Archive of Our Own ^beta

     You watch him drop them off—a little girl in pigtails and a boy with a superhero backpack—letting him have a sweet goodbye full of hugs and kisses and well-wishes.

     They’re early, as usual, so the kids are taken inside, appearing on the playground a few minutes later. He watches them from across the street, talking with a few other parents as they wait for classes to start. Once eight a.m. hits, the kids yell their goodbyes, waving furiously before being led inside, and the parents disperse.

     He starts down the sidewalk, heading back toward his home, where he’ll have breakfast alone until his driver arrives to take him to work.

     You follow his path through the scope of your gun, crosshairs kept directly over his head.

     He takes a shortcut as he passes his daughter’s favorite bakery—a thin alleyway that lets out close to a large park—pausing for just a moment to check his phone for his daily schedule notification.

     Deep breath.

     Hold steady.

     Finger on the trigger.

     And shoo-

     He stumbles, phone falling to the ground as he grasps at his chest. Deep crimson spills through his fingers, pouring down his hand into his sleeve. He drops to his knees, falling face-first onto the hard concrete in front of the dumpsters.

     You move your finger off the trigger, staring blankly at the man choking on his own blood in the alley.

     “Who the fuck—”

     A man enters the alley, glancing to his left, then his right, before leaning down and pulling the body between the two dumpsters. They aren’t far from you; you’d spent weeks scouting this spot, trying to find somewhere you could watch his entire morning walk.

     You pack up swiftly, tightly holding the gun case as you make your way down the fire escape. You take the steps two at a time the closer you get to the bottom. The second your feet hit solid ground, you tuck your case into the broken air conditioner next to the fire escape and take off in the direction of the alley.

     They’re still there when you reach the alley; you can see the tips of the body’s shoes peeking out from between the dumpsters. You slow, creeping down the alley with light footsteps. Your hand slips beneath your coat, pulling your sidearm from its holster.

     Safety off and finger on the trigger, you inch your way to the dumpsters.

     The man comes into view, dressed in all black—a thick leather jacket and dark jeans— with his back to you while he crouches over the fresh corpse. He mutters to himself, angry whispers to the unmoving body lying beneath him.

     You wait for a pause in his mumbling, stepping up behind him and pressing the barrel of your gun against the back of his head. He tenses, head turning ever-so-slightly to try and get a view of you, but you press the gun into his short, dirty blonde hair, and he stills.

     “Hands up,” you demand. “Slowly.”

     He nods, slowly raising his gloved hands until you can see both of them.

     “Now stand up.”

     “Gonna shoot a man in the back?” he asks, cautiously rising to his feet. He’s slightly taller than you and seems fit, if a bit lanky.

     You could probably take him.

     “Why not? You did,” you reply, glancing down to the dead man at his feet.

     “My finger slipped,” he chuckles softly with a casual shrug. He turns his head again, trying to peek at you over his shoulder.

     “Eyes forward, asshole.” You press the gun into the worn leather covering his back, and he lazily turns back to face the wall.

     “If you’re so worried, I can always shoot him again in the front,” he suggests, nudging the body in the side with the toe of his boot. “Or you can do it. I don’t mind.”

     “He was mine to kill,” you snap. He lets out a small huff of laughter, head tilting to the right. The collar of his jacket dips, exposing the small sliver of knotted, gnarled skin on the left side of his neck.

     “’s not what I was told,” he says.

     “Who hired you?”

     “You know better than to ask that.”

     That gives you pause. You sort through the faces you’ve seen in your boss’s office. You’d been introduced to a few of them—brief and somewhat tense interactions you don’t think of fondly—and the man before you doesn’t sound like any of them. He doesn’t look like any of the others, not from behind anyway.

     There’s only one way to find out.

     “You have a favorite game?”

     He hums, amused and not at all bothered by the gun pressed into his spine.

     “I’m partial to dominoes, myself.”

     You can hear the smirk in that southern drawl, and, oh, does it make your blood boil, but you know you can’t harm him now.

     “Turn around,” you sigh, stepping back from him. You leave your gun up; he may have given the correct answer, but that didn’t mean you had to trust him.

     He keeps his hands up, turning slowly until he’s fully facing you.

     His hair is short, if a little unkempt, with a sharp jawline and a massive burn scar that stretches and pulls across the right half of his face and neck. His eyes are bluer than the summer sky, the right slightly dimmer than his left.

