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It’s one of those nights again.
Omen didn't sleep. Not in the traditional sense, at least. Sure, there were periods of time when he could lay down, rest with his head empty of worry and despair. But those nights were few and far between, pain and darkness ever gnawing at the back of his mind, finding their way in. He quickly started occupying himself with other things instead of performing a facsimile of humanity when the other agents were asleep, may it be knitting, gardening or embroidery.
When Fade had joined the protocol, he had found himself a partner in darkness, someone who truly understood the constant unease he underwent, of the whispers that found him when he was at his loneliest. In fact, it was doubly worse for her. She was human : unlike Omen, she was capable of true sleep, something he’d never have. However, she wasn't able to enjoy this privilege fully. Her radiance, the Nightmare, she had named it, was within her at every waking moment, lurking in the confines of her mind, ready to haunt her with visions as soon as her eyes batted closed. They often spent the late hours of the night together, with him knitting and her reading, her thermos of coffee always at her side. It was welcome company.
As he stopped by her room, he didn't feel the usual feeling of unrest that swirled about her. Instead, he felt contentment, seeping out from the cracks of the door. Ah. Deadlock must be with her. Ever since she had started dating the sentinel, her nights would go by better. The first time she had slept with no visions was after she had slept with Deadlock by her side. The morning of, she had come to him, a rare smile on her face. Of course, nothing was public yet, and given that Fade wasn't very fond of public displays of affection, it would probably take the rest of the protocol a while to find out about them. He was happy for them, even as he felt a pang of pain in the pit of his stomach as the sickeningly sweet smell of love seeped through the door. He’d have to find something else to do.
He had finished his latest project, a small crocheted octopus plushie, and didn't feel like starting a new one. He was all out of wool. He’d have to ask Sage to pick some up the next time she went shopping. He had trimmed his bonsai a few days ago, and his planters were in perfectly acceptable shape. He briefly considered going to the shooting range, but the sound would surely wake one of the lighter sleepers, and he didn't want to deal with the cleanup : the bots were turned off at this hour, and the last time he had tried to activate them, Killjoy had berated him for what felt like hours.
And so he decided to walk around the range. There was a certain air of peace that hung on the island, caused by the lack of city lights or traffic, unheard and unseen even if he knew the city below was bustling with energy. The chirping crickets and the bristling tree leaves were his only company.
Or, well, so he thought.
As he walked by the shooting range, a small stream of light came from a slightly closed door. If he sharpened his senses, he could hear the faint clicking of machinery and a muted buzzing.
Of course, Cypher would still be up. His work was never ending. It wasn't a rare occurrence for Killjoy to have to bring him his food. Once, he hadn't even had to wake for an early morning mission departure : he was still awake from the night before. Cypher truly confused Omen. The man was never seen sleeping, but he seemed to get by with no problem. Then again, the mask hid the telltale signs of fatigue, like eye bags or a discreet yawn. The informant didn't tend to complain about his own state much : his tech, however…
Omen realized he had been standing still, staring at the thin stream of light. Well, he didn't have anything better to do.
He creeped up to Cypher’s office, not making a sound as he let his feet blow into smoke. It was a little game they played. Of Omen sneaking up on Cypher, knowing that he’d be seen and caught. Cypher would turn around to see him and do that little exhale he did when something wasn't worthy of a laugh. He would never best him, but they could always play pretend.
He soundlessly stood behind Cypher, who was busy scrutinizing his main monitor, leaning back in his chair with a keyboard placed on his lap. His hat and coat were off, hanging on the back of his door. His skin tight turtleneck was still on, as with his gloves. Some of the agents –Jett, most notably– liked to joke about how he looked bald without his hat on. To Omen, as he traced the bulb of his brow, the aquiline slope of his nose and the nape of his neck with his eyes, it was a reminder of his humanity. That he wasn't all pieces of metal under his disguise. He felt a small pull of envy.
‘’You’re staring, my shadow.’’ There was a ghost of a smile in his voice. His eyes trained on the screen, he lifted a pair of headphones, pulling a stool out from under his desk with his foot. ‘’Listen to this with me.’’
Omen took the headphones. He couldn't understand the language the people were speaking. It was camera footage of a meeting room –of Kingdom? Hourglass? He didn't know.– shot from a corner. Among the scattering of men and women in the room, two seemed to be debating intently. Still, he kept the headphones on. He didn't have anything better to do. That was the only reason he was here –Cypher shifted in his peripheral vision– Most definitely.
His eyes wandered away from the monitor. Cypher’s office was sparsely decorated. A dusty weaved rug and a smattering of anti-kingdom posters were the only sign of individuality it had. It wasn't plain, by no means, but everything else was all so… nondescript. Things that could have belonged to or been attributed to about anyone in the protocol. Things that couldn't be traced back to him.
