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“I’m sorry Ian,” Yassen said, his face blank. “I really am.”
“So am I,” Ian echoed.
This was weird, even for their job. Ian being on nickname terms with a Scorpia mercenary? The man sure was full of mysteries.
Yassen raised his gun, aiming at Ian’s heart, then shook his head and nodded at the passage he’d come from. Wilby was once again surprised to see how calmly Ian followed him there. He moved to come with them, but Yassen dropped, “You stay here. It’s a private matter.”
And so he stayed, fingers crossed in a superstitious attempt to calm himself in the face of the unknown. He shouldn’t be the one worrying, after all it was Ian’s life hanging by a thread and not his, but unwelcome thoughts were worming their way into his mind, ruining the shiny prospect of a rich, carefree life the Scorpia money was supposed to provide.
Ian had a family, he thought with a shiver, someone to come home to—and tonight it was someone to not come home to. Wasn’t it a kid, by the way? Not necessarily Ian’s own child, unless the man had not always been so ready to joke about how he only had eyes for men, but maybe a young cousin, and now the boy would have to go through the shock of a funeral, and probably move somewhere, and who knew if his own parents were any better?
Oh, the funeral. He’d probably have to come, unless Yassen left him here with a broken leg to support the cover story. Both made Wilby shiver with imagined pain—he’d hate being hurt even for his own sake, and he’d oh so hate to have to look into the eyes of the family. It wouldn’t be his fault, he told himself firmly, it was nothing personal. Just business. He was honestly sorry to drag his coworkers in this, but given the nature of their work, they were all on borrowed time anyway.
He almost wished Yassen would actually break his leg. The morals of the situation were beyond him.
Speaking of Yassen, what the hell was taking them so long?
They’d disappeared around the corner and still hadn’t come back, the hushed voices barely audible and distorted by the slight echo. He took half a step forward, then hesitated. He was fairly scared of disobeying Gregorovich, who’d told him to keep out in no unclear terms. Maybe he should leave, or maybe he should move in closer and try to make out their conversation.
Just outside of the turn, he leaned against the wall and stilled his breathing. It was a surprisingly quiet conversation—no, actually it was surprising that they were still conversing; Martin’s best idea of why Yassen would have to take Ian away was to have him, Martin, not watch the brains being blown out. And yet here they were, chatting like nothing was wrong.
It was Yassen speaking, sounding like he was giving advice or gently reprimanding the other man. “Don’t ever trust people who don’t offer to come and bring or warn someone else, yes? Otherwise it’s your word against theirs at best. Or a gun to your head at worst.”
“Next time just tell me which of my coworkers you bought,” Ian honest to God chuckled, “and I’ll do my best to stay out.”
Either the man’s sense of humour was really dark or he actually believed he’d make it out, despite all he’d seen and heard. Wilby found it a little cruel of Yassen to give him hope like that, even in a joking manner, but maybe it was his idea of mercy. Martin wasn’t an expert on that matter.
“Yassen,” Ian muttered again. Something rustled, like fabric on fabric—or maybe it was an even quieter whisper, supposed Yassen would let the enemy say something into his ear. Whatever. Yassen had the gun, and Ian had dropped his. Maybe Yassen knew what he was doing. Martin preferred to think that he did, otherwise his own situation would be fucked as well.
He took a step back and tried to focus. Of course it was boring and unnerving, but so had his job always been. He’d probably get out in just a few minutes, and then all he would have to do was throw together a fake identity and take a plane to Italy. He already knew where he’d buy a little house—
Thud.
He’d already heard that sound today—an unmistakable crash of a gun falling on concrete.
A wave of cold sweat rolled over his back. As little as he wanted to get in a fight, Yassen was risking much more, and there was no time to lose. He dashed towards the source of the noise, his gun ready. “Do you need help—?”
What he saw froze him in place more securely than a dozen Scorpia agents aiming at his chest.
There was Ian. And there was Yassen, pinned by him to the wall, head thrown back and fingers digging into Ian’s hair and jacket. It was all very nice and clear, but never in his wildest dreams had Martin imagined to see Yassen fucking Gregorovich with his legs on the waist of a MI6 agent.
