Work Text:
Six months after the Shinkansen
Lemon’s standing over a still-warm body in a flat in South London when the text comes through; can he get to Berlin for a sudden assignment tomorrow evening, big fucking deal, lot of money in the bank, not really a one man job but it’s yours if you want it.
Looking down, he throws an indifferent glance to the body at his feet. He wouldn’t mind dodging the absolute shitshow that’s about to kick off across the London underworld when the poor sod’s body is found, and if the money’s good, well. The past couple of jobs his handler’s arranged for him in London have been miserable work, far below his pay grade. Beggars can’t be choosers though, and he has to remind himself that any reputation he and Tangerine made for themselves effectively died with the Twins back in Kyoto.
Something in his gut twists at the thought and he takes a couple deep breaths, fingers curling around the silencer of the gun in his hand, because fuck, at least finish the bloody job first. Once he’s ditched his wetwork gear and is on a long, meandering walk back to the tube station to avoid the cameras, he fishes his phone out his pocket, considering the message for only a few moments before texting back.
Come tomorrow, he’s up at fuck’o’clock in the morning to catch the cheapest flight he could book to Berlin on short measure.
He and Tangerine usually travelled by car or train when working on the continent before–less faffing around at airports, less security, less risk–but just the thought of spending three hours on the Eurostar to Brussels then another ten onwards to Berlin makes him feel like something live is crawling under his skin, so in the end he’s glad he doesn’t have the time for it as he resigns himself to spending the journey crammed into a shitty EasyJet seat instead.
It’s late in the morning by the time he’s got out of the airport and driven to the safehouse his handler arranged for him, a pokey apartment on the third floor of a building across the street from a hostel. A group of students are sitting around tables on the pavement, smoking and talking loud enough to be obnoxious.
The noise drills into Lemon's head through the window he throws open as he spends the better part of an hour combing over the small apartment to make sure it’s clean of surveillance. By the time he’s done he’s feeling out of sorts, ready to just get the job over and done with and get the fuck out of here.
Berlin is tricky; Tangerine always hated working here out of everywhere in Europe. It’s the kind of place where you never know who might be watching, paranoia baked into the walls of the apartment just like the decor that probably hasn’t been changed since the 80s; both leftovers of a bygone age. Not too dissimilar to London and it’s billion fucking CCTV cameras, but at least London is home turf, it’s evils familiar.
While he’s waiting out the afternoon Lemon brings up the job briefing his handler sent him on his phone and skims it over, willing his mind to stay on task, thinking he should’ve just taken the hit to his wallet and booked the later flight.
There’s a gang holed up in a warehouse on an industrial estate in the north of the city, another that want them dead. Since the better part of the White Death’s organisation imploded on itself these kinds of jobs have become pretty standard; power struggles on top of power struggles, new players looking to muscle in on old territory. Or so Lemon’s been told.
To be honest, Lemon probably wouldn’t have paid any attention to the politics of it all if not for the fact that it concerns the White Death. Vengeance hasn’t been much of a priority after a certain fruit truck in Kyoto, but if the opportunity presents, he’s certainly not going to be the bigger man about it.
Probably that’s why his handler had told him you’re going to like this one, over the phone when she called him about the job; the gang in Berlin seems to be one of the White Death’s old overseas outfits. The job itself sounds easy enough: get in, cause some havoc, get out; so Lemon thinks she’s probably right on that.
Maybe if Tangerine were here Lemon would think twice about taking another job involving wiping out an entire gang in one go–but he’s not, so he doesn't. Lemon doesn’t really care what enemies he makes; if they want to come after him, let them, and he’ll take as many as possible with him on his way out the door.
When evening falls Lemon heads out to the address on the briefing. Above the surface Berlin is a sleek grey machine, and he tries his best to emulate that same cool confidence even when every job since the Shinkansen has felt like standing on shifting sand, one false move away from slipping.
Even now he can’t stop his mind reaching into itself to draw out memories he barely recognises–years ago, a job at a warehouse club on the outskirts of the city, a body wrapped in tarp on the bank of the river a few miles downstream, Tangerine at the water’s edge, burgeoning sunrise painting the scene in dispassionate winter light. More recently, sitting by a fountain in Alexanderplatz and waiting for a target to cross the wide square on his way home, surrounded by tourists and locals spending the overcast Sunday afternoon shopping, Lemon not really focused on watching until Tangerine wordlessly nudges him to attention with an elbow. Sheltering from the rain in a tiny cafe, pastries and coffee between them, Tangerine watching out the window people dashing along the avenue of linden trees in the downpour, gaze even and steady.
The thoughts rock his focus before he’s even got to the warehouse, settling as a heavy, distracting weight somewhere deep in his chest. It’s enough to keep him from noticing one key factor, at least not straight away: it’s too quiet. According to the briefing the gang runs their drugs operation out of this unit–place like this, under the cover of night, Lemon would expect it to be swarming with men right now, but the compound outside the large main warehouse is silent.
Suddenly more alert, with the sharp prickle of apprehension under his skin, Lemon jogs over to a small side entrance. Another cause for alarm: the door’s wide open. There’s a long hallway through the door, dark, with only a couple of dim fluorescent lights affixed to the ceiling; and on the floor, the unmistakable crimson-black of bloodstains.
Starting to feel like he’s taken a left turn into some kind of shitty low-budget horror, he raises his gun a little higher as he edges into the building. The hallway continues down a hundred feet before turning a corner, with closed doors to offices off to each side. On the floor Lemon counts four men in various states of disarray. All dead, assumedly, though he doesn't bother checking before digging his phone out his pocket and calling his handler.
She picks up on the first ring, voice light when she says, “That was fast.”
“Who else d’you give the intel to?” Lemon asks in reply. Whoever else is here–Lemon is confident he can take them out if they become a problem, but it doesn’t change the fact that someone is muscling in on his job. Well–he wants to say he’s confident, but just as he imagines a confrontation with another professional, memories of the Shinkansen job rise up unbidden–there were other players that time too, and look at what a cock-up that was. Cock-up doesn’t even begin to cover it. If it turns out Ladybug is here, Lemon swears to god and all the heavens he’s going to kill something even more than he was planning on.