Omen’s belongings held little of his past because he was unaware of it. Cypher didn't want others to know of his past, of himself even, ever withholding. Even a name was too much for him, even if it was a sign of trust. He rolled it over in his mind. Aamir. He wonders how Cypher would react if he shouted his name in the heat of battle instead of his call sign.
Cypher laughs dryly. “Look at them, saying the locations of their storehouses loud and clear. You would think they're trying to give that information away for free! Great for us, not so much for them.” Cypher turned to wink at him before furiously typing.
A loud whistle breaks the silence.
‘’Ah, tea’s ready.’’ Cypher set his headphones on his desk, pushing his chair away to turn to the rickety little coffee table where his electric teapot was placed, plugged into the gargantuan power bar that handled all of Cypher’s electronics. Sage would faint if she ever inspected the office : it was a blaring fire risk.
Seeing Omen stare at the abandoned headphones, Cypher waved his hand dismissively. ‘’All of importance has already been said. At this point, I'm just staying for the entertainment.’’ The strong smell of mint and… something Omen couldn't quite pinpoint filled the room as Cypher poured the tea in one of a pair of tea cups.
Omen leant back to catch a glance at them. They were unlike anything in his office, the only trace of a past, of him, in it. He had seen them before, every time he had joined Cypher during yet another sleepless night of his. Two translucent blue glasses, with gilded golden patterns on all sides, patterns that Cypher would trace with the tip of his forefinger when he was deep in thought. They were clearly expensive.
Omen couldn't exactly drink, but he had always enjoyed the feeling of warmth in his hands and the varied smells of Cypher’s expensive tea blends. It hadn't taken very long for Cypher to notice this : and so, every night, he always put a bit more water than needed in his teapot.
Cypher handed him the cup, his copper fingertips clinking against the glass as he grabbed it.
‘’For you.’’
Omen focused. He knew that a single tremor in his hands would send it flying, or even worse, crush it. He had to keep himself in control.
He could feel the warmth of Cypher’s hands, even through his gloves. The feeling was intoxicating, more so than the tea’s fragrant aroma, or of the adrenaline of battle. Human touch, given his heightened senses, was always strange to him. When their hands touched, he could feel his blood rhythmically flow through his veins, the inhale and exhale and inhale and exhale of his breath. It was always unsettling, somehow even more so with Cypher. Even in battle, when they were close, not even touching, he’d feel his heart quicken and a sense of unease twist and turn in the darkest pits of his stomach.
But Omen, maybe as a last trait of the man he once was, was nothing but curious. When he felt something, he pursued it, may it be the bite of the cold, the sting of a bullet or a roar of laughter in a crowded room. He’d let it linger, then release it, just to chase it over and over again.
And so, as small an act as it might be, he chased it.
His hand rested on Cypher’s far beyond what was socially acceptable–The other man made no mention of it, besides moving his pinky to rest under Omen’s hand– before coughing -he didnt even have lungs- and pulling his hand away.
‘’Sorry’’ He grunted.
‘’Nothing to apologize for.’’ He could swear he heard him sigh. Cypher swayed to the side to grab his cup. ‘’Now… Tell me what you smell.’’
It was a small habit of theirs, of Cypher making him some rare type of tea blend, and then asking him to identify the smells. It made him feel just a bit more human.
‘’Well, mint. Very strong mint. An undertone of passion fruit. And a tinge of…’’ He paused. ‘’Is it green tea leaves?’’
Cypher chuckled. ‘’Exactly! You’re getting sharper by the day, my shadow.’’
If Omen still had cheeks, they’d be tinged pink. He was never good with dealing with praise non-related to combat.
Cypher brought his cup up to his face and Omen shuffled around, his back to Cypher. He heard a tie being unfastened and the subtle sound of lips parting. Some distant part of his mind wondered if Cypher had a prominent Adam’s apple, if it bobbed as he took a sip of his tea. What of his mouth? Cypher was infamously sarcastic, with a laugh like a hyena. He associated a sharp smile to it, with a flash of white canine. His lips were surely chapped, due to being held under a mask all day and his lack of hydration : a painful subject between the informant and Sage, due to being the subject of one too many heat flashes. He wondered if he treated them at all, if he had balms –a memory. a girl, applying a stick of balm on her frostbitten lips. gone as quickly as it came–, or if he just bit the skin off, or worse, simply wetted them with his tongue
Omen shook his head. That was a dangerous line of thought. Mentally, he shackled it and pushed it off the range, into the ocean side below, dropping the key into his void.
He heard the cup clink against the hard wood of Cypher’s desk. He was done drinking. Wonderful. He would turn back around, and they could continue watching whatever CCTV camera he was fixated on, and they could go back to amicable silence and oh lord why was the mask still pulled up.
