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I
Mumbai is scorching, almost stifling despite the nearing sunset.
The AC of the Yacht Club is such a contrast to the air outside that it makes the Protagonist’s skin prickle, but it’s not an unwelcome change. The fabric of the suit he’s wearing is scratchy and doesn’t breathe properly, which, he suspects, only worsens the heat.
He glances around, trying to appear as inconspicuous and relaxed as he can — better not draw any attention to himself this early on in the game. The club isn’t busy, but it’s not empty, either, a perfect setting for a meeting like this. The Protagonist scans over some of the patrons, wonders which one of them is his contact, but, unsurprisingly, there’s no telling.
Tugging on the lapels of his suit jacket, he opts for a vacant chair respectable distance away from everyone in the room and waits. After all, he’s here to be found, not to do the finding.
It doesn’t take long for someone to slide into the seat next to him. The Protagonist senses him first, the warmth radiating off of his body and the lingering scent of hard liquor — and then, under it, cologne, something spicy and musky.
The Protagonist turns to look, is met with a head of tousled blond hair and lips stretching into a lazy smile, an accent, thick and British and wrapping around the words the man speaks intricately. The Protagonist only half-registers what was said.
“I’m Neil,” the man says without awaiting a response.
I’m intrigued, the Protagonist wants to say, but cuts straight to the chase instead.
Neil’s gorgeous, in a way that seems carefully unintentional, nearly flippant. His dress shirt is loose on him, the sleeves rolled up to his elbows — the Protagonist tries not to dwell on his forearms, but well, he’s only human — but it still fits him, as if it’s tailored and oversized simultaneously. It’s all sorts of impressive, really. His tie is done up, but rather slackly. There’s a light five o’clock shadow on hiss jawline, and while he talks, the tip of his forefinger keeps tracing the rim of his glass, distractingly.
Neil is a goddamn piece of art, is what he is.
They fall into an easy back and forth, the banter between them rapid-fire and bordering on flirting, just barely — plausible deniability and all that. Neil’s enjoying himself just as much as the Protagonist is, it’s apparent in the crinkles around his eyes and in the way one corner of his mouth seems to be permanently pointing upwards. It’s been a while since the Protagonist has met someone who’s able to match him, intellectually, keep him on his toes. And when Neil gets his drink order correct, and doesn’t seem thrown when the Protagonist tries to trick him, the Protagonist thinks he’s a little bit in love. In a professional sense, obviously.
“I don’t think ‘bungee-jumpable’ is a word,” the Protagonist taunts jokingly.
Neil smirks, not any bit perturbed by the Protagonist’s prodding. “May not be a word, but it may be your only way out of the place.” He stops for a beat, looks thoughtful, and then hit with a stroke of genius. “Or into it, for that matter. I’ve got an idea.”
The idea, as it turns out, is a little convoluted and a lot insane. The Protagonist is starting to suspect Neil is unhinged on some level. He loves it — the idea, that is.
“I really want to kiss you right now, you crazy, brilliant bastard,” he tells Neil matter-of-factly.
Neil’s grin grows slightly wolfish as he glances at the Protagonist through his fluttering eyelashes. “Wait until we’ve actually pulled this off,” he says.
And if the Protagonist actually wants to kiss Neil when they’re making their way down the street of Mumbai after getting out alive and unscathed... Well, it’s not like he has to admit it to anyone, least of all himself.
II
The first time the Protagonist realises he genuinely wants to kiss Neil, it’s kind of a surprise. And also a little inconvenient.
“Oh shit,” he says. Because despite all their flirting — and Neil’s prettiness — wanting to kiss one’s coworker isn’t exactly where it’s at.
The thing is, it’s the first time he sees Neil in character, and funnily enough, witnessing Neil be someone else makes the thought of kissing him extremely tempting. Go figure.
He’s just been to his tour at the Oslo Freeport, and when he gets back to their hotel, the Protagonist follows him into his hotel room. For strictly professional time-related reasons. Nothing else.