     You’ve never seen this man before in your life.

     You’d definitely recognize him if you had.

     “Hello,” he smiles, giving you a short nod. His mouth doesn’t pull as far on the right side, but it doesn’t seem to hurt him.

     “Show me your card,” you command, keeping your finger on the trigger of your gun.

     “Be glad to…but it’s in my back pocket and I’d need to reach to get it—” The smile turns to a smirk as his eyes glance down your body, “—Unless you’d like to get it for me.”

     He chuckles when you don’t answer, giving him a hard glare for an answer.

     He moves his left hand cautiously, reaching into the back pocket of his jeans. He produces a small black card, holding it out to you with a slight flourish, flipping it between his fingers.

     You snatch it from his hand, one hand keeping the gun level with his chest as you look down at the card.

     And there it is.

     The stupid, gaudy filigree around the edges with a shiny white domino in the center of the card. You flip the card over, your target’s name written in bright red across the back.

     “God dammit,” you mutter, immediately holstering your gun. You can see him relax in your peripherals, lowering his arms to slide them into the pockets of his jacket.

     “Name’s Phillip, by the way,” he says, holding a hand out to you.

     “Didn’t ask,” you scoff, shoving the card into his hand. You search your pockets for your phone, turning away from Phillip and heading towards the street.

     “You’re not staying?” he calls after you.

     “You killed him, you clean him up,” you snap over your shoulder.

     You hurry out of the alley, leaving Phillip and your former target behind. Eyes trained on your phone, you pull up the only number you have saved and press call.

     Two and a half rings before your boss answers.

     “To what do I owe the pleasure?” he purrs into your ear.

     “We have to talk.”

-

     “You always this quiet?”

     Your teeth sink into your cheek to keep yourself from saying something you’ll regret. Phillip watches you from the side—where he should be keeping an eye out for your target—smirk plastered on his face.

     (The talk with your boss had not gone well.

     You hadn’t bothered with pleasantries or keeping your voice calm, immediately questioning why he felt the need to send a rookie to steal your target out from under you.

     Dominic Vitale was many things, but he wasn’t a man who tolerated disrespect.

     “I may have a soft spot for you, but you remember who you’re talkin’ to, kid,” he’d said in that warning tone he only ever used for you.

     You apologized, taking a moment to compose yourself before asking again—minding your manners this time.

     Phillip’s not a rookie, apparently. Dominic explained that he had an impressive background but refused to go into further detail. All he’d said was that the man was good, almost as good as yourself.

     You’d scoffed, refusing to take the bait and citing that you didn’t need a babysitter.

     “He’s not a babysitter. You’re always alone out there; it’s not healthy for you. You could use a friend. And some friendly competition wouldn’t hurt either,” Dominic said.

     You’ve known Dominic a long time, long enough to hear the words between his words.

     You’ve been at the top too long; you’re starting to bore me, kid.

     So, you’d accepted this new partnership, thanking Dominic for the opportunity with exaggerated enthusiasm.)

     Which left you stuck here, sitting on the ground in a half-built room thirty stories up, watching the building across the street while Phillip sat beside you, eyes focused on you rather than your target.

     “Are you always so easily distracted?” you huff, refusing to look in his direction.

     “Hard not to be when my partner looks like that,” he mutters, low enough you barely catch it.

     “What was that?” you ask, pulling your gaze away from the building you’ve been scoping out for the past four hours to smile threateningly at the man beside you.

     “Nothin’,” he smiles. You huff, turning your attention back to the building with a shake of your head.

     A few minutes of blessed silence pass before he decides to speak again.

     “It’s gonna be a while, y’know?”

     “Yeah? And how do you know that?” you ask, trying not to let the irritation bleed through your voice.

     “Recon said the target was attending some kind of gala, but the ones usually held in that building don’t really start until late evening. And the kind of people who host those things aren’t too keen on guests leaving early.”

     You blink, giving your brain a moment to process his words.

     “How..do you know that?” you ask, looking at him, focusing on the unburned half of his face.

     “Been to a few myself, mostly when I was younger,” he shrugs.

     “That where you got all that experience the boss keeps bragging about?”

     Phillip chuckles, turning away just in time for you to almost miss the soft bloom of red spreading across his cheeks.

