Chapter Text
“I apologize for calling you in on your night off, but matters are urgent. Adam Thallace is hosting a party tonight, offering O.W.C.A. the perfect chance to put an end to his harm to society once and for all. You are the best agent we have at the moment for this job.
“You know what to do.”
“And remember, it is crucial that you let nobody find a single trace of you at that party. You’re a secret agent for a reason.”
────────
ONE
In all of its time, Thallace Manor had truly never been more beautiful. In the ballroom, golden light from the chandeliers painted every guest in the room with a magnificent aura, falling upon and illuminating their best features. Music swelled from where the orchestra—which was hired simply for being the best the world could offer—played loudly enough for their melody to fill the ballroom, but to not pound in your eardrums.
Parties at Thallace Manor were rare, so whenever you received an invitation, no matter the reason, you showed up.
On this fine, brisk November evening, Adam Thallace was hosting a special get together for his daughter’s birthday. He had hosted and hired someone to take care of the decorations and catering, but attending his own daughter’s party was another thing.
The man had invited business partners and politicians, yet he didn’t bother to make an appearance at least once; not even for a toast.
Other guests invited from all over waltzed and conversed, making the ballroom as lively as it was intended to be when it was first built. Some spoke of politics, some mentioned the markets, and others talked about whatever else would come to their drunken minds.
Because they had all been invited to the party thrown in Clarice Thallace’s honor, but only a select few actually came for her specifically. Most of them simply handed a gift to the maids or butlers walking in and headed straight to the ballroom or wandered around the place, taking in the sheer wealth of Mr. Thallace.
The party had only just started, yet already were all of the guest rooms filled.
What everyone didn’t know, despite the party’s liveliness, was that there would be a death. An assassination, to be precise, on Mr. Thallace. An important man, yet so very corrupt. And in this world, when you were just that bad, you were wanted dead.
“Isn’t it just sad?”
And sometimes when you were wanted dead, something was done about it.
“That poor, poor girl, all sad and alone at her birthday party.”
In the middle of the extravagant ballroom stood a girl, young and petite, in a gown crafted meticulously from lavish fabrics that could be sold for a fortune. A single crystal from her necklace could feed a family for a month, maybe even two.
As the daughter of Mr. Thallace and the heir to his empire, Clarice was most certainly the hot topic of the night. Although nobody cared to talk to her, aside from a half-hearted birthday wish, her name never stayed off of anyone’s lips for too long, and not a single eye could stray too far from her. All eyes were on her, but all intentions were different.
Everybody wanted something out of her, or rather, her father. Some had already gotten what they wanted just by having a reason to get out of their houses and get distracted from all the horrors of the world, but others had different wishes. Perhaps there’d be an opportunity to snag a ring off of her fingers, or if one was bold enough, snatch her necklace?
On the other hand, Perry Fletcher just wanted to go home.
Or rather, Agent P wanted to go home, as he was on the job.
But it was a Friday! Perry was supposed to be at home watching terrible romance movies in a bathrobe and platypus slippers! But, according to O.W.C.A. and his handler, apparently he had better things to do.
Like murdering the father of a girl at her own birthday party.
(Granted, the agent understood the heinous acts Thallace was responsible for, but it still was terrible that this had to be done at Clarice’s birthday party.)
So here he was, dressed neatly in a tuxedo with his hair slicked back and a flute of champagne in his hand at a party that Perry Fletcher, a ghost writer, had no business in being at. Perry didn’t really like parties, but he certainly didn’t like when a woman sat next to him when he so very obviously wanted to be left alone.
And now she was trying to converse with him.
“What a man her father is,” she tries, pursing her red lips, attempting to get something out of the secret agent. “He can’t even be bothered to show up to his own kid’s party.”
His eye twitches ever-so-slightly while he scans her—nothing too suspicious going on with her, unless you saw being tipsy as a threat. He groans, internally.. Of course this had to happen to him on his night off.
First, being called in on a night off was terrible, but with the way O.W.C.A. was, it wasn’t out of the ordinary. And then there was a lonely woman whose sole intention was likely to lure him to bed for the night?
The man thins his lips. No, he shouldn’t assume, but what else would she want from him? Did she not have enough confidence to join in on other conversations?
Agent P lifts the flute to his lips, staring forward at the birthday girl while she traveled back to her seat. He then side-eyes the woman next to him, clearing his throat, “It isn’t like you showed up to actually celebrate, yeah?”
To his surprise, the lady takes it well. She chuckles. “You go ahead and point out one person in this room that actually came to see that girl.”
“A thief, maybe,” he muses.
The woman hums, and the agent lets himself smile. “Perhaps. I won’t lie and say that I’m not here to dine on Thallace’s dime.”
Go figure.
“Why are you here, anyway?” The woman leans forward, filled with interest. “I’ve never seen a man with teal hair before. Is it natural?”