The difference between Neil when the Protagonist met him at the rooftop of the Oslo Opera House and Neil in character is staggering. Gone are the intentionally dishevelled air and the fashionably messy appearance, all replaced by a prim and posh businessman. Neil’s suit fits him tightly, and really, those pants should most probably not be legal. There’s not a hair out of place, no stubble, no open top buttons. Even Neil’s posture has changed, gone from relaxed and lanky to posed and powerful.
It’s a magic trick.
And the Protagonist wants to mess it all up. Press Neil against the door and rake his fingers through the blond hair until all the gel keeping it in place is gone. Tug and yank and pull until his tie is loosened and the tails of his shirt are out of his pants and half his buttons are missing. Kiss and lick and bite until Neil’s mouth is red and his cheeks are flushed the prettiest shade of pink.
The Protagonist clears his throat and shuffles his hips on the edge of the bed, where he flopped as soon as they entered Neil’s room. Neil shoots him a quick look and resumes shrugging off his suit jacket. He doesn’t seem at all bothered by the fact the Protagonist followed him instead of letting him change first.
He’s likely concerned about time, too. Or maybe not. But very probably he is.
“They want you to believe that the security measures are tight, but they’re far from air tight,” Neil says as one of his hands undoes his tie. “I think it’s actually doable.”
“Doable?” the Protagonist echoes and tries not to stare at Neil’s slender fingers working his shirt open.
“I’ve a plan,” Neil says.
“Of course you do,” the Protagonist sighs and falls back on the bed, focusing his eyes on the ceiling. “What do you have in mind?”
There’s a sound of a belt being unbuckled. The Protagonist really, really attempts to concentrate on anything but the slide of leather against skin.
“Tell you in a minute,” Neil says, and, assuming by the noise he’s making, drops his pants on the floor. The Protagonist squeezes his eyes shut. “I told them I’d be bringing my partner when I come to drop off my stuff.”
“Your partner?” the Protagonist asks, just for something to do.
Neil hops, hopefully into a new pair of pants. “Yeah,” he says, a little breathless. The Protagonist can’t believe changing makes Neil breathless. “I didn’t specify what kind of partner, because I reckoned it’d be clear I’m talking about a business partner, but the way the guy looked at me, I think he thought I’m bringing my husband or something.”
“Figures,” the Protagonist says.
Neil laughs happily, but it’s not enough to cover the sound his belt buckle makes. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“You know, your whole—” the Protagonist trails off and waves his hand in the air as if to capture the said Neil’s whole.
“My whole what?” Neil questions, his tone amused and teetering on teasing.
The Protagonist pushes himself up with his abs and props himself on his elbows. Neil’s standing facing him, pants luckily on, but his shirt is undone, revealing his ivory front, the trickle of chest hair, and the dark trail starting at his navel and disappearing under his waistband.
Your perpetual sex hair and voice, the Protagonist could say. Or, the way you say partner like you mean anything but. Or, the whole cocktease thing you have going on, but, like, in an unmistakably monogamous manner.
“You know, your whole...” the Protagonist says instead. “You look the type to marry your business partner and spend the rest of your lives evading taxes and shit.”
Neil snorts gracelessly. “Why. Thank you, love. I am a romantic, after all,” he says and finishes tucking his shirt into his pants. Then he grabs his overcoat and throws it on. “Come on, there’s someone I want you to meet.”
III
Neil is waiting for him at the Tallinn airport when the Protagonist finally arrives from Amalfi. Which is probably against all standard operating procedures, but the Protagonist is achy, and tired, and he’s missed the way Neil’s unhinged-ness seems almost normal after spending time with Sator, so he can’t bring himself to care.
He hands Neil the gold bar and the soil sample he gathered on the boat, and Neil unceremoniously throws the plastic bag on the backseat of his rental sedan before planting his palm on the back of the passenger seat and manoeuvring the car out of the parking slot.
