Archive of Our Own

There is so much to a name. Cypher would know that well. It’s the first gateway into information about that person, which is exactly why Cypher remains Cypher and not the man underneath the mask.

He had decided long ago that Amir El Amari died the moment Cypher left the front door of his old house in Rabat. Ever since, he never had a name nor an identity to call his own—nothing but the codename Cypher. Information broker Cypher. Masked man watchdog Cypher.

If home could be more than a place, perhaps he’d say his home is in that name. He confides in being Cypher more than anything else, because leaving everything behind to be Cypher excuses him of his sins. But every so often, the name Cypher doesn’t fit perfectly. Like in his dreams where Nora reaches out for him, caressing a face that doesn’t feel like his. She gently coos, “Cypher,” and his entire dream crumbles.

There is a distinct separation between Cypher and Amir that he’s been neglecting to acknowledge. But every time these two worlds collide, the truth behind the matter becomes more and more evident with each crash. Nora loved Amir, not Cypher. And now Vincent—or Chamber, perhaps, but that name was more of a facade than a separate entity—loves Cypher, but not Amir.

On first thought, that should be fine. In fact, that’s the way it should be—or so Cypher thought, but his heart could never really settle with the idea. Perhaps somewhere deep down, the ghost of Amir loved Vincent too; wanted to share his story to him, a feeling Cypher’s never been haunted with so drastically up until now.

The obvious initial reaction is rejection. Vincent can never know. Nobody can ever know. Amir is dead, after all.

But on second thought, maybe Amir isn’t as dead as he thinks. It must be Amir who draws his hand gently through Vincent’s hair, or showers him in flowery phrases, because it’s certainly not Cypher. And if so, then the mere idea of Vincent loving the wrong person is an unbearably heavy thought to hold onto. Perhaps it’s too cruel to leave the other so in the dark in the first place. What person would crave a person’s love while his lover knows not his face, name, or anything else about him?

Cypher swallows nervously. The dim light of his office doesn’t provide him any answers at all to his dilemma. He knows the facts—he mustn’t show, he shouldn’t—yet still he considers for just a moment…

Maybe it’s time to give Vincent a piece of himself after all. It’s been so long since Vincent’s given Cypher his everything that it’d be inhumane to not give something in return after all of these months.

Amir had always been a big romantic. Unlike Nora who was never big on all the flower semantics and romantic gestures, Amir loved it all. Bouquets, hand kisses, nights spent under moonlight—you name it, Nora and Amir had it. And even if Nora didn’t care too much for it, the smile on his face as he extends her some roses is priceless. That’s why she tolerates Valentine’s Day knowing how much thought and effort Amir puts into it for her, even if she was otherwise indifferent about the day.

As Valentine’s Day approaches again, Cypher considers what to do. There had been no need to celebrate the years before; watching young love blossom through the headquarters as Viper is left picking petals off of dead roses had been plenty sufficient enough. But this year, with Chamber around, it’s different. Sitting around and watching is no longer an option.

Cypher, as much as he thinks he’s abandoned Amir, can not resist the hauntingly familiar Valentine’s sentiment. And deep down, he’s relieved. Chamber had put up with his cold demeanor for so long; it’s the least Cypher feels like he can do at this point.

When the day arrives, he leaves his plans a secret—just like everything else of his—but he certainly does have a plan. And, knowing Chamber well enough already, there would be no need to tell him to come over to his office or anything; the other man does so bright and early on the morning of, just as Cypher expects.

The door is knocked four times—thrice and a delayed fourth, because Chamber feels inclined to personalize everything he does—before Cypher hums, “Come in.” There is no need to check the cameras to identify the man behind the door, the knock says it all. The light cologne and smell of aromatic coffee only confirms Cypher’s guess.

“Bonjour, mon amour,” Chamber coos, sauntering his way over to Cypher. He places the cup of coffee to the side of Cypher’s laptop and leans against the desk as he always does, eyes off of Cypher’s work, just as he prefers. “J'espère que tu n'as pas encore travaillé toute la nuit.”