But there’s genuine confusion in her voice when she says, “No one. Why? ”
“I’m not the only one here,” Lemon says lowly. “Swear to god, if you’re fucking with me–”
“And what would I get out of hiring two people for one job? Whoever it is, they’re not one of ours.”
Lemon hums absentmindedly into the phone. He doesn’t trust her 100%, but the logic is sound. “Guess I’ll have to ask ‘em myself then. Later,” he signs off, and hangs up. Whoever got here first seems to be clearing out his targets for him, so it’s possible they’re on the same side, but he wouldn’t bet on it. Best to keep cautious, shoot first, make up the excuses later.
He inches slowly down the hallway, the sense of creeping unease only growing stronger as he rounds the corner and passes more bodies on the floor. Like the world’s axis has taken on a tilt, he feels dangerously off balance. There’s a familiarity to it all, a sense of deja vu, like trying to grasp for a word he can’t quite remember.
At the end of the hallway lies a set of wooden doors, flung open into the warehouse proper. A gunshot rings out up ahead, and instinctively Lemon presses against the wall, adrenaline spiking.
It’s dark in the warehouse, only a little light from the streetlamps outside making it through the dirty windows high on the far wall to illuminate the room. Lemon can sense movement, and darts over to a pillar inside the large room, shifting the gun in his hands as he leans around just enough to get a good look.
There’s a man in a black coat standing over a body in the centre of the warehouse, back to Lemon, gun in blue-gloved hand. Lemon’s stomach lurches like he’s just been dropped a hundred feet in the air, pressure mounting in his ears as the room starts spinning, because that back and the gelled back curls are familiar, too familiar to be anyone else, surely, even though it’s not possible, Lemon last saw him slumped against the door of a train car, unmoving and lifeless, it’s not possible–
(Didn’t check though, did he, just saw the blood and the gunshot wound and assumed, worst of all he fucking left–)
The man turns, and then Lemon’s face to face with a ghost.
Distantly he realises he’s moved out from behind the pillar when eyes meet his, drawn there like magnets. In that moment there’s no mistaking it: it’s him. Lemon knows it in every fibre of his being, as surely as he knows the sun will rise in the morning and set in the evening and Thomas the Tank Engine is fucking blue.
He can’t stop himself when he chokes out, with a voice that feels not fully his own–
“Will?”
And then Tangerine raises his gun, and shoots him.
--
One month after the Shinkansen
It’s tipping it down when he gets out the terminal at Gatwick, because of course it fucking is.
Exhausted from the twelve hour flight from Bangkok, Lemon quickly decides to forgo trying to drag a suitcase on the trains and instead opts to hail a cab from the taxi rank outside the terminal exit.
It’s about an hour's drive to his and Tangerine’s flat, two bed in a Docklands new build; not quite a townhouse in Belgravia, but a far cry from the estates they spent their formative years knocking around in until they found a bigger pond.
It made sense to move in together, London prices and all, neither of them mentioning the fact that they’ve probably made enough to buy the same place ten times over in the five years since. But old habits, Lemon supposes. They’d been living together since they were eighteen and alone and the system was done caring; even longer before that.
Tangerine always used to say better to not draw too much attention, because the cover of best friends turned self-employed business partners works well enough but only so long as no one asks too many questions; but Lemon always wondered if it was more that he didn’t want to stray too far from home. For all the expensive suits and vintage Rolexes Tangerine was a creature of habit at heart, and some glass ceilings are less glass and more reinforced concrete. The thought turns Lemon’s stomach, and he switches to staring out the window in an attempt to distract himself.
The London he watches pass by outside the cab is the same as ever: grey churning sea of people, cars, buses, noise. The thrall of the city is muffled through the glass, drowned out by the soft mutterings of LBC radio from the front of the cab–but Lemon’s grateful for the buffer, because it means at least for a few moments longer he doesn’t have to face reality head on.
When they get to his address Lemon gets out the cab and traipses up to the building, cursing as he goes because the driver doesn’t have the common fucking decency to park next to the front door; then curses more when he gets the passcode to the building wrong the first time, only managing to get in on the second pass.
He didn’t have a key to the flat when he first got back to the country–must’ve got lost, well, god knows fucking when, to be honest–but he had the cabbie take him first to one of their many safety deposit boxes across the city, and by the grace of all the gods had managed to remember which one held the spare key.
Sloppy, a voice says at the back of his mind that sounds painfully familiar, feels like needles poking holes in his throat, shouldn’t take the same car to multiple locations, ‘specially not a fucking cab.
Lemon doesn’t think there’s eyes on him at the moment, given that he’s just got back after a month away, but who knows. Who cares, really.
That voice gets louder still in the lift up to the floor, then standing outside the door to the flat, the needles so sharp he feels like he’s gonna throw up on the spot. With hands he pretends aren’t shaking, he unlocks the door and drags his pathetic little suitcase that’s mostly for appearances behind him into the dark room, bracing when he flicks on the lights like he’s waiting for something.
(Like he might see Tangerine leaning against the kitchen counter, phone in one hand, mug in the other–faded West Ham one, only one he ever fucking uses–waistcoat and shirt on but casual-like, top few buttons undone, looking down as he idly scrolls his phone. Like he might glance up and see Lemon in the doorway, smile a little over the top of his mug as his eyebrows raise, customary welcome home that is never said out loud, before gesturing with his phone and launching into a tirade about the next job he’s got lined up for them.)
(Like he might see what he sees every time he closes his fucking eyes: Tangerine slumped sideways on the ground, blood covering everything; the floor, his clothes, Lemon’s hands when he grips his unmoving body.)
But the flat is empty, silent. It’s more a curse than it is a blessing.
Lemon kicks the door shut behind him and crosses into the open plan kitchen-living room, flopping onto the sofa opposite the big TV they bought when they moved in, their only concession to house-warming.
The rest of the flat looks like some kind of show home; hardly lived in. After they moved in they ended up spending most of their time away for work, all their gear is in various lock-ups across the city, and neither of them ever had much to put to their names to begin with.