They check him into the same hotel Neil’s staying in, and Neil insists on walking the Protagonist to his room and helping him with his luggage. Which consists of a half-full duffel bag — he got rid of almost everything before leaving Amalfi. Which in turn results into Neil throwing the aforementioned duffel over his shoulder and the Protagonist awkwardly shoving his hands into his pockets as they ride up in an elevator. It’s all somewhat stupid and unnecessary, but Neil looks happy, so there’s that.
As the Protagonist makes his way down the right hallway, worrying his keycard between his thumb and index finger, Neil trails after him like a lost puppy. If lost puppies were ridiculously leggy and unfairly attractive, and also were three steps ahead of everyone else — figuratively — at all times. Which they aren’t. So, not like a lost puppy whatsoever.
“Don’t you have soil to examine? A slightly bloody gold bar to run tests on?” the Protagonist tries futilely when they stop at his door and he fumbles the keycard.
“I won’t actually be running any tests myself, you know that, right? I’m just gonna drop it with my contact and wait for them to get back to me.” Neil’s lingering very close to the Protagonist’s back, most certainly closer than strictly necessary. His hot breath is tickling the skin above the collar of the Protagonist’s dress shirt. When this job is done he’s going to live in t-shirts for a week straight.
He has to scan the card at least three times before the lock makes a sound and the door gives way. Neil’s still hot on his heels, walks right into the room and deposits the duffle on the floor by the foot of the bed. Then, he sits himself on the bed like it’s the most natural thing ever.
“C’mere,” he says and pats the mattress next to himself. “There’s a love.”
The Protagonist obeys, more out of reflex than any logical reason. Neil grabs his shoulders and twists him until the Protagonist’s back is to his chest.
“You seem tense,” he murmurs, not removing his palms from where they’re resting.
A beat, and then Neil’s thumbs dig into the Protagonist’s flesh. The Protagonist lets out an involuntary groan.
He is tense. He’s had a rough week or so, pretending to be interested in a lady he has no real personal interest in, only to play some sort of sick and twisted power game with her maniacal enigma of a husband. His muscles hurt, even though the beating he took isn’t nowhere near the worst he’s been through.
“I’ve pretended to be straight for a week,” he grits through his teeth by way of explanation, like Neil should be able to decipher everything else from that alone. “Oh, fuck, right there.”
Neil hums thoughtfully, as if the Protagonist said something profoundly wise, and his hands continue working the especially nasty knots in the Protagonist’s shoulder blades.
“I had to do that for ages,” he offers eventually. “Pretend to be straight, that is. At family Christmas dinners and stuff. My aunt Liz was, um, less than pleasant about it.”
“Huh,” the protagonist says. It’s not like he hadn’t thought about it. He has, with maybe more concentration than this matter requires, professionally speaking. But this is the first time he gets any sort of confirmation about it, and from Neil himself, no less. He isn’t sure how this revelation makes him feel.
“Huh,” Neil echoes.
“I didn’t know you weren’t straight,” the Protagonist says conversationally.
Neil lets out a loud snort, his palms flattening against the Protagonist’s back. “Oh, love, you don’t know the half of it,” he says, sounding a lot like he’s telling an inside joke, only the Protagonist doesn’t think he’s been let in on it. Before he can protest, though, Neil rubs his shoulders gently, no pressure to it, just a mindless display of physical affection. “Feeling better?”
The Protagonist rolls his shoulders, stretches his neck tentatively. All the stiffness seems to have dissipated, the warmth of Neil kneading his muscles still lingering pleasantly. He can’t recall the last time he’s felt this relaxed.
“Huh,” he says, beginning to resemble a broken record. “Whoa, yeah, I do.”
“Lovely,” Neil says. It’s beyond the Protagonist how the Brits make that shit sound sincere, when they want to.
Neil slides his hands down and rests them on the Protagonist’s biceps, and the Protagonist doesn’t question his own whims to bother to stop himself, just leans back into Neil’s personal space and then against his chest. Neil is solid underneath him, simultaneously soft and firm, and the Protagonist sighs and melts into the contact.