“If I did, I’d have no energy to understand you at all,” Cypher jests. “Et toi? Avez-vous bien dormi?”

“Well enough, I suppose. But these beds still have nothing on the ones I have at home.”

“You’ve always been hard to please.”

“Allez, you effortlessly please me. And besides, you like that about me.”

“Oh? I don’t remember saying anything like that. Yes, in fact, I quite hate that about you.”

Chamber laughs, moving himself behind Cypher to wrap his arms around his seated figure. His head nuzzles in close to Cypher’s neck, comfortable even with the odd texture of Cypher’s bodysuit against his skin. He’s grown to be quite used to it, actually. That’s something Cypher could never be more grateful about. “Right. Happy Valentine’s Day to you too.”

Cypher nearly snorts, letting his hands fall from his keyboard. “Happy Valentine’s Day, Vin. Do you have anything for me?”

“What is this, I have to have something for you now?”

“You’re saying you don’t?”

“No. But Valentine’s Day is so much more than just the gifts, isn’t it?”

Laughing, Cypher lets his head lean back more into Chamber. “You’re too much of a romantic not to have gotten me anything.”

“Oh, sorry, I must have forgotten about how you know everything and everyone. Yet you call me hard to please. Then, I guess you’re right—I do have something. But why even bother asking?”

“Because if you lied, I’d be very upset.”

“But of course, mon chéri, I know. No more secrets.”

Cypher takes a breath. “Yes. No more secrets.”

And in that silence they stew, just each other and the dim glow of Cypher’s monitor. Chamber’s arms remain linked around Cypher as the other’s head is propped up to meet Chamber’s eyes that are looking down ever so fondly at the man. He wishes he could look Chamber in the eyes the exact same way, but he knows blue lights couldn’t capture any of the emotion flickering behind Vincent’s hazel irises.

So much for no more secrets. Cypher will always hold so many secrets, especially behind this mask. But before the blue of his monitor seeps into his own emotions, Chamber finally speaks again. Maybe the blue was getting to him, too. “Come to my room. It’s too dark in here.”

“I have lights, you know.” Cypher’s office, to him, is comfortable. So is the dark, but perhaps that’s because of its animosity.

“And yet you never use them,” Chamber retorts, before unlinking his arms and grabbing Cypher’s arm. “And still, you’ll get distracted by your work here. It’ll just be a change of scenery.”

Cypher sighs, letting his captured arm go slack for Chamber to move it at will. To his dismay, but not surprise, he is being dragged away from his chair. “Has anybody told you you’re annoying, Vin?”

“Yes, by you. Many times.”

“It can’t just be me.”

“Perhaps not,” Chamber muses, finally getting Cypher to his feet. They stand now in front of each other, in full sight of Chamber’s charming smile. “But your words matter most to me.”

Cypher stares for a moment. That smile can’t get to him. “And yet you never listen.”

“It is called having personality. Perhaps you should try it someday.”

Cypher just clicks his tongue as he is dragged all the way out of his office, making sure to grab the coffee Chamber made for him on the way out (noticeably with a heart made on top), and into Chamber’s much-too-bright-for-comfort room.

Chamber climbs on his bed and sits with a spot between his legs just for Cypher—how courteous—and the information broker follows suit without hesitation. Wrapping his arms again around Cypher, now without the backing of a chair to prevent their chests from touching, Chamber embraces Cypher from behind with no intention of letting go. The closer they are, the more Cypher picks up Chamber’s cologne. It’s beginning to become a point of comfort for Cypher. That, and how warm Vincent’s skin is against his clothes.

“See, this is much better,” Chamber hums.

“You are lucky I was not doing anything important.”

“Today, I am your most important thing. Pay more attention to me.”

Mumbling, Cypher replies, “You take up most of my attention already, Vin. How can you be so selfish?”

“Well, I am not known for moderation.”

“You should be. It’s a good trait to have.”

“Says you. I think both of us lacking modesty is what makes us so great together.”

Cypher deflates against Chamber’s chest, head caught by the crook of Chamber’s neck. “I am modest.”

