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When they’re done killing Harvey, the Black Orlov safely within the confines of Leon’s stained denim jeans, Vincent shuffles his way over to Harvey’s phone. The plan was to call the sergeant once the job was done, and he’d send a message to Emily. He knows it’s his job, knows it’s his duty, but he can’t quite help the tug low in his gut at the fate he knows will befall Leo once they’re back in the states.
Leo, Leo, Leo, Leo, Leo . He’d been a means to an end, once. A vessel for Vincent’s vengeance, but somewhere along the brief three weeks they’ve known one another, he’s become a friend, a confidante, and something else that Vincent can’t ( won’t ) think about. He deserves better than a jail cell and fifty years tacked onto his sentence. He deserves better than him.
Vincent swallows the lump of guilt in his throat, dials the number that he knows will be the death knell to whatever’s building between him and Leo. But what did they have, really? A couple of weeks together, an awkward hardon after a parachute malfunction, and some warped sense of duty, of loyalty?
Vincent sighs, shakes his head to clear it, and mutters the series of code words into the phone. He listens grimly as the sergeant tells him that Emily had an emergency deployment, that she’d be there in the early hours of the morning. Dimly, Vincent registers Leo’s curious gaze, the furrow of his brow that he’s come to recognize as questioning but ultimately trusting. The thought of using that trust for a second more ruins Vincent from the inside out.
“What was that about?” Leo asks.
Vincent swallows. “Emily—she got caught up in a storm. Won’t be here until tomorrow.”
Leo hums thoughtfully.
“How’d you meet her?” Leo asks after a moment. “Emily, that is. Pretty rare just to know someone who flies planes.”
An easy answer is on the tip of Vincent’s tongue. The cover story that he’d been briefed on dozens of times sits plainly at the roof of his mouth. It almost worms its way out of him, the lie coming to him as naturally as breathing, until Vincent looks (really looks ) at Leo.
He’s covered in blood. His hair, normally coiffed in an obnoxious style picked straight from the wall at the barber's, is matted to his face with sweat. Vincent swears he can see a trail of grime wiped clean by a shiny trail of perspiration. Leo’s never looked better, standing by Vincent’s side, basking in the afterglow of a job well done. The thought of Leo, his strong, capable Leo, rotting away in a jail cell suddenly becomes unacceptable.
“I’m a cop.”
The words come out all at once, like he couldn’t bear to have them in his mouth, on his mind for even a second longer. A gust of wind, one exhale, and they’re out, the truth bared for the world to see.
It takes a moment for Leo to react.
“You son of a bitch—“ Leo grits out. “You fucking cunt! How dare you?”
“I ought to fucking kill you, Moretti. Leave your dumb ass dead in the middle of Mexico where no one, and I mean no one could find you.”
Leo takes a harsh, stuttering breath in and even deeper one out. He’s angry, that much Vincent can tell, but there’s a layer of hurt undercutting that anger. He’s not just hurt, he’s betrayed and that makes the knife in Vincent’s gut twist that much harder.
“I thought you were my friend,” Leo says after a beat. He sounds defeated. It’s the first time he’s sounded this way. Leo’s been indignant before, distraught even, but he’s never been defeated. “You met my wife. You played basketball with my son, you fucking bastard.”
Vincent doesn’t say anything. Instead, he braces himself for a fist, for a shove, for anything. Instead, he gets nothing, and that’s even worse.
“What’s next then? A jail cell in a maximum security prison? A life sentence? The death penalty?” Leo runs a hand through his hair. “You killed just as many people as I did, Vincent. It isn’t fair that you just get to wash your hands of me. Not after this, not after what we’ve been through.”
“Jesus Christ, Leo, I’m not washing my hands of you.” Vincent says, and he hates how defensive he sounds. He knows he’s wrong, knows he’s fucked up beyond belief, but his first instinct is to cover his ass? “I know I’ve fucked up, but I’m trying to make this right, Leo. Let me make this right.”
“What, are we just going to run, smart guy?”
That’s exactly what Vincent does.
He sprints towards the back door, deeper into the jungle, the thicket of trees surrounding Harvey’s impossibly large mansion. Someone finds a motorbike (Vincent’s not quite sure who) and Vincent drives. Leo’s tucked up behind him, hands draped loosely around his waist. Part of him wants to flush, but he shoves that thought aside. He’s supposed to be making it up to Leo, not assuaging his own desires.
Eventually, they reach a clearing with a pond not unlike the one they fished in all those weeks ago. Vincent turns off the bike, spoons a handful of fresh water into his mouth. His shirt sticks to him uncomfortably, pulling where he’d nervously sweat through.
They fish and eat in silence. It’s unlike the first time, when they’d just escaped and it was their first meal as free men. The meal is solemn, quiet save for the sounds of wildlife and the distant droning of frogs.
Vincent can’t take it anymore.
“I think I could love you, Leo.” Vincent says. His voice is uncharacteristically soft. There isn’t the bite, the teasing lilt he’s used to taking with Leo. He wants him to know he’s serious, at least about this.
For once, Leo doesn’t respond. The look on his face is halfway between conflicted and relieved, his normal confidence replaced by something that almost looks like fear.
It’s always been like this. Vincent too scared to push his buttons, too scared to press beyond this edge they’ve prostrated themselves upon. He feels closer to Leo in the week he’s known him than the years he’s known Carol. The thought should scare him. It spurs him on instead.
The FBI could find them tomorrow, could have them both tried as murderers and thieves. Or worse yet, Harvey’s goons could find them and do god knows what. But they have tonight, and with the stars and the night sky as their only witnesses, Vincent thinks it’s enough.
If they just have this one night…
They don’t speak. They’re both well aware that speaking would ruin this fledgeling spark between them. Vincent slots his mouth over Leo, forces the moan down when he realizes just how right this feels. It shouldn’t, shouldn’t feel right when they both have wives and children they should come home to.
Maybe in an alternate universe, they could’ve had a family together. Leo would’ve raised Alex with Julie. They would’ve been happy together. They would’ve let their uncles and aunts gaze disdainfully at their lifestyle. The history books would have called them close friends.
When Vincent wakes, he expects Leo to have bolted. He expects to find himself alone, to turn his head and have the only existence of Leo in the empty space next to him.
He’s pleasantly surprised. When he comes to, Leo is sitting on a log, gazing down at him. He can’t quite make out the expression on his face, but he knows that things are okay when Leo kicks at him gingerly with one foot.
“So, what happens now, genius?”
Vincent can’t help the smile that comes to his lips.
“I don’t know, Leo. But what I do know is I made a gamble, and I like my odds.”