When he tilts his chin up a little, Neil is near and already looking at him. If he turned his head, he could press his cheek against Neil’s boney shoulder, and if Neil twisted his neck just so, their lips would meet.
It’s tempting, the idea of pushing that boundary, of seeing where that lands them. Neil’s slightly flushed, his lashes fanning across his cheekbones as he casts his eyes down to meet the Protagonist’s. They have nothing to lose and so much to gain — they have everything to lose.
The Protagonist drags the tip of his tongue along the seam of his lips. He wants and wants and wants.
“C’mon, we have an operation to plan,” he says instead of yielding.
IV
The operation goes well until it doesn’t. And after that it goes to shit.
They lose the 241, in such a foolish fashion that it would be funny if it weren’t fucking serious. And the Protagonist has a sneaking hunch-turned-half-confirmed-info that the lost 241 isn’t 241 at all, but rather something even more important. And Kat gets shot, which is less surprising, considering who her husband is, but serious nonetheless, and the Protagonist suspects leakage, and he’d really rather not have to deal with something like that right now.
It’s not that he doubts Neil, per se, but Neil’s closest to him, has been closest to him during the entirety of this bizarre mission, and before the Protagonist can think the better of it, he’s got Neil pinned against the wall, hand dangerously close to his throat.
“Somebody talked,” he growls. There’s rage burning in his belly, threatening to consume him. “Did you talk?”
Neil is infuriatingly soft under his touch, pliant and open, no resistance at all. He’s looking at the Protagonist with something akin to earnestness written all over his features, and a bit of something else — hurt, almost. The Protagonist has a nasty suspicion Neil wouldn’t put up a fight even if he escalated the situation. He hates Neil for it, hates the expression on his face. He wants to punch him, in the jaw, or the gut, wants to push him into the wall more forcefully and kiss him breathless, just to feel him opposing the press of a body against his.
Ives stops him before he manages to throttle Neil — or make out with him, which would probably create more chaos out of the two. Neil composes himself quickly, but his gaze drifts over the Protagonist more than once, apologetic, upset, and, yes, definitely hurt.
However, the Protagonist is whisked away into a whirlwind of explanations that nobody bothered to give him until now, temporal pincers and effects of inversion and protective suits.
It all fills his mind, and by the time he realises what he thought about doing to Neil, he’s already driving the SAAB through the reversed traffic, and it’s not a good time to concentrate on anything else.
V
The Oslo airport is on fire, and there’s chaos everywhere, cacophony of shouts and sirens and crashes, people running around, heat and flashing lights and the smell of burning metal.
Utilising the disorder happening all around him, the Protagonist halts the driver out of the first ambulance he spots, knocking the man unconscious, taking his place. When he’s gotten the vehicle as close to the breech as he possibly can, there’s nothing left for him to do other than wait, fidgety and high-strung and stupidly high on the adrenaline and probably the surrounding smoke.
It’s clicking into places now, not all of it, but the majority — the way Neil had tugged on his arm what feels like ages ago when he had been fighting, oh, he had been fighting himself. The urgency in Neil’s movements, and the slightly hysterical notes in his voice, too. The Protagonist doesn’t quite remember what Neil had said to him, and today’s inverted jargon was impossible to understand, but no matter which way one ran the tape, the panic was there. Now, the Protagonist finally had the other side of the puzzle, had seen Neil’s face when he’d pulled his mask off in the corridor, how his expression had grown panicked and slightly nauseous before he had darted.
Neil had been scared he’d hurt himself, his future self, and it seemed he couldn’t make his way back to the Protagonist fast enough.
Annihilation, Wheeler had said in Tallinn. Neil had rushed to him in order to stop that.
However, it didn’t explain his behaviour in the shipping container. Surely he had concluded by then that the Protagonist’s arm would be okay as soon as he’d exit the turnstile. Yet, he had demanded to look at it, had kept asking about it all through their route, would’ve probably manhandled the Protagonist into letting him take care of it if they had more time.
Neil had been worried for the Protagonist, and not because he was in any real, imminent danger — after all, what’s happened’s, happened — but because he… cared?