“Perhaps in the way you dress. But in every other way—not at all.”

“You sound so certain.”

“I am certain. I like that about you.”

Cypher sighs, ignoring the squeeze of his heart. There’s always been something special about their moments together like this; it’s as if the mission of the protocol fades away and Cypher can pretend just for a moment that he can live a normal life. At times like this, he yearns wholeheartedly for a comfortable life with Chamber.

It’s a life he’ll never get, and some time later he’ll think himself foolish for daydreaming in such a way, but for now, he can’t help himself. “What do you not like about me?”

Chamber chuckles, a laugh Cypher can feel through his lover’s chest. “Fair point. I love everything about you, Cypher.”

It’s always at the most intimate of times where the name Cypher never seems to fit. Perhaps it’s finally time to correct that.

Cypher’s body nearly trembles as he prepares to give Chamber his gift. He reaches out to a place covered in smoke; it’s there, he knows, but so well concealed he hesitates in fear of being unable to find it. But it’s only his voice that shakes in the end as he finds the part of himself that he thought was lost all along: “It’s Amir.”

“Hmm?”

“The man you love. His name—... Amir.”

Cypher’s words take a moment to churn in Chamber’s head. But once it’s clicked, Cypher can feel Chamber’s quickened heart rate. Slowly, he repeats the name: “Amir.”

It doesn’t sit right at all in Cypher’s ears. He’s had clients with the same name; he knows plenty of other Amirs, but knowing that the name Chamber says now is meant to be him changes everything. But still, there is something so special about hearing it again. First of all, because it’s been years since he’s last willingly been called that, and secondly because it’s in the voice of the man he’s given his heart to.

The way in which Chamber’s lips form his name makes Cypher want to reclaim Amir El Amari as his name again, just to feel entirely understood by Chamber; to hear his real name said again in a voice coated in care and love.

Cypher says no words in response. His throat is tied into a knot, heart threatening to melt through his chest, and yet Chamber doesn’t mind at all. He continues, seemingly as enthralled with saying Cypher’s name as Cypher is hearing him say it.

“Amir… Amir. Your name is so beautiful.”

Of course, Cypher doesn’t believe him—but it’s still relieving to know that Chamber likes his name so much. If Chamber couldn’t like Amir, how could he ever come to truly love Cypher?

…Separate entities or not, Cypher can not deny his connections with his old self. He can hide them behind a veil, lock them behind a safe and throw away the key, but it will still be there. Cypher figured as much initially, but seeing how his heart responds now to a past name confirms it.

“I love you, Amir.”

It’s a simple phrase. Three words, and a name Cypher’s long accepted he’s no longer associated with, and yet—

And yet it means everything to him. Cypher can’t help but crumble against the weight of Chamber. And it’s such a relief to know that Chamber is there to catch all of him.

“I—” his voice still quivers, but he’s never been more certain of the words he utters now, “—I love you too, Vin.”

Clutching Cypher closer to his chest, Chamber softly whispers, “Thank you.”

He doesn’t say anymore, but Cypher knows exactly what he’s thanking him for. He gives a squeeze to Chamber’s arm in response, hoping it says all the words he can’t get out through his lips.

Whether it does or not, Cypher has faith in Chamber to understand him. He can’t help but smile to himself, and he’s sure Chamber has equally as bright of an expression behind him.

Cypher forgot how great it felt to trust somebody else completely.

He hopes he never forgets it again.

Chamber is an early riser, so it makes sense why Chamber is up so early in the morning. Cypher, on the other hand, is both an early riser and a late sleeper. His work can’t afford to be put off for more than a few hours at a time, putting a harsh limit to the amount of sleep he can get.

Yesterday was the only exception Cypher was willing to make. He left his work unfinished for Chamber’s sake, being sure to finish all time sensitive things beforehand.

Speaking of yesterday, all the events that took place felt like a dream. Too good to be true. A day full of silly banter and gentle gestures that effortlessly lived up to the day they were celebrating. And yet, it was most definitely all true.

