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There were only so many places in Prague he could go to get someone to look at his half torn-off arm, dangling useless and limp against his body. Koller was out – Adam couldn’t take the risk of seeing him again so soon. Not with the last lecture still fresh in his mind about running hot with too many augmentations and frying his brain.
Adam needed those augmentations. Needed that edge. It was getting harder to do his job, to remember what his job even was.
Without a better option, Adam went to what resembled a chop shop more than a doctor’s surgery. He refused to be put under – refused the painkillers. Left with his fingers flexing properly but an oily, slick feeling curling through his limbs as he rode the subway back to his apartment. It made him stumble up the stairs, made his clothes feel heavy against his skin.
Fucking harvesters. They’d claimed the injection was some kind of neuroplasticity connector – something that had sounded plausible enough at the time. Probably because he was in too much fucking pain to think straight. Adam locks the door behind him and then rests his forehead against the cool wood. Was there a tracker in the arm? Was there something more?
There was one person he could call for help. One person who’d still probably answer. But it’s been two years, and the way Adam left things… It’s better to do this alone. He can do this alone.
He checks the locks again before setting a booby trap – an EMP mine – against the door. Stumbles down the hallway, kicking off his boots and peeling out of his too-warm clothes. A cold shower will help. Some painkillers from the bathroom. If the doorknob will stop moving away from his fingers when he tries to grasp it.
Fuck.
He manages on the fifth – maybe it’s the sixth – try. Stumbles through the doorway so badly that he ends up falling to his knees with a pained grunt. Not good. Really fucking not good. The Sentinel hasn’t kicked in – isn’t doing what he needs it to do. It’d be some kind of – some kind of tranquiliser. Something to leave him unconscious when they decided to come for him. To carve his very expensive Sarif augmentations from his body.
He crawls on his hands and knees towards the shower. If he can lower his body temperature – maybe there’s a chance. Maybe. His head is swimming. He has to make sure they can’t find him. How the fuck does he make sure they can’t find him?
A memory – faded around the edges. Francis telling him how he can shut down his limbs in an emergency. Divert their power to other systems. He needs to focus on the words, but all he can remember is the softness of Francis’ skin against his own. The way his kisses had tasted of mints, because he didn’t want to kiss Adam with the taste of coffee on his tongue. The way his hair had brushed across Adam’s face when he leaned down to mingle their ragged breaths together as he told Adam how much he loved him.
Adam groans. Pulls his way into the shower and lays panting against the cool tile floor. Not the time. He needs to remember how to shut down his systems. His fingers – his good hand, not the just-repaired one – scrabble at the back of his head. An emergency shutdown button – it’s not what he’s supposed to use. But he can’t think – can’t remember. Can’t even lift his other hand high enough to turn the water on. Better than nothing. He takes a deep, shuddering breath, and presses the button in the rhythmic code he didn’t even know he’d remembered.
A woman’s voice. Soft. Tinny. Counting down. Ten seconds. His fingers scratch against the shower tiles. He has to twist the knob – doesn’t matter which one – just something-
Adam, a soft voice calls to him. Francis, waking him up for breakfast. Waking him up with a brushed kiss against his temple. Francis never cared about the boundary between flesh and machine – it was all Adam, and that was all that mattered. Adam lifts his head – he’s wet – he’s lying in the shower, cold water running over him. His arm – fuck.
He’s not sure he can get up. There’s a pounding in his ears – his chest – and a sick feeling clawing at the back of his throat. But no harvesters. He has some time. He just has to turn the fucking water off and remember how to think about something other than Francis.
His hands, running through Adam’s hair and messing it up right before they left for work. The way Francis would grin, every time, as though he was daring Adam to pin him against the bathroom sink and kiss the ridiculousness out of him. Except there was no end to Francis’ gentle, teasing side. And one kiss would always lead to them both being very late for work.
Adam moans and clutches at his chest in pain. Not the time. It’s not the fucking time. The water.
“That’s right, love,” Francis murmurs from behind his ear. “The water.”
Fuck. “You’re not real,” Adam groans. But it gives him the strength to reach up a hand – to twist the knob one way and then the other. Shut the water off.
“Now your arm,” Francis continues, stroking his cool fingers down Adam’s shoulder. “You remember what I taught you, don’t you?”