The thought feels foreign, a little absurd, too, but not uncomfortably so. The Protagonist wants to pinch the bridge of his nose, but ends up knocking his hand against the helmet he’s wearing instead and rolls his eyes at himself.
Neil’s been concerned not for his safety only, but for his comfort, too, trying to make sure the Protagonist isn’t in pain or too upset about being kept out of the loop, not too confused with everything going on. It’s a nice realisation, soothing in a way. The Protagonist feels warm, but that’s probably because nearby, the flames are licking at everything they can reach and turning the air unbreathable.
The Protagonist thinks he cares for Neil, too, in whatever twisted way their situation allows, and the flames grow hotter.
Later, when the sirens of the ambulance are piercing the night, and the Protagonist is driving as far and as fast as possible, and Neil says Ours, my friend and smiles his brilliant smile at him, the Protagonist really wants to lean over the gear shift and pull Neil into a kiss. But their speed is too high, and Kat is still somewhat unstable, and they’ve left the flames long behind them, but the Protagonist still feels warm, and he can’t justify it, so he returns the smile instead, as brightly as he can.
And then Neil launches into another explanation, and the moment has past, and there’s wanting curling in the Protagonist stomach, lazy and unhurried and so painfully present.
I
The first thing the Protagonist wants to do when he sees Neil emerge on the outskirts of the battlefield, squinting in the low Siberian sun and smiling and — and alive, is kiss him breathless and stupid. It’s instantly followed by the desire to punch him, and then immediately kiss him again. He does neither, just looks up at the man and pants for the breath he just caught and then promptly lost again.
Neil’s alive. He is alive and he’s wearing a red piece of fabric around his bicep and he’s smiling and he is alive. The Protagonist doesn’t think he was this relieved even when he was pulled out of the collapsing dead drop with Ives and the algorithm. Turns out there are more gratifying moments than saving the entire world. Apparently, seeing Neil alive and well is one of those. The Protagonist tries not to analyse that too much.
There’s a certain way, in their line of work, the reliefs sometimes tend to be short-lived, teetering just on the border on graspable and slipping away. The Protagonist should know, has experienced it more than once during this job, alone, what the paradoxical nature of fighting the forces that haven’t been born yet and whatnot. However, nothing compares to the weight of paralysing dread settling over him when Ives asks him how he got the door open in time, and when the realisation that’s bound to follow dawns on him.
This Neil — he isn’t the Neil after the operation, isn’t the Neil who’s made it through the operation. This is the Neil who’s still in the middle of it, still only partway through, still in the goddamn crossfire.
The Protagonist tries to swallow forcefully, but his mouth feels suddenly dry, sandpapery. His voice comes out all croaky, wavering.
He can see how in his head, Neil’s doing the math, too, going over what he already knows to be true. He takes it in stride, of course he does, the honourable bastard. His smile never falters, and he even manages to teasingly poke at Ives.
Ives must’ve come to the same conclusion, as well, but his face betrays nothing, just like it never does. The only time the Protagonist has seen Ives’ face display an emotion, it had been annoyance, and even then, it had been a fleeting crack in the façade, there one moment and covered up the next.
Nevertheless, it’s not until Neil has swung his rucksack onto his back and twisted his upper body just so that the Protagonist is sure — this is the Neil who’ll end up on the floor of the hypocentre, the bullet in his head that was meant for the Protagonist.
This is the Neil who’s not going to make it through this mission alive.
The Protagonist feels something swell up in his chest, urgent, suffocating. Panic, maybe, or despair, or, perhaps, fear and denial and resistance. He fumbles for something, anything, to say to stop Neil, fails, forces out a pathetic Neil, wait instead. Neil notices his struggle, anyway, closes the distance he’s already put between them.
Farther away, Ives stops, too, gives them a look, and then continues trailing forward. This regard for their privacy is the first sweet thing the Protagonist has seen from Ives, yet he can’t bring himself to care.