Cypher knows when he hears it from the man laying next to him. (He realizes now that they had slept in Chamber’s room at the end of the night. How sappy.)

“Good morning, Amir.”

At the mere sound of his name—his old name—Cypher’s body tenses.

It’s not to say he’s forgotten he told Chamber about it—Chamber had been relishing in the ability to call him by that name throughout the entire rest of the day yesterday, and Cypher never forgets important details like this—but what felt euphoric yesterday felt catastrophic today.

The name Amir grates against Cypher’s ears, as if Chamber is tearing off his mask and stomping it to pieces.

It leaves Cypher out of breath, in all the wrong ways.

Cypher is definitely up. The eye sockets to his mask are open, and his breathing has noticeably picked up. Chamber knows he’s up, at least. Which must be why, in the absence of an initial response, Chamber pulls up closer behind Cypher and now more against his ear, he whispers, “Amir?”

He’s not sure if it’s because of Chamber by his ear or the name itself, but something sends shivers up Cypher’s spine and compels him to draw away from Chamber instinctively.

He doesn’t realize how idiotic that is of him until after he’s done it, and yet he still can’t say a word to explain himself.

“Hey,” Chamber says softly, this time respectfully keeping his distance, “Is everything alright?”

No. No no no. Not at all, it isn’t.

Cypher isn’t as prepared to hear his own name as he thought he was. He heard it so much yesterday. In fact, he basked in the feeling of hearing it again, yet now it sends bile up his throat; denies him of his own existence as Cypher.

…But how could Cypher possibly tell him that after everything they did together yesterday?

Cypher still doesn’t say anything—he doesn’t know what to say—and quite frankly, Chamber’s running out of things to say too.

At least, that’s what Cypher thinks when Chamber defaults to the thing Cypher wants to hear the least right now: “Amir?”

It paints his head red in agony. It’s erasure of who he is now, a grab around his throat pulling him back to an idea of normalcy he left behind.

Amir, Amir, Amir. The more he says it, the more he can hear it in her voice, in the exact same way—in bed, just woken up, with a soft good morning. And she’s gone. And now that he knows, maybe he’ll leave too.

Or worse. Cypher will leave Amir to be weak and defenseless all over again. Helpless and unable to protect those around him who he loves.

It hurts. It hurts more than Chamber could possibly know. And when Chamber seems to let silence absorb the space between them, Cypher finally manages to choke out, “Stop.”

Behind him, he hears the slightest shuffle of Chamber’s sheets and a slight break in his voice as Chamber replies, “Stop… what?”

One word alone tears his throat apart like his vocal cords are made of sandpaper, and he isn’t sure he can speak again until Chamber lays a gentle hand on Cypher’s shoulder, to which Cypher pulls away again.

I’m sorry, Cypher wants to cry, but nothing budges from his lips but the biggest weight on his mind. “Stop calling me that.”

Saying it relieves no burden at all. In fact, Cypher thinks he’s done nothing but burden Chamber instead. He can hear it in the dejected way the other replies. “Calling you… your name?”

Defensively—or more like in a fit triggered by intimidation—Cypher snaps, “It’s not my name.” Because it isn’t. He is Cypher. Being Cypher is all he’s known. Amir is dead, remains dead, will always be dead.

A long stretch of time passes from Cypher’s last words until Chamber speaks again. They remain frozen with an ever-widening valley between them on Chamber’s bed until he can softly say, “I’m sorry.”

Cypher knows he isn’t at fault. It’s his own, it’s all his own for thinking that he could be more, or that Cypher could be less? Or—

Fuck, it doesn’t even matter anymore. Cypher leaves the name Amir behind him once more, but ultimately he still feels as helpless as he did before. Stuck in a bed he no longer feels welcome in, in a room that is still dark from the shut lights.

Cypher liked the dark. The animosity. The ability to exist without being seen. But he feels so exposed now, like a knight with his armor torn off. Waiting for a fatal blow to his heart to end it all.

So, when Chamber speaks again—“Do you want space?”—the answer should be obvious.

