Chapter Text
The café is bustling with activity, tourists and locals taking up the space. Irving sits with his back to the wall, nursing an espresso, his leatherbound sketchbook open on the table. His pencil moves across the page with practiced precision, capturing the curves and shadows of the ancient statue of the Gaul he studied earlier at the museum. To anyone watching, he’s just another art enthusiast in Rome.
But Irving is here observing the man seated across the piazza, engaged in conversation with a known Russian dissident. Burt Goodman, arms dealer, suspected terrorist financier — all alleged, nothing proven, of course — and the subject of Irving's first field assignment in a long time.
For three days, Irving’s been shadowing Goodman through Rome, documenting his meetings and contacts. Always at a distance. Never hovering around for too long. Professional. Meticulous.
He sees the Russian take his leave, but Goodman stays back. Irving is patient. He focuses on his drawing, waiting. Only a matter of time.
A few minutes pass and he senses the shift before he sees it, the air thickening with tension as the man himself approaches. He keeps his hand moving across the paper, not looking up when the chair across from him scrapes against the floor.
‘You’ve been following me,’ a smooth, confident voice says.
Irving's hand stills and he looks up, schooling his face into polite confusion. Burt Goodman has taken a seat across from him, curiously looking at his sketchbook. He’s wrapped in a charcoal overcoat with a deep burgundy scarf draped artfully around his neck. A pair of leather gloves lie neatly on the table. His dossier hadn’t quite captured the sharpness of his cheekbones or the way his blue-green eyes catch the light.
'Non parlo inglese.'
Goodman laughs, sounding genuinely delighted, though his eyes remain steely. ‘Oh, that was good. You almost had me. Excellent Roman accent, but let’s not insult each other. I know a tail when I see one.’ He takes a look at the sketchbook again. 'This is one of my favorites. Your attention to detail is impressive. Though I must say, I prefer when it's not directed at my daily schedule.’
'And I prefer when men announce themselves before sitting at my table.’
‘Please.’ Goodman’s smile is sharp. ‘You already know who I am.’
A waiter arrives with two glasses and a bottle of red wine.
‘I don't recall ordering wine,’ Irving says carefully.
Goodman unwinds his scarf with deliberate slowness before pouring for them both and offering him a glass. ‘Consider it a professional courtesy. Though I suppose we work at somewhat cross purposes, don't we, Agent …?’
‘I’m sure I don’t know what you’re talking about,' Irving says, accepting the glass and taking a deliberate sip while maintaining eye contact.
‘Of course you don’t. The agency must want me badly enough to upgrade to such premium surveillance. But you made one mistake.’
Irving can’t help himself. ‘And what mistake would that be?’
‘Being entirely too handsome.’ Goodman takes a slow sip of wine, and Irving follows the movement of his throat as he swallows before forcing his eyes back up.
Irving huffs a quiet laugh. ‘That’s the best you’ve got?’
‘Oh, I’m quite serious. Nearly fell down the Spanish Steps when I spotted you. Hardly forgettable, a face like yours. And then, wouldn’t you know it, I kept seeing you. Again and again.’ Goodman leans in slightly, voice dropping just enough to feel like a secret. ‘If you’d looked any different, I’m sure I wouldn’t have noticed you for a week. Cruel of your employers, really. How’s anyone supposed to conduct business with a distraction like you lurking in the background?’
Irving smirks. ‘Maybe you’re just easily distracted.’
Goodman’s smile flickers, just for a second, like he wasn’t expecting that. Then he hums, pleased. ‘Oh, you’re very good.’ He takes another sip of wine, considering. ‘Then again, maybe you wanted to be seen. A man with your skill surely wouldn’t make such a rookie mistake as letting me catch a glimpse of you in the first place. Which makes me wonder what game you’re really playing.’
Irving shrugs, leans back despite the magnetic pull of the other man. ‘Someone like you must be very busy. I'd hate for you to be wasting your time with scruffy artists like me when you have so many dangerous people to meet.’
‘Oh, you're easily the most dangerous person I've met all week. And this has been the best five minutes of it so far. Especially as you’re even more handsome up close.’ Goodman finishes off his wine.
‘You’re very forward.’
‘Just honest.’ Goodman chuckles, amused at his own hypocrisy. ‘Well. About some things.’ He flicks a glance at his watch, sighing as if genuinely regretful. ‘As much as I’d love to continue this little game, I do have somewhere to be.’
Irving lets his fingers trail idly along the stem of his glass. ‘Just when I was getting to know you better.’
‘Oh, this won’t be the last you’ll see of me, I’m sure. Your director was kind enough to invite me to the American embassy event tonight. Probably to ransack my hotel room while I’m gone, but you can tell your colleagues they won’t find anything there.’
‘I don’t think you should let a little thing like that stop you from a party, don’t you?’
Goodman exhales a mock sigh, as if conceding. ‘Will I see you there? Perhaps in something other than this …’ he gestures to Irving's leather jacket and casual attire, ‘surveillance ensemble? Rugged as it is. I'm curious to see how you clean up.’
‘I don't attend functions.’
‘Make an exception. For me.’ Goodman stands, buttoning his overcoat with elegant efficiency. ‘It would be a shame to abandon your surveillance now that we've broken the ice.’
It’s a challenge, and Irving could never resist a challenge.
Before Goodman turns to leave, he takes Irving's pencil from his hands. His fingers slide deliberately across Irving's palm, the pad of his thumb tracing a small, almost imperceptible circle against Irving's skin before withdrawing with the pencil. It's brief but electric, sending unexpected heat racing up Irving's arm. Goodman writes numbers down on a corner of the sketchbook, his movements precise and unhurried.
He claps a hand on Irving’s shoulder, leaning in close enough that Irving can smell his cologne, earthy and expensive, oud and vetiver. Goodman’s lips nearly brush his ear as he whispers, ‘It’s my private line. In case you have questions that won't fit in your official report.’ Despite himself, a thrill runs down Irving's spine, warmth pooling low in his stomach.
Irving watches him smooth his scarf over his shoulders before weaving his way through the café tables and disappearing into the crowd outside.
He has Goodman's attention now. Perfect. That's what he wanted – what the agency wanted.
But his palm is still tingling where Goodman touched him. Irving flexes his hand, trying to get rid of the sensation, but it lingers.
Irving finishes his wine in one swift motion, grateful for the burn of alcohol. He finds himself wondering what Burt Goodman would look like in formal attire against the backdrop of embassy chandeliers. He memorizes the number and reaches for the pencil to erase it, but finds that it’s missing.
If nothing else, he’ll have to go to the event to get his pencil back from Goodman.