     “No, that came later.”

     “Right.”

     He hums, clearing his throat before looking back to you.

     “What about you?”

     “What about me?”

     “Boss seems to think highly of you. Rumor has it you’re his favorite,” Phillip smirks.

     “You been asking about me?”

     “You’re like his long-lost kid or something, right?” The laugh that escapes you surprises him and you, but you can’t help it.

     “Not even close,” you answer through your amusement.

     “Well, now you’ve got me curious.”

     “You keep wondering, bud. I’ll be here actually trying to get the job done.”

     He leaves you alone after that, joining you in your waiting game. You keep your eyes trained on the building but occasionally catch him glancing at you.

     While you wish he’d focus on the job at hand, you can’t help the tiny, extra beat your heart gives when you notice his gaze.

-

     You search for more information about Phillip, using every connection at your disposal to find something—anything—on him.

     Everything comes up empty, and you don’t know if you’re more frustrated at him or yourself.

     You let it go, shoving the mystery of Phillip’s past to the back of your mind as you continue to work together.

     Dominic was right—as he usually is—Phillip’s good. He’s better than good. He’s a near-perfect shot, almost worryingly deadly with both guns and knives.

     The way he carries himself and handles his weapons suggests some kind of military training. He has moments when he orders you to do something with a tone that’s all authority before catching himself, telling you he’s used to commanding, used to being followed. Maybe a higher rank in the military, then?

     And then there’s the scar. It doesn’t seem to hurt him, but you’ve caught him rubbing his right shoulder a few times when he didn’t think you were looking. He makes a conscious effort to smile only to the left side; it’s rare that he smiles fully. His vision and hearing only seem slightly impaired on that side, but nothing too serious to hinder his shots.

     You’ve caught a few glimpses of his wrist, a small peak at the skin between his glove and sleeve whenever he stretches, to see the same twisted scarring that covers his face. You’ve tried to see if it extends to his ankle, watching carefully as the two of you prep for a job, but he catches you staring. He teases you for the rest of the job, trying to needle out why you’d been watching him. You refuse to speak to him, but the heat flooding your face gives you away.

     The curiosity boils over after six months of working together.

     You’re tucked away in one of your many safehouses after a job well done, waiting for morning to come so you can report back to Dominic. Phillip sits at the small kitchen table, cleaning his guns, fingers working meticulously.

     It seems as good a time as any.

     “What branch did you serve?” you ask, staring at him from the comfort of your sofa. He looks up in surprise, blinking at you in confusion.

     “Pardon?”

     “You’re ex-military, right? You gotta be.”

     He gives you a cocky half-smile—only on the left side, as always—and you ignore the sudden twitch in your chest.

     “Not even close,” he smirks.

     “Bullshit.” You stand from the couch, walking over to sit across from him. His eyes follow you the entire way. “I’ve seen the way you carry yourself. There’s no way you didn’t serve.”

     “Been watching me a lot, have you?” he purrs, setting his gun aside and leaning on the table.

     “No more than you’ve been watching me,” you counter, leaning forward to match him. His eyes dart down, lingering on your lips for a few brief seconds before traveling back up.

     You fight back the heat in your cheeks that travels down your spine to settle in your lower belly.

     “Well, how ‘bout I make you a deal? I’ll tell you whatever you want to know, but for every question you ask, I get to ask one of my own.”

     You don’t hesitate.

     “Done. What branch did you serve?”

     “Army. PMC after that,” he answers. Then, without missing a beat, he asks, “What’s the deal with you and the boss?”

     “A hit went wrong; my parents got caught in the crossfire, and he took me in to keep me off the streets.”

     “So, you are his kid?”

     “That’s two questions.”

     Phillip chuckles, leaning back in his chair with his arms crossed over his chest, “You can have two after I get my answer.”

     You narrow your eyes at him but accept with a sigh.

     “I’m like his kid.” Phillip raises a brow, obviously not satisfied with your answer. You roll your eyes, leaning back in your chair with a huff. “He raised me, yeah, but I’m not blood. There’s a difference.”

     You refuse to give him more than that, and he seems to accept that.

     “Alright then, your turn.”

     You take a moment, letting your eyes travel across his form—and maybe linger on the way his jacket pulls tight on his arms. You catch that tiny glimpse of his wrist, the question spilling out of you before you can stop yourself, “How’d you get the scar?”