Except it isn’t. Cypher still hesitates. If he’s being honest with himself, he doesn’t. He has to apologize eventually, right? And forcing himself to be in Chamber’s presence speeds up that wait.

But Cypher acknowledges that sentiment belongs to Amir. Cypher has nothing to apologize for; he is ruthless, coldblooded.

So he gets up on his own. He doesn’t look back, even when he hears Chamber sit up on his bed, and he says, “Yes.”

His voice doesn’t come off as strong as he’d like it to—he hardly has enough strength to carry himself to Chamber’s door to begin with—but he perseveres, and lets the automatic door slide shut behind him as he steps into the light of the headquarter’s hallway, leaving Chamber behind with nothing but heavy air and an even heavier heart.

Cypher hasn’t heard from Chamber since. It’s been four days, and while Cypher sees him in passing—he’s on surveillance cameras, of course, and occasionally they’ll pass in the halls (Cypher will stare at the ground till the smell of cologne leaves his nose)—it is not the same as before at all.

Honestly, Cypher isn’t sure what to do. It feels as if it’s too late for him to apologize, and knowing Chamber—perhaps it’s his ego, or his too-soft-for-good heart—he won’t apologize to Cypher either (not like he owes Cypher an apology anyway, but he just wants Chamber to approach him one more time for Cypher to make things better).

But to “make things better” is easier said than done. What the hell is he supposed to do? ‘I’m sorry, I wasn’t ready to be called the name that I told you?’ How pathetic does that sound? And how does Cypher even begin to undig the story of why Cypher doesn’t think Amir is his name anymore? That’s another story as is—and only if Cypher thinks it’s actually true, which most of the time he does, but not all the time anymore.

It’s around Vincent that makes him feel like his old self again. The urge to take care of and protect others around him is inherently a trait of Amir’s. If not, it’s a mutual trait between Cypher and Amir (which ultimately means it comes from Amir). All the time they’ve spent together, Chamber and Cypher, had planted Amir’s sentiment back inside Cypher, and the more time they spend away from each other, the more evident that Amir is inside of Cypher after all. It’s Amir who comes around when he’s around Vincent. But with no one to come out around, Amir is left to prod at Cypher’s side—to piss him off, really—so how could Cypher possibly deny his existence?

On one hand, it does feel like Chamber’s fault. Amir is supposed to be abandoned, left to die, but it’s Chamber’s fault he’s still around. But on the other hand, it’s hardly Chamber’s fault at all, and Cypher knows he can’t blame Chamber for that. So what is he supposed to do?

Well, waiting around isn’t one of the answers. Cypher shifts uncomfortably in his chair in his office; the dark is comfortable again, but still reminiscent of Chamber’s room on the morning after Valentine’s. A horrible association, he thinks, but one he certainly deserves putting upon himself. The more he’s reminded of it, the more he’s forced to repent, and think of a solution.

He definitely wants a solution, of course. It pains Cypher perhaps more than it did to hear his own name to have such distance from Chamber. He’s lost one lover to his own foolishness before, and he doesn’t want to go through that all over again.

The first thing that comes to mind when he considers aid in the situation is Sage. Perhaps that’s more because she is a relief to pain, however, instead of being actually qualified to deal with these sorts of situations. Of course, Sage is wise; she definitely would have useful input on a situation like this, Cypher thinks, but she’s not the type of person Cypher wants in his own business. (Quite frankly, Cypher wants nobody else in his own business. It’s nothing against Sage, just trust issues on Cypher’s end.) But then who else? Cypher wishes Brimstone a good life—and sometimes a good life is lived in ignorance. Viper? She is trustworthy, but not good at maintaining her own relationships.

But then, there is a knock on the door. Only two, so it’s not Chamber. But just for a moment, in the time between the first and second, Cypher’s heart picked up in high hopes. A glance at the camera positioned in the front of his office reveals the shadowy identity to be Omen.

Interesting. “Come in.”