It only occurs to him then that the money for the utilities must still be coming out of Tangerine’s bank account and he should probably look into that–Tangerine was always better at that stuff, and also the one clients paid, so he used to do the numbers and take the bills out before transferring Lemon his share from jobs. He kept most of their savings in overseas bank accounts, too, because he was uptight about that kind of shit; and the thought is a dull knife in Lemon’s heart, because what the fuck even was the point, anyway, now the contingencies are still here but he’s gone.
Lemon thinks he should probably sort the bills, check the post downstairs for any passive aggressive letters telling him he’s late on the council tax or whatever; should definitely change the locks, or to be on the safe side just find a new place and move out entirely.
None of that sounds much appealing though, and the longer he sits there thinking about it the larger the black mass in the centre of his chest grows, gravity strengthening until he’s held down, trapped there on the sofa, unable to do anything except stare at a patch on the wall above the TV and let the silence drill into his skull.
For some reason Lemon thinks he should probably be crying right now; feels guilty that he isn’t. It’s been like this since the train–the chest splitting grief, sure, but mostly just an overriding sense of guilt. He feels guilty that he’s managed to keep himself alive this past month, book the flights back to England on his own; feels guilty that he’s here and Tangerine isn’t.
Because that’s the kicker, really, the one thing that Lemon keeps circling back to: he left. No closure, no chance to get it when he abandoned Tangerine’s body in a foreign country halfway across the world.
(Wasn’t anything he could’ve done; by the time he got back to the crash site the place was swarming with coppers and the emergency services, same deal outside the hospital a few days later when he chanced a look there too, and some random British bloke poking around was going to raise questions, and rumours, and not knowing the extent to which the White Death’s organisation had gone to pot with the man himself, through some remaining sense of perhaps misplaced self-preservation he hadn’t wanted to risk it. He read the news articles, google translated from Japanese on his phone in the days following, enough to confirm what he already knew.
And besides, Tangerine was always practical; he wouldn’t have wanted Lemon getting nicked trying to recover his body from the authorities only for some bullshit sentimental idea that his final resting place must be sweet Anglo Terra. Once you’re dead, nothing after the fact matters; they lived by that philosophy all their professional lives. Would seem a bit hypocritical for it to not apply here as well.)
(He’d already said his goodbyes, on the train. Left Tangerine with a sticker pressed into his palm in exchange for Saint Christopher. Not quite made peace with it, but doubts he ever will.)
(He still fucking left.)
Lemon gets up, only bothering to swipe his keys off the coffee table before he strides out the door to the flat and locks it shut behind him.
--
It takes him two more days to work up the strength to go in Tangerine's room.
Like the rest of the flat it’s pretty sparsely furnished, not many personal effects save the West Ham flag Lemon’s pretty sure he’s had since they were teenagers hanging on the wall above the bed and the stack of books on the bedside table. At the bottom of the wardrobe filled with Tangerine’s suits, Lemon knows he’d find a safe containing twenty-odd fake passports and miscellaneous papers plus fifty thousand cash. There’s a little tin sitting on top the chest of drawers, open to reveal a few bits of old jewellery he doesn’t wear anymore-his Dad’s old cufflinks, the watch he bought after their first big time job.
Maybe it’s the sudden weight of the chain around his neck, little medallion cool against his skin, but at the sight of those trinkets something breaks.
It’s the accumulation of all the little things he’s been trying not to think about, fully pressurised now he’s back in the familiar space: the boxes of Jaffa Cakes, stashed in the bottom-most kitchen drawer ‘cause they’re Tangerine’s favourites; the boots neatly tucked in the cubby by the door and the scarf draped over the coat hook in claret and blue; the empty space at his side not demanding the TV remote every five minutes or complaining about how Lemon puts too much milk in the tea. The slightest spark, and it all alights.
Lemon slumps onto the floor, leaning against the chest of drawers at his back as sobs tear open his chest, clutching the medallion at his throat like it’s a lifeline–like it’s the only remaining tether he has to Tangerine, only thing in the world to prove that he lived, ‘cause it pretty much fucking is–and if he lets go he won’t have anything left.
He doesn’t know how much time passes, could be hours for what it feels like; all he knows is he’s left sitting alone on the floor with stinging eyes and a hollowed-out chest. His phone buzzes in his pocket, and he ignores it.
Whoever is calling is clearly persistent, because it goes off again almost immediately. Eventually relenting, Lemon fishes it out of his pocket, taking a second to glance over the caller ID before hitting the accept call button and dragging it with too-heavy hands up to his ear. Not even bothering to mask the roughness in his voice, he forgoes the pleasantries and answers,
“Whatever it is, I’m in.”
--
Being back in London feels like being buried alive.
On every street corner of every neighbourhood they ever made a mark on he’s trapped six feet under, like he could turn and Tangerine would be there, waiting for him outside the newsagents or beside him on the tube platform–and even if he screamed and screamed until he ran out of air nobody would hear him, or care, because there’s no one up above looking for him, and because it’s London.
Sometimes, late at night when he can’t sleep, he thinks about taking matters into his own hands and just fucking ending it, but in all cases the thought is quickly quashed down. It feels wrong to even consider, like pissing all over Tangerine’s figurative grave. Evokes memories of playground whispers and Tangerine’s voice, adamant, when I go out, it won’t be suicide.
Once or twice he considers getting out the game, move somewhere quiet–Scotland, Somerset maybe–but what the fuck else would he do. Going around in those circles in his head is an exercise in futility if ever there was one, because getting out isn’t an option. Maybe, once, it might’ve been-but it was never something they talked about, because the inevitable was always just that. Live by the sword, etcetera etcetera. And now perhaps even more so than ever, it seems only fair that Lemon should also one day meet a grisly end staring down the barrel of a gun.
So, retirement: not an option.
The work is probably the only thing Lemon doesn’t mind, actually. Something about the adrenaline rush, the hyper-focus that drowns out everything except the fight. Lemon’s done jobs alone before, although admittedly little more than point-and-shoots; Tangerine was always the one to sort out the details, actually know what they were supposed to be doing. But he still has contacts, and it gets easier once he gets set up with a handler, then it’s business as usual: new code name, new identity, new life. The best part about the industry is that no one asks too many questions–the only question is if you’re good enough, and it’s one soon answered by whether you make it back from the job alive.
Starting over is the simple part, keeping moving is easy; the problem lies in the moments in between.