There it was. There was the reason he never usually let himself converse with people at gatherings—it was always the hair.
“Shoulda worn a wig,” he mutters, finishing off his drink. A butler takes his glass from him and offers him a new one. There went no drinking on the job, but he’d broken that rule with the first sip. He was also breaking the rules by leaving behind evidence of his prescense by speaking with someone.
Perry never was a devout rule follower, though.
“Eh, I think it’s unique. At least you’re not balding.”
Agent P stays silent, as he decides he shouldn’t continue the conversation, but the woman had other ideas. “Don’t get the wrong idea though—I’m not here for a man,” she shrugs. “The opposite, actually.”
Perry’s jaw drops and his cheeks show his embarrassment. It’s not like he had any interest in her, but—“I know, I know. You thought you were hot enough to gather the attraction of a woman like me.”
“Which… you’re not bad looking, so to speak.”
In the corner of his eye, he catches a glimpse of his first target of the night, and the agent swears he’s never felt more relieved. He’d stopped assassinations (Ironic.), defused bombs at the last possible second, and much more, but being able to finally get his job done and get home seemed more relieving than anything.
Agent P stands up, nodding to the woman next to him in departure, and locks his eyes on a young man in a white button-up and khakis. Certainly a choice considering how everyone else was dressed, but it was presentable. His previous “chatting buddy” holds back a laugh as she watches him make his way up to his target: Coy Allen.
At age twenty-six, he was only twelve years younger than Agent P, and he worked in a… not-so-admirable field, so to speak. But, if he was truly there to have a meeting with Thallace, it posed a problem to the secret agent.
A sex worker killing their own client? Nobody would bat an eye. The story left a wonderful sense of ambiguity for detectives, one that would leave him out of it. This was the most ideal scenario for a secret agent. However, if Coy were to walk in on Agent P actively doing his job, that’d be an issue.
Using the man to cover his tracks was something O.W.C.A. would want him to do, but it wasn’t something Perry wanted to do. Sure, it’d keep his handler happy and his public record clear, but Perry didn’t like using citizens to get his work done.
For heaven’s sake, the whole reason he did what he did was to protect citizens. If he let an innocent man take the blame, what kind of protector would he be?
All Agent P needed to do was either one of two things: get Coy away from Thallace or get him off the property entirely. Keeping Coy distracted just seemed like the easiest option at the time, so that’s what he’d aim for. Distract him, pull him away from the party, and help him take a nap.
Easy.
Agent P adjusts his bow tie, pushes back his hair—ignoring how that one strand never worked with him—and straightens his back.
Coy is thankfully unsuspecting when the agent approaches him. If anything, he seems… interested.
Perry had managed to catch Coy on the first step of the grandeur staircase, settling one of his hands on the handrail. He set it up to seem that he had rushed over to the staircase, desperate to stop the man.
“You’re beautiful,” is the first thing he says to him. No other simple greeting, no question about where Coy was going; just simple, good old-fashioned flattery.
And it worked, thankfully.
While this wasn’t one of the things Perry was expected to master in the Academy, it did help at times. There was flattery, then flirting, and finally, seduction. Each method came together in that order to perfection, serving their purpose to get the secret agent places, whether it was to distract or to help ease his case.
Although he didn’t favor using this approach, he was always grateful to be good at it. He could thank his parents for his good looks, too, he supposed.
Coy seems surprised that someone would be interested in him in such a short time since he’d entered the ballroom, but he’s far from seeming unhappy about it. He grins, blushes, all of that stuff.
Agent P itches to check his watch.
────────
“You’re pretty, too,” Coy hears himself say.
And, when Coy looks at the man, he knows that it’s a fact. In all truthfulness, the man was more gorgeous than he was pretty.
He has teal hair—something Coy didn’t see much of, nevertheless at such a fancy gathering—and the most divine, charming smile. This just had to be the most handsome man Coy had ever laid his eyes on; a true breath of fresh air compared to the men that kept his bills paid.
The most unbelievable factor of this moment was that he was interested in Coy.
The beautiful man smiles. He licks his lips, ever so slightly, so teasing, and looks Coy up and down. Coy feels his cheeks warm up and he grips the handrail, his hand dangerously close to the other one occupying the handrail, its fingers long. “Are you busy?” he asks, voice soft. Heavenly, even.
Coy lies. He coughs and looks left, then right. “I’m not,” he answers a little too quickly. His head shakes. “I don’t have anything to do.”
The teal-haired man isn’t convinced. Coy feels weak in the knees just from looking at him. It was a miracle that he hadn’t fainted yet. “Are you sure? I wouldn’t want to disturb any plans you might have.”