The door opens slowly. The air around Omen always seems to be cold, but this time, it is colder. There has always been something special about Omen. He has no face, but you can tell his mood from the air around him, and this time he is not so good. The tranquility to him is gone, lost in the depth behind his hood.

Cypher is grateful that nobody can see under his own mask. He’s afraid he looks the exact same way under it; nothing but void, a being of shadow revealing hideous emotions. But disregarding that for a different train of thought, he directs his attention toward the man at hand. “Omen!” He’s turned to look gleefully at the other, hands in the air to express excitement that is certainly not present on Cypher’s actual face, “What brings you here? Did you find anything new about your past?”

“Nothing,” he grumbles, standing in solitude in the middle of Cypher’s office. “I came here more for… advice.”

Funny. Cypher’s in the market for advice too, as a buyer—not a seller. But, ever so curious as to what could have Omen feeling so down, he doesn’t shut down the wraith’s request immediately. Instead, he chimes, “Oh? On what exactly?”

“About Sabine.”

Of course, that is no shocker. Cypher is not oblivious to the ordeal between the two right now, and saying that the information uncovered to Omen is everything to him is perhaps an understatement. Omen’s whole existence rides on that information. He can't imagine being in Omen’s shoes right now. And yet he comes to him looking for advice, and not wise Sage, or anybody else?

Cypher is highly unqualified. But he is also flattered and ever so nosy, so he nods. “Go on.”

“I need to talk to her about my past.”

“Of course,” Cypher says, as if he has the slightest clue what that’s like.

“But I don’t know how…”

The information broker grows quiet for a bit to process what this means. Omen’s asking him for advice on confrontation? As the man who sits back and carries out his work through hidden cameras and tripwires? “I see. That sounds complicated.”

Leaning against the wall, Omen takes a gravelly breath before continuing, “I’m angry, but it isn’t her fault. I don’t want an apology.”

The statement somewhat itches at Cypher’s skin. Ironic. “Then what do you want?”

“To know why she didn’t tell me,” Omen answers, and Cypher reaches a harrowing conclusion from it, as if Omen was answering Cypher’s problem instead of his own. Chamber must want to know why too. But unlike Omen, Chamber can’t ask as freely. Just like Viper can’t ask Omen what he learned on that mission. It’s so vital—so personal to that person that asking would be imposing on their boundaries. So the only solution here is for the one in the know to explain to the one left in the dark, isn’t it?

It’s more formidable than it sounds, of course, but not a bad option overall. For Omen, at least. (Cypher’s starting to feel like all of his own options are bad ones.) “Why don’t you just ask her that then?”

Omen pauses before he answers, as if struck by a moment of hesitation. Then, softly, he replies, “...Because I’m afraid it will ruin what we have.”

The sentiment is so hauntingly familiar that Cypher nearly shudders. In all the oddest ways, Omen has always been so similar to him. (He wonders if they were alike in the past, too, or if this is just the product of their past identities being forcefully ripped away from them.) So even if Cypher can’t properly sympathize, he can share a bit of perspective. And that is, “What if not asking her is making it worse?”

Omen doesn’t have eyes, but Cypher still feels Omen’s heavy gaze on him. That’s how he knows he’s made his point.

When Omen doesn’t reply again, Cypher cautiously continues, “If you talk it through now, you can still salvage what you have with her. But once it’s gone, bridges are hard to rebuild.”

A few more beats of silence pass by before Omen finally says something. “You’re right… thank you.”

Cypher has a tendency to be correct, given all the extensive information at his fingertips. For matters like advice, however, he’s usually taking a shot in the dark. It's a coincidence they both find themselves in such similar situations such that Cypher had words to give, otherwise he’s certain he’d have had nothing to say. But miracle or not, it’s exactly what Cypher needed to hear too.

It sounds so trivial in a sense. It’s Cypher who said he needed space in the first place, so of course it's Cypher who needs to close that space afterwards too. What else could he have been thinking?

But Chamber will forgive him for the stupidity. He still trusts Chamber to understand him even if he can’t understand himself.