A couple of months on and the grief is still a gaping hole in his chest, jagged and visceral and gory, and he can just about live around it as long as he doesn't move too fast, do anything to jostle the wound, linger too long on any memories or the searing, nauseating regrets. Lemon never considered himself a masochist in the past, but he thinks now he might have to rethink that assessment. Because a significant part of him doesn’t want the pain to heal–because if it does it’s like admitting that Tangerine really is gone.
Couple times he thinks about therapy–seemed like it was working pretty well for Ladybug, all things considered–but quickly brushes off the idea, because Jesus Christ.
Tangerine was never any good at talking about his feelings, ever the eternally repressed Englishman, stiff fucking upper lip and all that; and when it came down to it Lemon couldn’t really say he was much better.
They never talked about that sort of thing, the deep things, ever; but mainly because they never really had to. It’s not like there was no understanding there: same life, same experiences, they’d both been through enough deeply traumatising shit to drive any normal and well adjusted person to insanity.
He didn’t know Tangerine like the back of his hand; Tangerine was his right hand. To not have Tangerine by his side feels like he’s missing a limb–he’s still here, waking up on a daily basis to live with the excruciating pain, walking around with an open wound and just waiting for the day he finally bleeds out.
He hasn’t moved out yet; hasn't even been back in Tangerine’s room since the one time. He knows no amount of ignoring the issue, kicking about in the same silent flat and watching the same box sets of Thomas on repeat on the big TV is going to change things, but for lack of real desire to do so, it’s all he ends up doing. Weeks seem to last forever, but stack up faster than he expects; before he’s even realised it nearly six months have passed. Time doesn’t fix anything, just makes him feel further and further from Tangerine, and he hates it.
Maybe fate will do him another solid and sort the bills out for him, find him a new place to live that doesn’t constantly remind him of Tangerine, or better yet just put him out of his misery entirely. But until that point Lemon resolves that he might as well be doing something to fill the time, and so continues to do what he does best.
(Besides, he needs to make sure there’s a space carved out for him beside Tangerine when he finally makes it down.)
--
Lemon moves on animal instinct alone because in the moment his brain is pure fucking fried, but next thing he knows he’s behind the pillar clutching at his elbow. Bullet just nicked his upper arm, nothing he won’t survive. Stings, but it barely even registers.
“What the fuck,” Lemon yells around the pillar, because really, what the fuck. “Tangerine?”
“Dunno who the fuck that is, mate,” comes Tangerine’s reply, his voice so familiar it feels like a hand has wrenched into Lemon’s chest and wrung out his heart like a sponge. “Don’t seem like you’re with Becker’s men, so who are you? Come out now and I’ll only kill you after you explain. Good manners, innit.”
“What the fuck,” Lemon repeats, mostly to himself, because nothing Tangerine’s saying makes any sense. For a second he doubts himself; brushes it off just as quickly because he knows it’s Tangerine.
(It is, it has to be, Lemon knows him better than anyone in the world, know him in death and all the fucking rest–)
Ignoring the part of his mind that’s screaming at him right now, aware of the danger (screaming that Tangerine shot him, on purpose), Lemon drops his gun on the floor and steps out from behind the pillar, hands raised in surrender. Heart pounding so hard he’s sure Tangerine must be able to hear it too.
Tangerine’s walked over so that they’re only a few feet apart. Lemon’s still not convinced he isn’t just gonna shoot him anyway; wouldn’t be out of character. They’ve both pulled that same trick before.
“Tangerine,” Lemon chances when he isn’t immediately shot. Tangerine’s glaring at him something terrible, deadly fucking serious like Lemon’s rarely even seen himself, aiming his gun directly at Lemon with both hands. “It’s me, mate,” he says, even though it’s bloody fucking obvious, and the longer that passes without Tangerine recognising him the more Lemon’s aware something is seriously off. “What the fuck’s going on?”
Tangerine’s mouth draws into an even tighter line; doesn't make any snarky reply, which is unusual. He’s unnerved, Lemon realises, tension held in his shoulders so tight it could snap at a moment’s notice.
Lemon forces himself to stop and really look–he focuses on the minutiae in Tangerine’s expression, leans on gut feeling more than logic. Blank, confused, defensive. Not a spark of recognition. He’s not lying. He really doesn’t recognise Lemon.
And for that, there’s only one explanation Lemon’s addled brain can come up with in the moment:
“You don’t remember.”
He doesn’t specify what, but he doesn’t really have to. It covers everything: the train, the job. Every part of their lives since they were kids, because they’ve always been together, and if Tangerine doesn't remember him, he doesn’t remember any of it.
Lemon can see the emotions fight on Tangerine's face as he takes in the words, before he hisses, “How the fuck do you know that?”
Instantly something flashes through Tangerine’s eyes, aware he’s revealed too much; his grip on the gun falters for a beat before pulling tighter, goes to pull the trigger–
But Lemon is already there, sees the train of thought before it’s even taken root in Tangerine’s mind, and in the second of hesitation he rushes him.
He’s not trying to hurt him, but Tangerine is pulled taut and ready for a fight, Lemon can read it in the tension in his shoulders and the sharpness in his eyes, and it’s impossible to disarm him without using a little force. Tangerine staggers back when Lemon elbows him sharply in the throat, coughing painfully in a way that makes Lemon’s heart twist in his chest.
(He’s never fought Tangerine, not like this, ever; it goes against every instinct in his body, every nerve firing at double time is screaming at the wrongness of the situation.)
A dark shadow passes over Tangerine’s face when he glances back up and sees the gun now in Lemon’s hands, something changing in his expression, nostrils flaring–some last ditch defiance, go on then, fucking prick, do it.
Lemon ejects the clip of the gun and lets it fall to the ground, kicks it skittering across the floor of the warehouse. The gun he tosses to the floor in the opposite direction; does the same for the second he has in the holster underneath his jacket.
The look on Tangerine’s face shifts to confusion, grasping around to find the trap or the angle in Lemon’s actions. Lemon raises his hands placatingly as he says, serious as anything, “Listen, mate. I ain’t gonna fight you. Seems we were here to do the same job, at any rate, so really no reason for it,” and gives a nod to the body on the floor behind Tangerine.