     He visibly tenses, and you hear the sharp intake of breath.

     “You don’t have to—”

     “I betrayed my friends.”

     You flounder, opening and closing your mouth as you try to find the right words. You’d expected some epic tale of an old firefight or some heroic story about rescuing civilians from a burning building. You weren’t ready for that.

     Phillip watches you, face unusually neutral in a way that only makes you more anxious.

     “I’ve never had any friends,” you eventually stutter out.

     “Wha—okay?”

     “I—I just mean…at least you had friends, y’know, so…”

     That familiar smirk grows across his face, stretching along the right side of his mouth into a rare, full smile, “Are you trying to make me feel better?”

     You watch him try to fight back the smile, but his shoulders shake with laughter that soon escapes his mouth.

     “You know what, maybe we should call it a night.” You set your hands on the table—a little harsh in your haste—abruptly standing.

     He reaches for you, covered fingers barely grazing the skin of your arm. “You don’t have to go—”

     “Goodnight, Phillip!”

     You rush to the only bedroom, shutting—and locking—the door behind you.

     You don’t sleep, instead laying in your bed and staring up at the ceiling as your mind races. You let your fingers trace over your arm, lingering where he had touched. Chills shoot up your spine, the pool of heat in your belly only growing in intensity.

     You are so fucked.

-

     It’s almost a full year of working together when the unexpected happens.

     You corner your target—a frail, skittish thing with an expensive coat over her designer dress—ready to finish the job when she pulls a gun.

     You hear the shot go off, feel your body crash into the ground, and gasp as the air is forced out of your lungs.

     The woman tries to run, but there’s a second shot, and she drops.

     “You good?” Phillip’s face appears in your vision, pulled into an expression of pure worry as he examines your form.

     “I…think so?” You wiggle your fingers, then your toes. You can still move everything; there’s no pain other than where you landed on your elbow. Phillip exhales his relief, but you catch the slight wince on his face.

     You sit up, quickly realizing he’s on his knees over you, straddling your waist. He moves back as you sit up, hand coming up to grasp the left side of his torso. He pulls his hand away with a soft groan, unintentionally exposing the blood staining his glove and the tear in his jacket.

     Did he—

     “You pushed me out of the way?”

     “That shot she let off is gonna bring attention,” he groans, pushing himself to his feet.

     “Phillip—”

     “We should get out of here.” That commanding tone of his returns, leaving no room for arguing as he holds a hand out to you. You slap it away, standing up on your own.

     “Keep pressure on that,” you order, grabbing his gun and hurrying to the woman. You exchange her gun with Phillip’s before returning to him. You grab his free hand, pulling him behind you as you weave through the streets to a nearby safe house.

     You order him to strip the moment you’re inside. He stills, staring at you with a hesitance you’ve never seen on him before, but you tell him again. You leave him no choice as you rush to get your first-aid kit in the bedroom, and when you return, he’s sitting shirtless on the couch.

     You try not to stare, not only at his exposed torso but at the expanse of burn marks that spread down the right side of his torso. The giant mass of scarring stops just above his hip, but you can see the beginnings of a few stray marks that disappear under his jeans.

     You don’t trust yourself to not say something inappropriate, so you patch him up in silence.

     Thankfully, it’s only a graze and easy to take care of.

     “Thank you,” he says once you’ve finished.

     “You’d do the same,” you smile up at him, double-checking to ensure the bandages are secure. “Just don’t try to take any more bullets for me, please.”

     “No promises,” he murmurs, scarred hand slowly settling against your cheek. His thumb runs across the ridge of your cheekbone, the rough texture a direct contrast to the smooth expanse of your face.

     His hand slips down to your jaw, tightening just enough to pull you toward him. You set your hand over his, weaving your fingers through his and pulling his hand away from your face.

     He lets out a small sigh, attempting to untangle his fingers from yours in acceptance of your apparent rejection, but you tighten your grip, pushing yourself up onto the couch and onto his lap. You set your knees on either side of his hips, gently grinding into his lap as you settle on top of him. You hold his gaze, bringing his warped hand up to your lips to press a gentle kiss to the inside of his wrist.

     He’s on you in seconds, yanking his hand out of your grasp to wind it around your neck and pull you into a smoldering kiss as his other hand snakes its way up your shirt. You let it happen, eagerly meeting his mouth as your fingers fumble with his belt.