“No,” Adam whimpers. He shifts until his back is against the cool, wet tiles. He has to focus.
“Never were a good liar.” Francis sighs as he kneels in front of him, traces a line down Adam’s repaired arm. “You know there’s a tracking implant in there somewhere.”
“No shit, Sherlock.” Adam pants. He can feel himself getting hot – the harvester drugs still haven’t worked their way out of his system. He’s not even sure how long he was passed out in the shower. He’s not sure about anything except Francis not being real, no matter how much Adam wants him to be. “What am I supposed to do?”
“Disconnect it, you silly goose.” Francis leans forward – puts his hand on Adam’s thigh, bracing himself so he can press a smiling kiss to Adam’s cheek. “It’s okay. I’ll help you.”
Real or not, Francis slowly – patiently – walks Adam through the steps to disconnect his arm from his nervous system and its own internal power supply. It falls – dead weight – against his side. More useless than it had been before he’d gotten it fixed.
“Good boy, Adam,” Francis says as Adam lets out a shaky sigh of relief. “You can take it from here. Isolate the tracker and remove it.” He brushes a kiss against Adam’s lips and then fades as though he was never there at all.
But Adam can still taste the mint on his lips. He breathes in a ragged breath and closes his eyes. Isolate the tracker. He can do that.
He has to cut it out of his arm. It had been buried almost directly onto the nerves themselves, which means a shaking hand – like his shaking hand – could really fuck things up. But he takes a deep breath and bows his head over the work desk. He can do this. Francis told him he could do it. And even though Francis isn’t really there, it still helps.
The cut is perfectly straight. Not a single tremble. He crushes the tracker under his palm with a grimace. The Sentinel is kicking in, clearing the drugs from his system. He’ll have to reboot his arm later – let it cycle through the Sentinel’s systems as well. But for now, all he wants to do is sleep. To curl around a pillow that’s never smelled anything like Francis and pretend that it does.
Fuck, all he’d had to do was apologise. But instead, he’d ran and then kept running. Like he could outrun all the mistakes he’d made in his life.
Like he could leave Francis behind.
But there’s a weight behind him in the bed, like Francis curling around him, his lithe arms snaking around Adam’s chest as he dots kisses along Adam’s spine. The drug isn’t out of his system yet.
“I missed you,” Adam says, not turning around. If he turns around, Francis will fade. Like a ghost.
“Then talk to me,” Francis says, leaning his cheek against Adam’s. Their hair will tangle together, but he doesn’t mind. A little pain is worth the pleasure of Francis wrapped around him like this.
“What am I supposed to say after two years?” Adam mumbles. “Sorry won’t cut it.”
“No.” Francis flattens his palm over Adam’s heart. “But it’s a start.”
He’d been distracted the first day at Sarif Industries – not by Megan, like she’d expected – but by the plainly furious Frank Pritchard. Someone who’d seemingly hated Adam at first sight for no reason Adam could properly decipher.
It took two weeks before they ended up on the helipad together. Adam was smoking – a terrible habit, Megan had always chided him – and Pritchard was sipping a coffee, leaning on the balcony and watching the sun set.
“You don’t like me,” Adam had said, because in the two weeks he’d been working there he’d come to understand that Pritchard did not like beating around the bush.
“I don’t know you well enough to dislike you.” Pritchard hadn’t even bothered to glance over at him. “I just didn’t think we’d hire Dr Reed’s handsome ex over the superior candidates I suggested.” He sips at his coffee and then gives Adam a blatant – rude – up and down look. “Could be worse, though.”
He’d left before Adam could even parse the meaning behind his statement. He’d heard whispers that he’d only gotten the job because of his connection to Megan – as though he was sleeping his way to the top, even though he and Megan didn’t have that kind of relationship anymore. But that didn’t seem to be quite what Pritchard was implying.
A month later – somewhere between the bickering over their shared office space and their duties and the absolutely infuriating way Pritchard always managed to press his buttons, Adam had given up. Stormed out of the office to go cool his head somewhere else. Ended up stalking through the entire building before ending up on the helipad with a cigarette, watching the lights flicker on in the city.