“Right, sorry, who the fuck are you?” Tangerine asks, defaulting back to bluster now they’re on an even playing field.
Lemon hesitates, almost about to say it, but dials back at the last second. Can’t tell who might be listening in here, and he’s already fucked up once today. “Lemon,” he answers, figures with some amount of irony the old codename is most appropriate at the moment. “You can call me that.”
Tangerine goes to say something, but before he can Lemon cuts him off, “Look, I know you got no reason to believe me,” not really aware of what he’s saying, only the fact that Tangerine is standing right in front of him like he didn’t die on a Shinkansen in Japan six months ago, the single thought pounding in his head like a kick drum–he’s alive, he’s alive, he’s alive–“But I know you. And you know me, but you don’t remember, and I don’t know why that is, but, well...”
Tangerine’s eyes narrow, issuing an obvious challenge: prove it. Suddenly Lemon’s acutely aware of the fact that they can’t stay here in this warehouse forever, fuck knows if Tangerine took out all the men or whether they called for reinforcements, so he’s going to have to get him on side real fast.
Or, if not get him on side, do the one thing he knows he can: prove it.
“Twin swallows on your wrists,” Lemon starts, nodding down at Tangerine’s arms that are covered by the sleeves of the black trench coat he’s wearing. “Boxing gloves for your Dad on your right forearm. That shitty bulldog and West Ham United on your left.”
Lemon’s aware the colour’s all but drained from Tangerine’s face, but damn if he’s gonna stop at that. “Broke your left middle finger when we were, what, in year 8? It healed wonky, kind of bent like. Got that scar on your side from Tommy fucking Peters when we were seventeen; gunshot wound from Cairo on your shoulder–”
“Alright, fuck,” Tangerine interrupts. He looks visibly shaken, like he wants to retort to Lemon that it still doesn’t mean anything. Which it doesn’t, Lemon supposes, because to Tangerine it could still be a trap. But Tangerine’s always been too good to let anyone have that amount of information on him, and Lemon thinks he knows that as well.
“Look, mate, I’ll explain everything–”
Something flashes down the far end of the warehouse–glint of metal, movement behind Tangerine’s head, and Lemon is already grabbing him and strong arming him behind the pillar before he even has the chance to exclaim, “Fuck! ” as gunshots ring out across the warehouse floor.
In a second Lemon tries to pin down the number of syncopated beats; four, maybe five. “Must’ve seen us,” he mutters as Tangerine swears up a storm under his breath. With his foot Lemon drags the gun he discarded on the floor earlier back to him and picks it up. There’s not really space behind the pillar for them both, shoulder to shoulder.
“And who’s fucking fault is that,” Tangerine mutters at him. “Chucked my bloody gun across the room, too. Oi, gimme that,” he demands, nodding to the silver pistol in Lemon’s hand.
“No fucking way,” Lemon replies. “My aim’s way better.”
Ignoring Tangerine’s put out look, Lemon whips his head around the pillar for a second to assess the situation. Five men spread out across the far end of the room and firing at them indiscriminately, so no surprises there. But he also spots some black tarp tied to the ceiling almost directly above the men, put up as if to keep light or prying eyes out of the skylight on the roof. Looks like it’s been up there a while, because the ropes are coming loose. And that’ll do nicely.
“Might be able to make a distraction if you wanna go get your own,” Lemon says, nodding to the gun he threw to the floor of the warehouse earlier. “Got an idea.”
“Oh yeah, wanna fucking share, then?”
“A Touch of Glass?” he suggests with a grin.
“‘Scuse?”
The blank look on Tangerine’s face is like a punch to the gut, but Lemon doesn’t have the time to dwell on it right now. Later, he tells himself, just get out alive first.
“Gonna bring that shit down on them,” he says in explanation, gesturing with his gun to the tarp.
“That gonna work?” Tangerine asks, doubtful.
Lemon shrugs. “Fuck if I know. But unless you got any better ideas?”
“You’re fucking mental,” is all Tangerine mutters as he swaps places with Lemon behind the pillar, which means no.
“Didn’t think so,” Lemon says, an amused quirk on his lips despite himself, then ducks around the pillar and fires a few shots in quick succession at the ropes tying the tarp to the ceiling.
The tarp falls, and as expected it doesn’t do much except act as distraction while Tangerine darts out from the other side of the pillar. He slides onto the floor, grabbing the gun and a spare magazine out a coat pocket simultaneously, reloading in one smooth, effortless motion. The gun in his hands is already aimed at the men across the warehouse before they even have the chance to realise what’s happening, no hesitation as he fires, one, two, three, four, five.
Four of his shots hit their targets dead centre, but the fifth only clips the man on the shoulder. He swings his own gun around to aim at Tangerine, but Lemon sends a bullet into his forehead before he gets the chance to pull the trigger.
Lemon lets out a hard breath into the cool air once silence settles over the warehouse. His heart’s hammering furiously and honestly more than anything feels like he’s about to throw up, but thinks that’s less to do with the gunfight. That, and how seamlessly he and Tangerine work together, that’s all second nature.
Keeping his own gun raised in front of him, Lemon walks a little way over to the far end of the warehouse, scanning the rest of the room. There doesn’t appear to be any more men besides those now strewn over the floor in a heap of limbs and plastic sheeting.
Now that that’s taken care of he’s feeling pretty good about the whole thing, only to turn back to find Tangerine’s gun aimed directly at him.
“Are you fucking kidding me right now?” Lemon protests. “Was that really not enough to show you we’re on the same fucking side?”
“Enemy of my enemy don’t make you my friend,” Tangerine replies without missing a beat, moustache twitching.
Lemon watches him for a moment–he’s still glaring at Lemon like he’s trying to burn holes in his head, but less tense than before. Curious, but trying not to seem it. Lemon doesn't really believe Tangerine has any intention of killing him anymore, at least not right now, so he takes a leap of faith before he can think about it too much, and says, “Look, mate, we can’t stay here, not unless you wanna fight every fucker with a gun this side of Berlin. I got a gaff not far from here where we can talk.”