Cypher knows Chamber’s schedule—out of mere observation more than for intentional purposes, of course. Which is why, when he approaches Chamber’s door in the evening of that day, he’s sure that one, Chamber is free and unoccupied, and two, he is in his room likely reading a book. Feeling affirmed enough that he won’t be disturbing Chamber too severely, he knocks. Four times, just as Chamber would on his own door, for the fun of it.

Not that this situation really invites any fun, but alas. It probably gets the message through to Chamber who does not have a camera equipped at his door that Cypher is the one on the other side, if Chamber cares that much to figure that out.

The door slides open shortly after. And just as expected, lounging on a comforter with a book in his lap is Vincent Fabron, eyeing Cypher wearily.

Dangerously alert, he says, “...Cypher?”

A pit seems to open in Cypher’s chest, letting his heart sink to the floor at the sound of his codename once more. He really doesn’t get himself and his inability to pick a single name. In the end, it really is his own problem after all. That’s what he needs to let Chamber know, at the very least. It’s what brings him to Chamber’s door in the first place.

“Vin.” Cypher steps inside, letting the automatic doors shut behind him. There is a lot that rides on this interaction, Cypher realizes—a lot more than he thought just a moment ago walking to Chamber’s door. The room is not as dark as it was the morning of the incident, but still dark enough from the singular lamp by Chamber’s chair that Cypher can barely see the reserved expression on Chamber’s face. Usually, Chamber is readable around Cypher; there’s some extent of guard they can let down near each other without putting themselves at risk (more from the people around them than of each other—it’s just part of their work that they’re cautious at all times), and that stoic businessman face typically is one of them. But it’s up again this time, and Cypher can’t see past knit eyebrows and lips duly pressed together.

He wants to know so badly how Chamber feels. Does he not want to see Cypher again? Or is he relieved?

But Chamber puts no cards on the table. Instead, he leans forward from his chair and folds his arms against his knees and steadies his gaze on Cypher instead. His eyes are less blank now, and just… inquisitive, perhaps. “Did you need something?”

“No, I—” Cypher quickly answers, but he realizes he has nothing to say at all. He does—he has so much to explain—but no words come out whatsoever. So instead, he changes directions. Not an entire 180 and out the door, but just a small detour. “I just wanted to see you.” No more space. Cypher is tired of space.

“Ah,” Chamber says, slowly nodding, “Then here I am.”

There he is indeed. Comfortable and unbothered, aside from the obvious disturbance that is Cypher in the room with him. Cypher starts to feel a little bad after all. He should have let him read in peace all along.

“I’m kidding, mon amour. Don’t look so distressed.” Chamber speaks, and Cypher is amazed at how Chamber can so easily read him under his own mask. “Do you want to sit here then? Come, I’ll grab another seat—”

“No,” Cypher answers, along with a breath of relief. He has never been so glad to hear Chamber address him endearingly. (He’d think himself silly for considering that his relationship would break in just a matter of days, but he’s lost his entire family in less than an hour, so perhaps he doesn’t feel so bad about it.) “Sitting over here is just fine,” he says, moving over to the edge of Chamber’s bed. He sits with his legs flat on the ground, hands held together with his elbows on his knees. He’s notably looking downwards, away from Chamber.

Chamber’s eyes float to him for just a moment before he looks away again, understanding the lack of invitation for eye contact. “Did you want to talk?” he asks.

“No. Go back to reading your book.”

Chamber chuckles softly. “If you insist.” There is a soft flutter of pages before a final sweep of paper against paper, meaning Chamber’s found his page. It’s the perfect opportunity for Cypher to just sit there and soak up Chamber’s presence again without forcing words that have yet to be strung together out of an unwilling mouth.

If Amir so badly wants to exist around Chamber, then it is the perfect time for him to take over now and do the talking. But there is no switch—no different person to take over, no voice in his head that will direct him on what to do. Only silence albeit another sound of paper scratching paper. Only a heart full of love for the man whose back is turned to him now, and a will to bridge the gap that has only seemingly widened with each day they spend in silence.

