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Dream doesn't get an introduction to 404 before the mission- there's only the static of his earpiece as he waits, curled under the windowsill with a gun cradled in the crook of his arm. The humming buzz is suddenly pierced by a smooth, unfamiliar British accent, gentle but with an undertone of steel, offering only a brief hello. It guides him through the abandoned hotel, infested with both spies and insects alike, turning unknown corners and ducking through storerooms, heading for the heart of the whole operation; not once does Dream question his directions.
He doesn't even register how bizarre it all is until 404 orders, voice peaking almost painfully, "Get down!" and Dream immediately obeys like it's second nature, ducking the bullet and sweeping his attacker's legs out from under him all in one go. 404 waits out his heaving breaths, and when Dream straightens again, his voice is there, firm in his ear, "Let's get going, Mask."
After the mission, Sam regards Dream for a long moment before clapping him on the back.
"Good job," he says, "You work well with George." Dream's previous failures with techs- some of them catastrophic- were well known in their organization, and Dream can only nod, still a little stunned himself. Sam continues, "I'll have him assigned to you from now on." It's an order, no trace of suggestion in sight, and Dream would normally bristle- he doesn't, though, just rolls his new tech's voice around in his head.
Months pass before he meets George in person for the first time.
The sun hasn't yet risen as he boards the plane, heading for a mission on the opposite coast, Sapnap right behind him. Quackity is the first one they see, Karl raising his head to wave at them before settling back down on Quackity's shoulder. Sapnap drops into the free seat next to them, nodding hello to Sam, sitting in the cockpit with the pilot.
Two rows down is a young man with dark hair and darker eyes, laptop perched on top of his knees. He's engulfed in a black hoodie, thin wrists peeking out from the sleeves, and he only glances up at Dream when he says, "Hey, Four-Oh."
The smile that wrinkles the corners of his eyes knocks all the air from Dream's lungs. The man sets his laptop down and stands, holding his hand out without hesitation.
"Hello, Mask," he says, drawing the vowels out teasingly. Dream laughs and shakes his hand, heart fluttering when their skin meets. George's fingers are long and slim, nails trimmed down neatly; his palms lack the bloom of calluses and scars that Dream wears with pride. His hands suit him- George has to tip his head back to look Dream in the eye, and the sea of black fabric makes him look even smaller.
"I guess using our code names right now is pretty stupid," Dream says, like an idiot, he continues, "I'm Dream."
"I know," George says, still beaming that smile, a little crooked on one side. "I'm George. It's nice to finally meet you, Dream."
If Dream was struck down right now, on this plane, in front of the cutest guy he's ever met, he'd die happy, with the way George's mouth curves over his name clear in his mind. As it is, Dream just offers his own smile to George and asks, "Mind if I sit next to you?"
The six-hour flight passes in the blink of an eye; Dream usually does his best to sleep through plane trips, his childhood fear of heights rearing its ugly head. Talking to George, though, makes everything else slip away; it all becomes a background drone, white noise to their voices.
He learns that George is three years his senior but recently hired, a former freelance coder that was approached by Sam. Dream is his second agent, ever; George's lips press into a thin line when he confesses that his first agent died in a fight several months before he was assigned to Dream. Dream, in turn, tells George about past missions that had gone awry, his stubbornness or a mistake on his tech's part colliding in the worst way possible.
"This mission will go fine," Dream says, with an absolute, unshakable confidence. George gives him one of his glowing smiles.
"I trust you," he says, and then, "so trust me."
Of course, the mission goes terribly wrong.
When Dream, Sapnap, and Quackity trudge back to the hotel, none badly injured but all of them shaken, George is the one that throws open the door, Sam and Karl still seated within the circle of tables laden with laptops and radios, maps and cables. He has a fist in the collar of Dream's black shirt before Dream can even open his mouth, pulling him with more strength than his slim build belies.
"I told you to go right," George hisses, eyes ablaze. "Why didn't you go right?"
Dream grips his wrist, but doesn't try to pry him off; instead, he plants his feet and says, as placatingly as possible, "I thought it was better to take the clear path."
It's the wrong thing to say; George's hand tightens in his shirt, and he grits out, "I have the map. I have eyes on the people around you. I have the plan. You listen to me , because it's my job to get you through a mission."
"And it's up to me to make decisions that I feel are right," Dream barks back, temper flaring. George's mouth flattens, and his eyes go cold; his fingers unclench from Dream’s shirt.
He’s quiet as he regards Dream for a long moment. Finally, he speaks, voice small in the space between them, "That's how people get killed."
No one says a word when he turns on his heel and stalks into his room, door slamming behind him. Sapnap pats Dream's shoulder and says apologetically: "I think we should have gone right, man."
Dream closes his eyes and, reluctantly, agrees.