Tangerine’s eyes narrow, and in that second Lemon’s certain he’s going to say no. There’s nothing more he can say right now to convince him, Lemon knows, but he also knows he absolutely cannot lose him here–the idea is a black miasma gathering at the back of his mind, doesn’t even bear thinking about. As a single last ditch resort Lemon takes his own gun, turning it around so the grip is facing Tangerine, and holds it out towards him.
Looking straight at him, Lemon shrugs. “Shoot me if you want, just… hear me out first.”
Tangerine regards the gun in Lemon’s hand with a hard stare, just as aware of the gravity of the gesture as Lemon is. It would be in any world, even more so in theirs; it’s a show of absolute trust, not only putting his life in Tangerine’s hands, but the power to end it, too.
After a moment that feels like a lifetime, just when Lemon’s thinking he’s about to refuse, he walks over and reaches out to take it. “Fine,” he says shortly. “Got some things I might want to ask myself, to be fair. But I swear to god, any fucking around and I’ll put a bullet through your head so quick you won’t even fucking know about it.”
The threat is classic Tangerine sabre rattling, but Lemon knows better than to think he doesn’t mean it. He raises his hands in lazy surrender, even smiles a little as he says, “Message received, now let’s get the fuck outta here, yeah?”
Tangerine juts his chin in agreement. “Lead on, then.”
--
The tension in the little apartment is so thick Lemon can hardly breathe.
(Or, more likely he’s finding the whole breathing thing a little difficult right now because of the shock, y’know, of Tangerine being decidedly not dead.)
(That he’s been not dead this whole time, six months, and Lemon was all the while none the wiser. All this time, he could’ve been–well, Lemon doesn’t know what, exactly, but feels certain he should’ve been doing something.)
(Some fucking brother he is.)
Tangerine steps into the apartment behind Lemon, eyes flickering over the room, skittish like a wild animal about to bolt. Lemon closes the door behind them, slowly, and Tangerine’s gaze snaps over to him as his thumb pulls back the safety on the gun in his hand, obvious warning.
Lemon raises his eyebrows to say, yeah, yeah, I know, as he makes for the bathroom.
“Where you going?” Tangerine calls after him.
“You fucking shot me, mate, remember?” Lemon replies casually, as he opens the cabinet above the sink and pulls out the first aid box. At the same time, he takes out his phone and fires off a short text to his handler before putting it on silent and stuffing it back in his pocket.
It’s funny, but somehow he feels more at ease around Tangerine now he’s armed and Lemon’s not. He’s never not been comfortable with putting his life in Tangerine’s hands before, and it says all he needs to know that he isn’t now, either.
Lemon strips off his shirt to get a look at the wound on his upper arm, although the angle makes it difficult to properly assess and there’s no mirror in the tiny room. Looks like it’s only a flesh wound, nothing that’s gonna require stitches. He considers making a quip about Tangerine’s aim, but thinks better of it given that the man is only in the other room over with a loaded gun in hand. “There’s some teabags in the cupboard if you wanna stick the kettle on, yeah?” he calls out, making a concerted effort to sound as casual as possible, though the words feel awkward, heavy, out of practice and all wrong in the strange liminal space of the safehouse.
No answer from the other room, perhaps unsurprisingly. Lemon finishes wrapping a shoddy bandage job around his arm–he’ll redo it later, but he doesn’t have the time right now to be pissing around with this–and shrugs his ruined shirt back on before he walks through to the main room.
Tangerine is by the wall, standing next to but not in front of one of the windows overlooking the street, facing the door. The gun is still in his hand and doesn’t appear to be going anywhere, but Lemon supposes that’s fine.
Seeing him across the room, profile illuminated by the streetlamps outside and the single dim bulb hanging overhead, Lemon stutters for a moment in the doorway. It feels not dissimilar to what he felt after Tangerine died, those first few weeks in Japan when he couldn’t do anything but the bare minimum to keep himself alive–like the rug’s been pulled out from beneath his feet so thoroughly he can’t even comprehend what’s happening, his entire world shot to pieces.
Tangerine tilts his head slightly, eyes narrowing the longer Lemon stands there. From his position Lemon can just about see the top of a grisly scar poking out above the collar of Tangerine’s shirt. His mouth turns dry at the sight, something rising in his chest too large in its enormity to place or even acknowledge right now lest he open the fucking floodgates for real; so he looks away and walks over to the tiny kitchenette, flicking on the kettle he filled up earlier that afternoon. He fishes a mug off the draining board, opens the cupboard and takes out a box of teabags.
“Sure you don’t want one?” Lemon asks amicably, lightly shaking the box in Tangerine’s direction. “It’s PG Tips, none of that continental shit.”
“Didn’t come here for a fucking cup of tea, did I,” Tangerine replies, finally breaking his silence. Index finger tapping against the trigger of the gun. Antsy. Better not test his patience much longer.
“Suit yourself,” Lemon mutters as he pours water into the mug and moves to lean against the counter facing Tangerine. “So do you wanna start or should I?”
“I’ll go,” Tangerine says. “Wanna know who the fuck you are, how you think you know me, and one good reason why I shouldn’t put a bullet in your head right the fuck now.”
The first question, at least, is easily enough answered. “Callum Brookes,” Lemon says without hesitation. Tries to ignore the heavy weight that settles itself in his stomach at the complete lack of recognition on Tangerine’s face.
“You… we were…” Lemon continues, but as he starts he realises there is no single, conceivable way to sum up his and Tangerine’s relationship. Brothers has never been quite accurate; friends doesn’t even begin to cut it. He couldn’t put his feelings into words said out loud to the man when he was alive before, when they’d spent almost their entire lives being the other’s half, maybe because they never had to; how the fuck is he supposed to say it when Tangerine doesn’t even know who he is. Lemon swallows hard around the lump in his throat, just about managing to get the words out as he says, stupidly, “We were mates.”
Tangerine shifts by the window, picking up on the change in Lemon’s voice. Lemon thinks maybe his grip on the gun loosens by an increment, or maybe he imagines it.
“Partners, even,” Lemon restates, hand reaching up to brush against his stubble. It’s scratchy under his skin and the sensation is all wrong, grates against the walls of his awareness. “‘S prolly more accurate.”
“Partners,” Tangerine repeats somewhat disbelievingly, meeting Lemon’s gaze with a raised brow.