It wasn’t like Coy didn’t need the money. Hell, the main reason he even did this was for the money, and Thallace offered a pretty ass penny. Coy needed the money, but this was the first time he’d actually been interested in someone in a while. This man didn’t offer him money, didn’t offer him a drink like the others would. He simply waltzed up, said he found him pretty, and had Coy like that.
Not to say that this particular man didn’t have any whorish intentions, but Coy saw a moment more promising than anything else he’d ever partaken in.
Coy sets his hand on top of the teal haired stranger’s.
“I don’t have any plans.”
────────
The other man took his hand within an instant and whisked him away to some storage closet within the manor’s halls. It was the largest one he’d seen. Which made sense, considering this was a mansion after all, but it also wasn’t like this was his biggest concern.
Not like he even had any concerns at that moment.
The man shuts the door of the closet behind them and Coy takes a breather, still exhilarated by the fast pace. He takes action almost immediately, pushing Coy against the back wall of the closet and holding his waist.
He still hasn’t shared his name. Coy decides that it doesn’t matter.
Kisses are pressed to his the corner of his lips. Maybe a tad bit odd for a man that seemed so willing, but Coy, once more, decides that this doesn’t matter.
As the minutes pass and the clock keeps ticking, Coy can’t help but feel like the other is stalling. He’s avoided actually kissing his lips, has avoided letting his hands wander, and was just all around making no sense at all. What happened to the guy that seemed like he actually wanted him? Was this really the same one that’d made an effort to catch him on the staircase?
Part of him felt like he should have just went upstairs to do his job. He felt like he was being toyed around with, and the money was what he really came for.
Coy couldn’t say he loved his job, but rather that he appreciated the money it brought him. Prostitution wasn’t his first or favorite option, of course, but it helped him stay off the streets and kept his belly full. It also helped put money towards his true desire, but that pot was still in the process of boiling. He was so close to…
At the same time, they push and pull away from each other.
“I should go n—”
“I truly am sorry for—”
Coy lets out an awkward chuckle. Even in the dark of the storage closet he can see that the man’s expression has changed. No longer does he look absolutely smitten over Coy. Instead, he seems… disappointed. Sad?
Did he change his mind, too?
“Hey, let’s just…”
There’s a small glint of light and for a moment Coy swears he sees a sharp object—perhaps a needle?—in the other man’s hand.
Before Coy can figure out what the man truly held, out of remembrance for the small amount of self defense he knew, he kicks. The top of his foot harshly meets the man’s (the attacker’s?) groin, and he leans back against the wall, planning his next move. Sure enough, the kick sent an object crashing to the ground, filling the storage closet with the sound of glass shattering.
Strangely, the other doesn’t cry out. He can hear the stumbling, mismatched footsteps and a deep huff, but nothing else. Coy whips out his phone, turns on the flashlight, and aims it at where he heard the glass break.
A syringe.
“What the fuck?!” he demands, shining the light at the man, who shields his eyes with his forearm. “The hell is wrong with you?!”
Coy doesn’t get an answer, and if he had half a mind, he would have rushed straight out of that closet and out of the mansion. He might have been able to put aside his well-being for a few moments for his job, but no way in hell was he going to just accept death!
“Are you mad?” Coy asks.
The response he’s given is far from what he was expecting. It’s not an apology and it’s most certainly not a good, thorough explanation of the other’s plans. “You should leave. Get out of here—get out of the house. Go far away, and don’t dream of coming back.”
Coy doesn’t move the flashlight. He doesn’t let himself shake or show anything than honest anger. “First you lead me on, then you try and stab me with a syringe, and now you’re talking about God knows what. Are you—”
“You need to get out!” the stranger hisses. “And you never saw me.”
“Like hell I didn’t,” Coy spat. “Screw you—I’m calling the police.”
────────
He knows he shouldn’t have gone this route. He never liked going this route, yet he did it anyway, because that’s what an angry agent that got sent on a last-minute mission did. They made bad choices. They talked to people when they weren’t supposed to be leaving traces of their presence and they indulged themselves in physical contact for a split second.
What?
No. He was just… no. It was a Friday night, he’d lightly touched a bottle of wine before coming to the party, and then drank a bit of champagne. But that shouldn’t be a reason for anything! Perry once drank himself silly and beat a room of men to a pulp—this was nothing. He shouldn’t be this bad.
(At least his car could drive itself, he thinks.)
And he wasn’t indulging in anything. He was fine on his own. Twenty-six years, going on twenty-seven. He was fine.
But how the hell was he supposed to explain this?!
How do you explain that you’re just a little bit fucked up from alcohol, but not to the point where you made terrible decisions and only stupid ones? How did you explain to a stranger that you hated the decisions you made in the past when you were only twelve and didn’t know that O.W.C.A. wasn’t great? How do you explain to a man that caught you trying to use a tranquilizer-needle-thing on him that sometimes you just want to go home to your Mum?