That heart is perhaps what’s Amir’s all along. Cypher’s body, marred in scars and practically one with the body suit worn nearly every hour of every week, is uniquely Cypher’s own, but what draws him to his past as well as the things that he loves has to be Amir.

Cypher is cold. He is the man who wiped the entire Kingdom facility in Morocco clean of any life the first time they infiltrated Rabat. The man who stuffs people’s heads with bullets for a pretty little penny, or for a single spilled secret.

A man like that has no heart. But inside of Cypher’s body is most definitely a heart, one that beats and beats faster for the man who’s extended his care to someone so unlovable like him. That must be Amir. Amir is not dead until the beating heart inside of Cypher is shot dead.

For Valentine’s, Cypher wanted to give Chamber a part of himself. That was supposed to be his name, but in truth, it was his heart. And it is rightfully Chamber’s to keep. Cypher is sure of it; more sure of that then the actual name Amir itself. So, quietly, after a long stretch of stillness and page flips, Cypher’s voice rings low into the air. “I’m sorry.”

He hears the snap of Chamber’s book being shut after, but Chamber does not turn. “What for?”

For everything. For keeping so many secrets from you, for leaving you in the dark, for being difficult to work with, for being so damn complicated. But mainly, “For leaving you like that.”

Now Chamber turns. There’s a frown pressed into his lips, eyebrows lowered and wrinkled together, laying slightly above glasses that have fallen just short of where they should be on his nose. “You don’t need to apologize for that. I asked if you needed space.”

Cypher frowns too, partially convinced Chamber can see it behind his mask somehow. “But I didn’t tell you why.”

“You don’t need to tell me why to take space.”

“Vin, just— just let me apologize.”

Chamber gets up from his chair, leaving the book resting on the same table as the lamp. He moves closer to Cypher, standing with his hands in his pockets as his head cocks gently. “You have nothing to apologize for.”

“But there is, I—”

There is a sudden shift of weight on the bed next to him, and he realizes only now that Chamber’s seated next to him, eyes now with access to pierce directly through his mask’s lenses. “Fine. I forgive you. Happy now?”

Cypher sighs, his words swallowed whole by Chamber. Instead, he leans in such a way that his head rests on Chamber’s shoulders, not strong enough to clash any longer with Chamber’s hazel eyes. “Will you call me by my name again?” he whispers, so softly that the fabric of Chamber’s shirt might have just absorbed it all completely.

Chamber’s arm snakes under Cypher’s own and his hand smooths over Cypher’s back. “Not if you’re uncomfortable with it.”

“It’s just… complicated,” Cypher mumbles.

“That’s okay,” Chamber soothes, his other arm coming to link with the other. “There is no rush for these things."

“But I want you to.”

Chamber pauses. “You want me to call you by your name?”

Weakly, Cypher nods.

“Are— are you sure?”

Another nod. Even weaker this time. Not so assuring.

“I don’t have to. You are still the same person whether I call you Cypher or not.”

Cypher trembles just a bit. “I don’t know.” He really doesn’t. His names are a jumble in his head; who he was and who he is and who he will be are all nonsensical concepts that don’t seem to fit who he feels like he is right now at all.

And yet, Chamber only manages to hug him tighter. “That’s fine. We—...” Chamber takes a breath, letting his hand rub Cypher’s back gently for a moment before continuing, “—We’ll figure it out together, okay?”

Together? Cypher has always been an independent agent. While others depend on his information to act, he gathers that information alone through his own utility. Together means nothing to Cypher. And to Amir, together is a promise waiting to be broken. He left once already after promising to be together “forever.” And yet, despite all the odds, “together” with Chamber sounds promising. It means so much more to Cypher than just what he thinks it is.

And so, when Chamber says, “...Is that okay? … Amir?” Cypher doesn’t push away.

He doesn’t run, and he definitely doesn’t take space. He takes a deep breath instead and slowly lifts his head from Chamber’s shoulder to his forehead instead.

And softly, like a promise; a wish; a vision that is more dreamlike than actually accomplishable in the real world, Amir softly replies, “Okay, Vin…”

“...Together.”