“Yeah, man. The Twins?”
Something flashes across Tangerine’s face and he frowns, Lemon’s heart jumping into his throat before he realises it’s only the name Tangerine recognises.
“The Twins died in Japan,” Tangerine states like he’s a kid repeating something he’s overheard. Lemon doesn’t know how the fuck he knows that, but he doesn’t know who he is; it’s like trying to put together a puzzle without being given all the parts or even an inkling of what the picture should look like.
“Well, yeah,” Lemon replies eventually, because there’s nothing else to say. “You died, mate. Or, at least, that’s what I thought–all this time–”
His voice cracks on the last word and he jerkily looks to the side, biting back tears as he grabs the mug off the countertop.
Tangerine being right here - alive, breathing, all but fifteen feet away from him and looking at him with those sharp, distrusting eyes, it’s suddenly too much. There’s nothing Lemon wants more than to hold Tangerine’s face between his hands and his forehead against his, run his fingers through brown curls like he hasn’t done for years; and Tangerine is right there, it would be so easy, and it’s a fresh knife in his chest to know he still can’t cross that divide no matter how much he wants to.
Just keep it together, fuck. Breaking down for sure isn’t gonna help the situation, probably just scare Tangerine off.
So he takes a too-big swig of tea instead, scalding his mouth in the process. “I thought you died,” he repeats, steeling his voice and heart with it. “We did a job for the White Death, right, rescue his son, deliver the kid and a briefcase to him in Kyoto. All went fucking tits up, of course, lost the case, kid went and got himself killed, then that Ladybug prick shot you,” Lemon says, gesturing to his own neck. “Accidentally, so he says, not like it fucking matters. But… guessing you might’ve known some of that part already,” he adds, because he doubts Tangerine could’ve almost died and not realised, amnesia or no.
Tangerine doesn’t say anything, just glares out the window at a group of lads outside the hostel, which means Lemon is on the money.
“Now I dunno if that’s enough to convince you to stay your pretty little hand,” Lemon says sarcastically, nodding to the gun still in Tangerine’s crossed arms, “But it’s what I got. And I swear on my life, yours too, it’s all true, mate.”
Tangerine glances down at the gun in his own hand, letting out a small huff. “Yeah, well, whatever,” he mutters. “Suppose all that was true, and I’m not saying it is, but. Suppose. You expect me to believe we just happened to bump into each other today on pure fucking chance?”
Lemon shrugs. “I dunno, man. Maybe fate finally decided to take pity? ‘Sides, the biz ain’t all that big. Bet we would’ve run into each other sooner or later. Who you working for, anyway? Nobody else should’ve had that info on the Berlin guys.”
Tangerine looks back at him with a sharp glance, not answering immediately, like he’s weighing up a lot of things in his head.
“You know who took over what was left of the White Death’s organisation when he kicked it?” Tangerine asks suddenly.
“At the top? Not really.”
“Kim Seong-Su. Korean bloke, calls himself the Lion. One of the White Death's highest lieutenants. Right piece of fucking work.”
“Sure, and?”
Tangerine tilts his head and gives Lemon a look, and it’s a couple more seconds before he catches on.
“Oh, fucking hell, mate,” Lemon breathes.
“Fucking hell is about right, yeah,” Tangerine mutters, looking out the window again. “I woke up,” he starts, cuts off, flexing his jaw like he’s fighting with himself, then continues in a strained voice, “In a hospital in Japan, right. Didn’t remember a fucking thing. And if what you’re saying is true, I’m guessing the White Death’s men who found me there were planning on finishing me off themselves, before said lieutenant perhaps saw in my misfortune an opportunity presented.”
“He said I had a contract working for them, and I’d fucked up–guess that wasn’t a lie, then. But given that I was out of action at the time, Kim graciously decided to stay his judgement until a chance to redeem myself arose,” Tangerine explains in a voice dripping with sarcasm. “And the rest, as they say. Never mentioned you, though. But maybe that’s not so surprising.”
Something familiar rises up in Lemon’s chest–only a hundred times stronger than he’s ever felt before, even through the worst of it. That same guilt, black pit in his heart, swallowing everything.
(He knows that if the White Death’s men were involved, it’s entirely likely the whole thing was covered up before he would’ve been able to catch wind of it. Unlikely he could’ve known Tangerine survived, if they didn’t want anyone to.)
(It changes nothing: Tangerine lived, and he left.)
“Wait, wait,” Lemon starts, pushing that down for now, because one thing still isn’t adding up. “If you’re working for the White Death–or, the new White Death, or this Lion or whatever the fuck this guy is calling himself–then why the hell did you just clean out a warehouse of his own men?”
Tangerine shrugs. “Berlin outfit betrayed him, not recognising him as top dog. I reckon they were getting a bit big for their boots, and he wanted to send a message.”
“You met this Lion bloke, personally?”
“Mm,” Tangerine hums in assent, dark look on his face.
Quiet falls over the room as Lemon takes in Tangerine’s words; Tangerine continues glaring out the window, fiddling with the gun in his hand. Lemon’s abandoned tea growing cold on the counter. He still doesn’t completely get it, but what he does get is that Tangerine is deep in it, and it’s bad.
As if on cue, Tangerine’s phone starts buzzing in his pocket, only audible for the heavy silence. Tangerine pulls it out and glances over the screen, face twisting. He looks up at Lemon for a second before hitting the accept call button, starting to pace across the room as he raises the phone to his ear, gesturing with the gun in his other hand as he does.
Lemon must’ve seen the same thing a hundred times before in their flat in London, it’s like being shot straight through the chest. Tangerine’s quiet for a moment before he answers into the phone, “Yeah, it’s done.”
Another few beats, before, “Fucking hell, give a fella a chance. Only just made it out of there, Christ alive.”
A serious look passes over his face as he listens to the voice on the other end, then glances directly over at Lemon, meeting his gaze as he says, “Nah mate. No problems here.”
Only a couple of seconds pass this time before he answers in quick succession, “Yeah. Fine,” then taps the end call button. “Tosser,” he mutters halfheartedly at the phone, before turning to Lemon. “Don’t have any fags on you, do you?”
Lemon shakes his head. “Sorry, mate.”