There’d been a scuffed footstep behind him. A frustrated sigh as Pritchard leaned on the railing next to him, his back to the city.
“Maybe we should just fuck and get it out of our system,” he’d said, and Adam had choked mid-drag.
It had taken him a second to recover. “What?”
Francis hadn’t been looking at him – his cheeks were faintly pink as he stared fixedly at the empty helipad. “Should I repeat myself, Jensen?”
“No, Pritchard, I heard you just fine.” Adam finished his cigarette and looked out over the city. Considered. “Guess it depends,” he’d finally said, leaning slightly closer.
“On?” Pritchard had glanced towards him, his eyes shadowed.
“How fucking snarky you’ll be in the morning.” Adam had felt a flicker of nerves in his chest. He’d – mingled – with men and women in his college days. But his only real relationship had been the one he'd had with Megan.
“Well,” Pritchard had said, sliding along the railing slightly so that his elbow bumped against Adam’s, “why don’t you take me out to dinner and find out?”
They’d gone that very night – out to a dinner that Adam hadn’t even tasted because he’d been so busy staring at Pritchard – Francis, he’d learned – and considering him in a new light. How the angles of his face shifted when he smiled, how his features were softened when he let down his hair. Like a completely different person than the one who’d threaten to disembowel him with a stapler if he didn’t change his password from the default 'password123.'
When they’d gone back to Adam’s place – it was closer – they’d made it messily to the bed, shedding clothes and trading kisses like they couldn’t breathe without their lips pressed together. But that had been the end of it – that first night. Because Francis had put his fingers to Adam’s lips and given him a serious, considering look.
“I don’t want this to be a one-time thing,” he’d murmured, his cheeks flushed. “I want to take things slowly. Savour every second of you.”
Adam hadn’t been able to think of anything to say to that. So he’d just kissed Francis’ fingers and nodded. “Okay,” he’d whispered, and the sharp, nervous feeling in his stomach had intensified a thousandfold.
They’d only been dating for a month when Sarif Industries had been attacked. When Adam had lost almost everything. But what he hadn’t lost – what he’d woken up to – was Francis. Francis, who’d been there every day he wasn’t in the office trying to trace the bastards who’d destroyed so much of what Adam had sworn to protect. Francis, who’d gently washed Adam’s hair in the shower because he couldn’t control his fingers well enough to do it himself.
Francis, who’d been there at every terrible, awkward, soul-crushingly embarrassing step of the way and had just smiled sweetly at him whenever Adam had wondered why.
“Because,” he’d said matter-of-factly one night as he’d tucked Adam into bed after dinner, “I love you.”
“Oh.” It had been so simple – so obvious, that it had taken Adam a moment to reassess how his new – mechanical – heart felt.
And in that moment that could’ve stretched awkwardly – that Francis could’ve brushed aside – he’d just waited. Like he’d been waiting for Adam during all those long months of his painful recovery.
“I love you too,” Adam had said, feeling shy. He’d only told Megan sparingly – not out of malice, but because he’d wanted to be sure. To ensure the words didn’t lose their meaning through idle, meaningless repetition.
“Good.” Francis had kissed his nose and then laughed when Adam scrunched his face up in annoyance. “I’ll tell you more often, then.”
He’d told Adam twice every day. The first thing and the last thing that he’d said. And when the communications had cut out on Panchaea, it had been the last thing he’d heard Francis say.
But Panchaea had been a long time ago. He’d woken up disorientated – not himself – in Alaska. Had fled from his past – such as he could – and the knowledge that not even Francis would’ve waited an entire year for him when Adam was presumed dead.
He didn’t need to call him and find out. If he never heard Francis’ voice again, then the last thing he’d said would always be “I love you,” and never “I’m sorry, it’s over.”
When he wakes up the phantom hands of Francis have faded. Adam feels – better. Better enough to devour an entire box of cereal and have a proper shower.
Except when he sits down on the couch to watch the news, his arm flopping lifelessly by his side, he starts to wonder.
The cocktail of drugs that had knocked him out for almost two days was still in his system – in his arm. It was only the tracking device he’d removed. If he disabled the Sentinel as much as he could and booted his arm back up – would it bring Francis back to him?
It was a stupid, idle thought. Something he shouldn’t have even considered.