He blinked once, then twice, trying to make it make sense, but the view stayed the same. If they were fighting, Ian would have been holding Yassen by the throat, not mouthing at it as he grabbed the assassin by the rear to hold him up better. They sure wouldn’t have been hoarsely panting like that, or pressing each other close instead of trying to shove each other off and down.
Or staring back at him with a mocking smile like Yassen was now. “Help? No thanks, we’re exclusive.”
Ian perked up to see what was going on, and gave him a breathless grin. If Martin’s eyes were not playing tricks on them, there was quite a few hickeys on Yassen’s neck now, and—
“Marty, you’re ridiculous. Clear the room, would you?”
He did—not before they clashed their mouths together, Yassen groaning in clear pleasure, but he did. He wished there was a door to close behind him to keep the noises in, too.
A juicy swear reached his ears as he stumbled away, and he decided it was enough. Even with the Scorpia money, he wasn’t getting paid enough to deal with that.
He scrambled through the dark corridors, found a locked door, swore under his breath and whipped around towards the actual exit. With the two men’s moans still echoing behind his back, or maybe just in his ears, all his brain power was directed at not processing what just had happened. He would rather believe it was a weird prank those two had somehow decided to play on him than any genuine liking between the two. Ian Rider was the most boring man he knew, flavourless and tasteless and looking like a medium rare toast to begin with, and Yassen was a world-class assassin—what the fuck was that about?
His heartbeat thrumming in his ears, he walked towards the car, then felt his face heat up as he realised it was Ian’s. Even if the thing had been a prank, he’d hardly be calmly leaving in Ian’s car after revealing his double identity. What was he supposed to do now, hitchhike at 1AM?
He barely cleared the territory when he heard something again, and the violent start he gave despite himself convinced him it wasn't just his imagination. He ducked behind a meagre bush next to the fence, almost impaling his leg on some rusty garbage in the process, and prayed he wouldn’t be seen.
His worst fears were not half true—when Ian and Yassen emerged, they were not looking around in search of him with guns at the ready. Still, he was not at all quietly happy for the two when he watched them wildly make out all the way to the car, Yassen clinging onto Ian like he’d never seen anyone so attractive and Ian grabbing appreciative handfuls of his ass even though it made them stumble every step of the way.
The headlights blinked as Ian presumably unlocked the car, but the two crashed into the hood like they couldn’t be bothered to get in. Yassen once again threw his legs around Ian’s waist, hissing something in Russian, to which Ian responded in a laughing voice—also not in English and with a horrible accent that garbled everything beyond recognition. The only coherent thing Wilby heard was another hearty curse, and even with that, he couldn’t decide if it was fuck yes or fuck, Yas. Not that he quite cared. All he wanted was to get home, get blackout drunk, and not remember a thing in the morning.
After he scrambled away, looking back all the time despite himself to see if they would cut the crap and finally chase him, he was so shaken he didn’t even think of taking a taxi. He only realised his mistake in the general area of his Southwark flat, when the dull pain in his feet began to get too much. He spent the rest of the way in unproductive anger—directed at Scorpia in general to avoid thinking of Yassen again—because how come they couldn’t have somehow arranged for him to come in his own car, not a certain MI6 agent’s?
His feet were blistered, his head heavy, the whiskey supply not half as full as he hoped it would be, and the worst was yet to come.
Despite his hangover, he actually made it out of bed and to work before the usual hour. His plans were to drink the water cooler dry, hide in his corner and work with something neutral for the rest of the week—there were plenty of Walachia notes he still had to sort out.
It all went wrong from the beginning. First, Ian Rider was somehow still alive, a smug half-smile playing on his lips that Wilby was sure only he could see. The sight was enough to give him Vietnam flashbacks, and he honestly didn’t want to think about what those spots on Ian's neck were. Second, all the king’s men were somehow already there, looking at him like he was the last one to come and slowing everyone down, even though he showed up twenty minutes early.
“Had a rough night?” Smithers asked casually, saluting him with a cup of coffee. Wilby barely suppressed a wild flinch and shook his head, looking away from everybody.
“What’s up with him?” Jones whispered to Rider, half concerned and half suspicious.
“Oh, I was hoping he could tell you on his own.” Rider, however sympathetic, was still smiling like a cat that got—whatever he’d got, honestly. “He must be a little shocked, though. Give him some time.”