Neil’s all soft-spoken, reassuring words and relaxed posture, like they aren’t discussing his death that the man in front of him has already witnessed. The Protagonist knows what it’s like to choose death to protect his team, he knows, but he thinks it’s different — walking into the building that’s only about to be set on fire and waiting for the flames to claim you instead of trying to find a way out.
“Now, let me go,” Neil pleads gently, the toothy grin still on his lips.
The Protagonist can’t, knows he has to, knows that what’s happened’s, happened, but doesn’t want to, every cell in his body refusing. Neil turns away again, but not sooner than he’s taken a couple steps, the Protagonist finds himself speaking again.
“Hey.” His voice is strained and so close to cracking. “You never did tell me who recruited you.”
He’s aware he’s scrambling for an excuse to stall Neil, now, they both are. Soon, it won’t be enough, and Neil will walk away for good. And it’s not the end, but they’re both still standing, right now, and Neil promised him a story.
“Haven’t you guessed by now?” Neil smiles boyishly.. “You did.”
Blood roars in the Protagonist’s ears, and he only half registers Neil’s next words, replies on autopilot, and doesn’t even attempt to digest the implications of all of this. Neil’s smile turns apologetic, a little, as if he knows the gravity of everything he’s unloading on the Protagonist. Maybe he does, maybe he’s lived through it himself.
“You’ve known me for years?” he says stupidly.
Perhaps, the Protagonist should feel something profound, but he only feels hollow. And a little dizzy, too, like his equilibrium is slightly out of sorts.
“You’re only halfway there,” Neil says, almost steps backwards half a pace, and visibly changes his mind, then. “Can you do something for me when you get there?”
“Hm?” the Protagonist asks. His windpipe burns, and he’s not sure he would be able to produce anything more eloquent.
Neil huffs out a breath resembling a snort and plants his palm on the Protagonist’s jaw, thumb idly stroking the fine hairs of the beard. The Protagonist looks up at him and hurts.
“Give this to younger me, will you?” Neil says.
And then he leans in, tilts the Protagonist’s chin up and kisses him. Neil’s lips are chapped, and gentle as they move against the Protagonist’s. The contact starts out sweet, nearly innocent, but it doesn’t stay that way for long. Neil’s tongue is insistent as it swipes along the Protagonist’s plump bottom lip, and the Protagonist opens up for him, melts into it and lets Neil claim and bruise his mouth.
The kiss is dusty, tastes of sweat and adrenaline, but it’s also perfect. It makes the want low in the Protagonist’s belly curl in on itself and it sends tingles all the way to his fingertips. He grips the front of Neil’s jacket to calm the sensation and draws Neil in. Neil comes willingly, hums into the Protagonists mouth and then chases the sound with his tongue.
He could do this forever, the Protagonist thinks, and that’s when Neil pulls away. He licks his own lips, slightly dazed, and straightens up, his hand remaining where it was. The protagonist blinks at him, then clears his throat.
“You want me to... give younger you a kiss from older you?” he deadpans.
Neil throws his head back when he laughs, a gravely sound that feels too foreign and too good for a place like this, where the sun doesn’t let anything living stay that way for long. Just like the kiss, Neil’s dusty, and sweaty, and a little dirty. He’s beautiful.
“No,” he says. “I want you to kiss the poor lad. Lord knows he’ll be wanting it.”
Then Neil ducks again to press a quick peck on the Protagonist’s mouth like he can’t help himself. When he breaks away the second time, the Protagonist lifts his chin to follow, to pursue the contact once more, but Neil is already walking backwards, still squinting and smirking.
There are sounds of the approaching chopper in the air now, and through the burn in his throat and eyes, the Protagonist watches Neil turn on his heels and pick up his pace.
“See you at the beginning, friend!” he shouts without looking back, raises his hand to wave goodbye. Then, he jogs the rest of the distance.
The combination of the cruel sun and the unshed tears dwelling in the Protagonist’s eyes blinds him for just a second, and by the time he’s cleared his vision, the chopper is already gone.