But it lingered. It lingered until Adam laid down on the couch and initiated the Sentinel shutdown.
It was a lot easier than apologising, after all.
“You idiot,” Francis’ voice is tired as he rests his head against Adam’s bare chest. “Just call me instead of doing whatever the fuck you’re doing here.”
“No,” Adam mutters. He wants to open his eyes and see Francis staring back up at him, but he’s afraid he’ll only see an empty apartment. “You’ll hate me.”
“I will be very mad at you,” Francis agrees. “But I never hated you, Adam.”
“You will,” Adam whispers, and when he opens his eyes there’s no one there.
There aren’t enough drugs in his system to bring Francis back again. Adam lies on the couch and stares up at the ceiling.
He knows exactly where he could get more. He knows exactly how to get more. And he won’t even need a tracking device in his arm for it, this time.
Except Francis would kill him if he knew that Adam was putting himself through something like this. He’d be so furious – so disappointed.
But Francis isn’t here, so Adam disables the EMP he’d stuck to the door and leaves his apartment.
The harvesters would have been easy to dispose of. He should have taken them out – left them for the Prague authorities, such as they were. But he didn’t know who else could mix the right kind of cocktail to knock him out properly.
He’d left them alive. The three vials they’d given him bumped against each other in his pocket as he’d rode the subway home, hating himself and the choices he’d made.
He’d armed the EMP when he got back home before stripping down to his boxers and laying on the bed. A syringeful, they’d told him. Lasted for eight hours. He had enough for almost three weeks – more, if he kept the Sentinel mostly offline.
He injects his thigh and closes his eyes. Waits for the familiar feeling of Francis’ skin against his. His breath in Adam’s ear as he whispered some sweet nothing.
“Please, Francis,” Adam murmurs, wishing he could transport back in time. “I need you.”
“You need a therapist,” Francis whispers, sliding his hand along Adam’s exposed leg. “God, you look so good in the afternoon light.” A tickle of hair as Francis leans over and kisses Adam’s chest, the fingers creeping along his thigh. “Did you miss me?”
“Yes.” Adam squeezes his eyes tighter shut. He can’t cry – not anymore – but the urge still lingers. A phantom pain behind his eyes. “Always.”
“So romantic.” Francis’ kisses trail down his side. “I miss you too.”
Adam arches his back against the sheets. Francis’ kisses are brushing against his hips. A familiar game of teasing that’s etched into his memory like the snake tattoo is etched onto the skin of Francis’ thigh.
“Don’t,” he whispers, but Francis isn’t there to listen. He opens his eyes to an empty room and curls around himself, cold and desperate and alone.
It only takes him a few more doses for Francis’ touch to feel intangible. He doubles the doses – triples them. Stares at the clear liquid in the last bottle with a sick, desperate feeling clawing at his guts.
It’s only been a week and he’s almost out. He’s supposed to only inject 5ml, but anything less than fifteen doesn’t work to bring Francis back. There’s almost 30ml left in the bottle, and Adam can’t stand the idea of laying on the floor and not having Francis appear before him.
He finishes the bottle, injecting his thigh and leaning back against the bed. Fuck, he’ll have to visit the harvesters again. Maybe they can make a stronger dose if he tells them what he wants-
Something’s blaring in his HUD. A warning – a critical warning. Something’s gone wrong, but Adam’s starting to lose consciousness. Can’t figure out what it is. All he can do is reach out to Francis with a strangled moan.
“Adam?” Francis’ voice is faint. “Adam?”
There’s a muffled explosion. Someone swearing. “Fucking – armed the goddamn door with a fucking EMP? God, I can’t even be mad at you when it’s such a fucking good idea, but Christ, Adam, a little fucking warning!?”
Adam’s lying on his bedroom floor. Shivering. He can’t breathe properly – can’t wrap his head around anything with his thoughts so scattered. Like flower petals on an anniversary bed.
Footsteps. Boots in his vision. Francis’ boots. A cool hand tentatively touching his forehead.
“What have you gotten yourself into?” He sounds so sad, and Adam wants to say something to make Francis smile again, but he convulses so hard his eyes disconnect.
“Adam-“ Francis’ voice is panicked, but Adam’s swallowed again by the darkness.