“Fuck’s sake,” Tangerine mutters, running a hand over his mouth.
After a moment Lemon chances to ask, “So what happens now?”
“Can’t stay,” Tangerine replies simply. “Gotta meet with another contact before I leave Berlin.”
His eyes flick up to meet Lemon’s as he continues, in a hard tone, “Don’t get me wrong. I know those cunts in Japan haven’t been telling me everything. And I don’t trust a single one of them. But that’s no more reason why I should trust you.”
Lemon knows it’s probably the moment to plead his case but he doesn't really know what more he can say, and what comes out is, “Come to London with me.”
Tangerine looks at him like he’s just grown another head. He goes to say something, and Lemon’s sure he’s about to shoot him down, so starts, “Look, it’s just like in the episode of Thomas when Duncan’s shifting a lot of cargo up the hill, right, and he can’t see over the ridge so Thomas runs ahead to guide him–”
“What the fuck are you on about, mate.”
Willing him to get the point, Lemon vehemently continues, “Sometimes you have to rely on others, when you can’t see over the hill yourself. So trust me.”
Tangerine looks at him for a long moment, but he doesn’t tell him to piss off immediately, which must count for something. He’s doing that thing he does sometimes when there’s something big on his mind, chewing on his thoughts like a dog with a bone, but won’t let himself bring to words whatever it is; like he thinks showing even the tiniest amount of vulnerability will be the end of all fucking things. So he just glares at Lemon, not putting anything forward, as if Lemon’s supposed to be a bloody mindreader or something; then gets annoyed when he isn’t. Lemon would take him by the shoulders and shake if he thought it might knock the words out of him, but knows it wouldn’t do anything except piss him off more.
In the end, after a long pause, what Tangerine says is, “My flight back to Tokyo is in,” and makes a show of checking his watch, “Five hours.”
Lemon’s heart is thumping in his chest when he asks, “And if you don’t go back?” although he thinks he already knows the answer.
Tangerine shakes his head, mouth a thin line.
He’s not about to put his neck on the line on the word of someone he’s only just met–the thought twists in Lemon’s heart, but he pushes it aside–fair enough. If the late White Death’s organisation is even half of what it used to be, there’d be a bounty on Tangerine’s head before the collar has even hit the ground. Or so Lemon assumes.
“But,” Tangerine suddenly continues, “It’s possible. That I might be in London sometime.”
“When?” Lemon blurts out, and Tangerine's expression turns annoyed.
“I don’t fucking know, do I?” he replies. “All I’m saying is, I can probably wrangle it next time a job comes up. That’s all. No promises. But if I do do this,” he continues, gesturing towards Lemon with the gun in his hand. “You tell me everything. Start to fucking finish.”
In way of reply Lemon simply takes out his phone. He unlocks it and creates a new contact before walking a few paces towards Tangerine and holding it out to him. Tangerine eyes the phone in his hand dubiously, and Lemon rolls his eyes.
“Can’t text you my address if I don’t have your number, can I?”
He’s not bluffing on that, either, has every intention of sending Tangerine his genuine fucking home address–half the flat’s his, anyway. Lemon reasons it’s more likely Tangerine will think it all an elaborate trap if they agree on a neutral location; he’s putting everything on the line here, and Tangerine must be able to recognise that as well.
Tangerine scowls at him, but walks over and swipes the phone from Lemon’s hand all the same. He punches something in with more force than necessary, locks the phone and passes it back. “I’m keeping this, though,” he adds, brandishing Lemon’s gun.
Lemon lets out a little breath that might almost be a laugh, although there’s nothing remotely funny in the situation. “Fair enough.”
Tangerine gives him another look signalling conversation’s over and starts to walk to the front door, but stops halfway. “Oh yeah,” he starts as if a thought has just come to mind, but his voice is flat and Lemon knows him well enough to know that’s not the case. “The fuck’d you call me, by the way?”
“What, Tangerine?”
“Not that,” Tangerine says, gaze flicking over Lemon’s face for a second before looking away. Lemon’s sure he doesn’t imagine the searching look in his eyes this time. “Earlier. A name.”
It’s only then that the recognition jolts into Lemon’s chest. “Will,” he says with a sandpaper mouth and a thumping heart, because forming the words on his tongue goes against every one of his learned instincts; because he has to forcibly drag the name out from behind the walls it lies behind in his mind; because he thought he’d never have cause to speak it out loud ever again. “William James Cooper.”
In the thick silence Lemon continues, “You, ah. Prolly won’t find that on many official records, though.”
Tangerine continues glaring at the door, but nods once, stiffly. An unspoken truth hangs in the air above them, so blindingly obvious neither of them need acknowledge it–that Lemon could easily be lying, Tangerine wouldn’t be able to tell.
After another strained moment Tangerine sighs, the first real release of any of the tension he’s been holding all night. “Should go without saying that if you talk about this to anyone I’ll hunt you down and fucking kill you,” he says, but there’s so little heat to the threat it’s almost comical.
“Yeah man, I know,” Lemon tries to lightly reply, but it’s getting harder to hold it together and his voice shakes a little on the words. Like he’s trying to put everything he wants to say into the casual promise–don’t go, I’m sorry, I missed you so fucking much, I love you–but all that comes out is the same two pathetic words; and if any of that does manage to reach Tangerine, he doesn’t let on.
In the end Tangerine simply nods a little and turns to leave. Lemon’s knees are giving out before the door has even clicked shut behind him, something that feels a lot like grief splitting his chest in two as he starts sobbing right there on the kitchenette tiles.
Part of him wants to run after Tangerine, say sorry mate, I forgot something as he throws his arms around him and probably gets shot for the privilege; part of him is certain his mind has finally started crumbling under the weight of the past six months and simply imagined the entire thing, one last fuck you before it gives out for good and he might as well take that bullet to the brain that’s been looking more and more inviting by the day.
But neither of his guns are in their holsters where they should be, and that alone is cause to believe that he didn’t just hallucinate the past two hours–that, and the fact that when he finally unlocks the phone he’s been gripping in his hand so tightly it’s left a mark, it opens onto a newly created contact–and there, unblinking on the LED screen, a mobile number, and a codename.
Foxglove.