Cypher was wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, a small sigh of contentement slipping from his parted lips. Oh, and his mouth. His lips were raw and red with a scar cutting through them down to his jaw, dead skin long been bitten off, wetted by tea. He had a beard, kept clean and short, and he just knew that if he passed his finger against it, the bristles would feel nice and rough against the soft skin of his forefinger. His moustache was a bit longer, ever so slightly shiny, dampened by the tea. Omen distantly remembered –well, not so much remembered as it was like remembering what the wind felt like on his human skin, or how a sunburn stung– kissing a man with a moustache, in a far, far past. He had felt the stubble against his clean shaven cheeks as he whispered in his ear, of feeling it on his upper lip as teeth bit down.
His stool creaked.
Cypher’s head shot to the side, staring straight into his eyes (?). He smirked, all teeth. A canine, golden, not white, that caught the low light of the screens caught on his bottom lip. The thought was crawling ashore, throwing away its shackles and throwing itself at him with a vengeance.
He laughed dryly. ‘’Guess I’ll have to kill you now. You do know no one who has seen my face has lived to tell of it, yes?’’
Omen muttered. ‘’Please.’’
He had a dimple on his right cheek. Chances were that he was going to die, and he was focusing on the little dimple on his cheek that deepened as his smile widened.
‘’Please Omen, I am joking! Is a man not allowed to joke anymore?’’ He tutted, his thumb idly scratching at his jaw. The worn copper against his stubble : it made the most lovely sound Omen had ever heard. ‘’But… I do trust this stays between us?’’
Omen nodded. If he produced saliva, he would have gulped. ‘’Yes. Of course.’’
Cypher rolled his chair closer to Omen. That was the last thing he needed now.
‘’I trust you. You know that. Although… I showed you one secret now, so you must show me one as well. Simple etiquette’’ He looked up at him, suddenly more serious. ‘’Will you let me touch you?’’
‘’What.’’
‘’No. No, no, not like that wallah.’’ The veneer of seriousness was broken. He pinched the bridge of his nose. ‘’I just meant it like, could I touch your face? Or something like that?’’
Omen stifled a laugh. Cypher put his face in his hands.
‘’Forget killing you. I am now asking you to please escort me to the edge of the range and push me off of it so I may forget this ever happened.’’
Omen would have smiled at that. ‘’I understand. And…’’ He extended a hand. ‘’I allow it.’’
He felt like his heart was going to beat out of his chest. Cypher took his hand off of his lap, and, tentatively, reached out to hold Omen’s.
Omen wasn't very pleasant to hold. He knew it. He was cold, and was told his touch was like a gust of misery sent their way. Still, Cypher held his hand, rubbing his thumb into the palm of his bandaged hand. A sliver of a shadow slipped out.
And, with no warning whatsoever, Cypher lifted the back of his hand up to his face and kissed it.
Time stilled for a moment. He could feel the bristles of Cyphers moustache against his hand, of the soft silky, slightly damp touch of his lips, of the hot of his breath as he pulled away. For but a moment, he was warmed to his very core.
Even as Cypher pulled his lips and his hand away, Omen stayed frozen.
‘’Thank you.’’
A moment of silence. They stared at each other. Cypher’s mouth opened for a few seconds before closing again. He had two gold teeth, Omen distantly noted through a wall of white noise.
‘’See you tomorrow.’’ He disappeared in a waft of smoke, a small snippet of Cypher’s voice all he heard before he fell to the floor of his room.
Realization hit him all at once. Omen couldn't take it anymore. It was just like the corny teen romance shows Clove liked to watch and incessantly talked about. That unease that slithered in his stomach felt just like the ‘’butterflies’’ the main character would describe as they had their first kiss or danced or whatever stupid things teenagers in love did. Butterflies! He would have to give them a talking the next time he saw them in headquarters, for putting the idea of love of all things in his head. He just needed someone to blame for these feelings, but he never, never steered the thoughts of blame towards Cypher. Stupid secretive, ratty, tricky resourceful Cypher who liked to watch him knit and make him lovely tea and talk his head off for hours and now, apparently, to kiss him!!
He would have his head. It was now decided. Maybe he would take the bastard's offer and push him off the range.
Distantly, he heard a door creak.
Fade was standing at his door frame, poking her head into the room. Her face was washed clean of makeup, and she was wearing a shirt two sizes too big for her : Deadlock’s, obviously. It was clear she was trying to mark this situation somewhere on the scale of ‘’I accidentally cut off my favourite bonsai’s branch’’ to ‘’I’m leaving the protocol.’’ and to defuse it accordingly.
‘’I heard a crash. Are you alright?
He got up, grabbing her shoulder with a clawed hand.
‘’We need to get rid of Cypher NOW.’’