He wakes up to someone stroking his hair. Whispering soothing nonsense to him.
Adam wants to cry. Another hallucination that will fade when the Sentinel finishes flushing the drugs out of his system. He can’t even open his eyes.
“I thought you were dead,” Francis says softly. Gently. “And then I found out you weren’t. And I was so angry – I punched a hole through my monitor, you know. I didn’t understand. But now I think I might be able to.”
“Don’t leave,” Adam begs him, scrunching his eyes shut and trying not to focus too much on the touch of Francis’ fingers against his scalp. “Please, Francis, don’t fade away again.”
“Fade… Oh Adam.” There’s a soft sigh. A rustle of cloth as someone shifts beside him in the bed. “Why didn’t you just call?”
“Because.” Adam swallows. His throat is thick and aching. “You wouldn’t answer. You’d tell me how I was too late.”
“You’d never be too late.” Francis leans against him. A solid weight. “You think I’d just move on like that? I’m still playing an idle game from 2013, for crying out loud. Look at me, Adam.”
Adam shakes his head. “You’ll vanish.”
“You’re not getting rid of me so easily. Open your eyes.”
Adam does. Francis is looking down at him, concern etched into his features. He looks tired. Older than the last time Adam saw him. More solid around the edges – not as fuzzy.
“Oh.” A sudden panic settles firmly in his stomach. “You’re not a hallucination.” He’s not sure if that’s better or worse.
“No, love, I’m very real.” Francis smiles sadly at him. “I missed you.”
“Fuck.” Adam leans up and wraps his arms around Francis. Pulls him down against him. “I missed you too.”
Adam kisses him – desperately – and Francis still tastes like mints when he kisses Adam back. Still slides his hands over Adam’s body like they belong there. “I thought you’d hate me-“
“Oh, I’m very mad at you,” Francis says, pressing himself closer. Tangles their legs together. “Calling me on the Infolink after so long and not saying anything intelligible? Making me check your systems to find out you were on the verge of total organ shutdown and all I could do was remote hack you while I bribed Malik into flying me to Prague? I thought I was going to get here and you’d be dead. That I would have lost you again.”
“I’m sorry,” Adam says, burying his face against Francis’ neck. “I’m so sorry. I thought – I thought…” He doesn’t want to say what he thought. He doesn’t want to hurt Francis any more than he already has.
Francis cups Adam’s face in his hands and gently lifts his head. “I love you, Adam,” he says, punctuating each word with a soft kiss. “But disappear on me again and I’ll kill you myself.”
“Okay.” Adam says softly. “I won’t disappear again.” He swallows the knot in his throat. “I – I love you too. I’ll prove it every day, Francis.”
“You don’t have to prove what I already know.” Francis shakes his head slightly. “I… Fuck, Adam. I missed you every single day.” He leans his forehead against Adam’s and takes a shuddering breath. “Every single day.”
“Then that’s only half as much as I missed you,” Adam murmurs, sweeping some of Francis’ hair up behind his ear. “I thought I ruined things.”
“Never.” Francis kisses him again. “I’ll always wait for you.”
“Always?” Adam echoes, feeling something shift inside his chest. Something that was broken stitching itself back together.
“Always.” Francis kisses him again, and this time they don’t stop until they need to come up for air.
When Adam wakes in the morning, Francis isn’t there. For a moment, panic surges through him. But he can smell something cooking – burning? – in the kitchen. He cautiously makes his way through the hallway, expecting it to all have been a fever dream.
But Francis is there, flour on his sweater, frowning at the stove like it’s personally offended him.
“Francis?” Adam calls softly.
Francis turns and smiles at him, slow and sweet. “Hello, love. I burned your breakfast. Consider it my revenge for the EMP mine.”
“I thought you’d be proud of me for that.” Adam steps closer and eyes the burning pancake in the pan. “Don’t think it’s salvageable.”
“I am very proud of you for that.” Francis leans over and kisses Adam’s cheek. “It’s not my fault your European stoves are so finicky.”
“Uh huh.” Adam puts his hands on Francis’ waist and pulls him closer.
One kiss turns into another until the smoke alarm goes off, the pancake burning to the pan.
Breakfast might not be salvageable, but their love is.