     You wake in the morning, warm and sated and only regretting that you hadn’t done this sooner.

-

     You stare down at the card in your hands, unable to speak.

     “There a problem?” Dominic asks from behind his desk. He watches you with sharp eyes, waiting for you to react to the assignment he’s just given you.

     “Are you sure about this?” you question, trying to keep your voice even.

     “When am I not?” he laughs. It echoes in the small office, the mocking tone making you nauseous.

     You know what he’s doing. He knows, you know. And he doesn’t give a single fuck.

     He’s testing you.

     “Why?” You barely get the question out, unable to look Dominic in the eye.

     “You’ve done some good work these past two years,” Dominic explains. “But you’ve seemed distracted lately. Can’t have my star player running around without their head in the game, can I?”

     There’s not enough space at the top for two people.

     “This seems like a good job for you to…refocus—prove to everyone that you’re still my number one.”

     I have eyes everywhere, and I don’t like what they’ve seen.

     “Unless…you don’t want the job?”

     I’ve kept you alive all these years.

     You don’t get to tell me no.

     You meet his eyes, squaring your shoulders and tilting your head so you're looking down your nose at him.

     “I’ll take it.”

     “I knew you were right for the job!” he cheers, clapping his hands together. “Get it done quick if you can. I have more work lined up for you.”

     It happens today .

     You nod, tucking the card into your pocket, turning on your heel, and marching out of the office.

     You make it to your apartment in record time, throwing the door open and startling Phillip from his spot on the couch. You march past him, heading straight to your room and to the nightstand on your side of the bed. You pull the top drawer open, picking up the gun—the only item in the drawer—and hold it in your hands.

     You stare down at it, feeling its weight sink into your palms.

     You don’t hear Phillip enter, but you do hear him softly call your name as a gentle hand comes to rest on your shoulder. You flinch away, dropping the gun back into the drawer with a quiet cry.

     He’s at your side in an instant.

     “What happened?”

     “We have to leave,” you mumble.

     “What?”

     You look up at him, eyes wide and wet and desperate. You pull the card from your pocket, holding it out to him with a trembling hand. He takes it from you, unease clear on his face. You watch him look over the domino logo before flipping the card.

     He swallows tightly, ungloved fingers tightening around the card as he reads his own name printed in fresh red ink.

     “I can’t do it,” you whisper. “I won’t do it.”

     He drops the card on the bed behind him, hands coming up to gently wrap around your neck and pull you into him. You wind your arms around his torso, fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt.

     “We have to leave,” you mutter into his chest. He pulls back just enough to stare down into your eyes.

     “We’ll be okay,” he smiles, full and wide and comforting.

     “Yeah,” you nod, filled with a reassurance you’ve never felt before. “We will.”

-

     You check your surroundings before walking into your dingy motel room, not bothering to take off your shoes before you collapse onto the bed.

     “Did you get my snacks?”

     You turn your head, cheek pressed into the lumpy mattress as you watch Phillip walk out of the bathroom, towel wrapped around his waist and hair dripping wet. You follow the trail of a larger drop as it slides down his neck, making a wet trail down his chest before disappearing into the fluffy white of the towel.

     You’re filled with the urge to follow that same trail with your tongue.

     “Hello?”

     Your eyes snap up to his face, where he’s watching you with one brow raised and a too-wide smirk.

     “Huh?”

     “Enjoying the view, darlin’?” he laughs, slowly sauntering across the room toward you.

     “Very much,” you smirk, giving him one last once-over before pushing yourself to sit up. You sit on your knees at the end of the bed, letting him come to you and slide his hands down your sides to settle on your hips.

     He presses a kiss to your head, lips moving against your skin as he asks, “Did you have any trouble?”

     “No,” you sigh, setting your hands against his chest, fingertips lightly tracing the swirls and patterns of his scars. “But we should move soon.”

     He nods, letting out a long sigh, “I’ll start packing.” He gives you a small squeeze before pulling away entirely to get dressed while you go through your duffel bag, ensuring everything is packed correctly.

     He pauses in the bathroom doorway, leaning against the frame to stare at you. “Hey,” he calls out, and you look up from your bag. “I love you.”

     You grin back at him, feeling the blush creep across your cheeks and down your neck.

     “I love you, too.”