He rubbed his neck, probably mindlessly, and got another murmur from Jones but brushed it off with a quick wave of his hand.
This was beginning to feel like the pillory. Martin focused on holding his cup of water still, almost spilled it over his keyboard, and only then saw his fingers trembling. This wasn’t fair, he thought in a sudden spurt of anger. He was in a double game, sure, but why the fuck was he getting this treatment while Rider stood there all happy? The man was about to peel him like a potato, Wilby had no doubt, and to make sure it felt accordingly.
Blunt walked in, glanced around over his glasses, and heaved an unhappy sigh. He was never happy, the old fuck, but now that his eyes flickered towards Martin, the sight seemed to upset him even more.
“Do we even need to go to the briefing room?” Crawley quietly asked. “I’m sure everyone is professionally curious about this.”
“We indeed don’t.” Blunt didn’t sound like he cared. “Has everyone looked through Agent Rider’s report?”
“Submitted at 6AM, no less,” Smithers commented. “That’s what I call dedication to your work.”
Blunt gave him a look. “I’ll take it as a yes. Now, we would all like to hear the details. From both of you.”
His eyes were on Wilby again, and a shiver ran through him. “Oh. I mean—sure.”
“I can go first,” Ian suggested, his voice once again disgustingly sympathetic. Someone nodded, no one protested. “Martin and I were on a private search connected to the Varna hacking, or so we’ve been told. We were attacked by someone who, I assume, was a Scorpia assassin sent there to get us specifically because of this search. They wanted us alive, or we would have been shot long before we got in a physical fight. I wasn’t quite equipped to include this in the report, but—”
He raised his chin and undid a few buttons of his shirt. A clear imprint of a hand blossomed there, bruised into the skin. Clear enough to take fingerprints, Wilby thought with a grim chuckle. He was almost panicking, but at least this asshole had decided to feed him some part of the story so he could work around it. It could be a trap, or maybe Rider would leave him alone after some blackmail. Wilby would easily give up all the Scorpia money now to just be left alone.
Crawley’s face hardened, like it did when he was trying to hide a smile. He was good at that, and now looked even more terrifying than he normally did. “I’m sorry to hear that—but personally, I’m glad you specified the source. That it’s not, um, private life preferences.”
Rider raised an eyebrow, as if appreciating the scope of imagination; Jones bit her lip.
“I assume you didn’t capture the assassin,” Blunt commented, unamused.
“No. They went for Martin first, and if I may—I’m not sure what they used but the effects seem like those of some nerve gas to me.”
“That would be in their style.”
“I had to use unorthodox methods to neutralise the threat—are you okay?” Ian, the bastard, turned to him again, just as he was about to choke on some water. “Are you sure? Okay. Then the assaulter and I had a little chat, before they escaped. Of this, I’m afraid, Martin can’t remember anything, he must have blacked out. Naturally I couldn't go after the assassin and leave him there alone. I wasn’t told straight up that this person was from Scorpia, but some details speak for themselves. Like their wish to capture us and get information out, rather than let it never be heard again. You know my way with the details. So I left satisfied—”
This time, Wilby did choke. He snorted what felt like half the cup’s worth up his nose and coughed violently, wheezing and spluttering in the most pathetic manner imaginable.
Jones leaned in to Blunt, and he half heard her say, “He’s reacting too wildly.”
The man nodded, his eyes burning holes in Martin’s reddened face. “No questions for you, Rider. Agent Wilby, would you care to join the discussion once you’ve sorted yourself out?”
“Must be hard for you.” Ian was at it again. He actually had the audacity to walk up to Wilby and put a hand on his shoulder, little imps dancing in his eyes. He must have gotten his story from Yassen, Wilby realised, and the thought about the man didn’t at all help when he heard Ian add, "I'm sorry Martin. I really am."
He stared up at Rider, feeling his eyes fill with tears, and then hid his face in his palms and doubled over.
“Rider, please,” he muttered between the wailing sobs. “I’m begging you. I’ll tell them, I’ll tell them everything, anything you want, I swear, just stop this please God please—I CAN’T BEAR THIS ANYMORE! ”