“Christ.”
That’s it.
“Listen. There’s going to be a murder, and you don’t want to be here,” he says quietly, voice barely above a strained whisper. If he tried, if he really tried and focused hard enough, he could get away with this and convince Coy to do everything in his power to get out. “Someone’s going after Thallace, and…”
Well, how did he know that Coy was a prostitute? How was he going to explain that?
“…I was sent to tell you to get out of here.”
“You’re full of shit.”
Maybe he was? Perry groans. His eyes were starting to hurt from the flashlight that Coy just couldn’t seem to get enough of, his head was beginning to buzz, and all he wanted to do was run out of there and go home. Being cuddled up in his weighted blanket on the couch of his townhouse didn’t seem too bad. It almost felt like a dream.
Oh, how far he had fallen. He remembers being young and so, so vulnerable to the lies O.W.C.A. fed him spoonful by spoonful.
They called him their best agent and he couldn’t even convince a man to just get out.
“I’ll give you £5,000 if you just go. Please,” he begs. “Please, go home.”
He doesn’t expect the man to actually agree to that.
────────
19.11.20XX, 20:32
O.W.C.A. BRITISH DIVISION
TRANSMISSION LOG
VIA CELL
AGENT: PERRIN L. FLETCHER
CODENAME: PLATYPUS
HQ: Hello?
PLATYPUS: Hey. Hey— [CUT OFF]
HQ: Name and codename, yeah?
PLATYPUS: No time, send out agents— [CUT OFF]
HQ: Name and codename?
PLATYPUS: Perrin Fletcher. Platypus.
HQ: Middle initial.
PLATYPUS: You never [REDACTED] ask for middle initial!
HQ: Middle initial, chap. Need that. Shouldn’t be hard.
PLATYPUS: L. Middle initial is L.
HQ: Okay cool. Thanks.
PLATYPUS: Oh my God. Please just— [CUT OFF]
HQ: So what do you need again? Sorry.
PLATYPUS: Agents sent to police stations anywhere near that… God, Thallace Manor. Agents to police stations near Thallace Manor. Bring cameras. And send out a few for a search.
HQ: Aight so… Edinburgh?
PLATYPUS: Yes. Edinburgh. Bring cameras!
HQ: Edinburgh. Okay. Regular cameras or…?
PLATYPUS: Code Blown. Code Blown!
HQ: Oh, mate, really? Blown? They really got ya’?
PLATYPUS: Just send out backup! His name is Coy Allen—he needs a picture!
HQ: Aight, aight. Patience, lad.
HQ: Alright, they’ll be there.
PLATYPUS: Thank you.
HQ: Ouf, Blown. Humler won’t be happy.
PLATYPUS: When is she ever.
TRANSMISSION END.
────────
Somehow, by some odd miracle, Agent P finds himself standing in front of the door to Adam Thallace’s office. He’d had to practically beg Coy to give him even the smallest amount of personal information, as he needed the man’s address to send a cheque. Which, he did plan on doing, despite the ordered memory wipe. Perry liked to keep his word (most of the time) and did feel sorry about the trouble he’d put Coy through.
He wrote himself a mental note to actually stick to doing things on his own rather than tossing the blame on a random civilian, even in times of desperation.
Because he really should have just come straight here, but heaven forbid he wish to keep an innocent man out of his dirty work. He has half a mind to simply open the door and shoot the target, but he had to have some professionalism, unfortunately. At least his pistol had a silencer.
Agent P extends an arm to reach for the door handle, his weapon still concealed. There was no way that Thallace would have actually went to see his daughter while Perry had his… whatever… with Coy. There was no actual way.
He’ll be there. He’ll be there and then you’ll be headed home. You won’t tell Humler until tomorrow, she can find out on the news.
Perry smiles. It was humorous how much joy he found in something so simple as attempting to get back at his boss. She deserved it, calling him on his night off. He was in the middle of a movie.
Agent P takes a deep breath, then opens the door.
A man with a large bald spot and greyed hair sits smack dab in the middle of the room at his desk. The bastard is asleep. Of course he’s asleep.
Perry allows himself a chuckle. Then, he shoots the man in the forehead, right in the middle. Pretty good for slightly obscured senses, if he had a say in anything.
Agent P didn’t have a problem with this line of work. Perry Fletcher did, but Perry Fletcher stopped thinking too hard about it over two decades ago.
Did he?
Years of experience allow him to immediately settle his weapon back in its usual home, and Perry mentally prepares himself for his report. He’d leave out the part about his encounter with Coy, to say the least. He’d lie—depending on how much Coy spilled in front of a fellow agent—and say that Coy simply caught him after the fact.
That didn’t sound too bad, and it wasn’t an agent’s job to be truthful.
The life of a secret agent was built on lies, after all.