides over his palm like it was meant to sit there all the while, gently prising it from the tapestry.
“And why not?”