Work Text:
The problem with bounty work was it frequently led Phil places he wouldn’t go with a gun, and everything he did involved guns. He nudged the briefcase at his feet, just to be sure it was still there. The bench under him bit into his legs, curved wrought iron with an intricately carved seat, and adjusted his bowler hat, trying to look inconspicuous. A newspaper sat across his lap, half open on an article about the recent wins in the local gladiatorial scene. The people at the top of those rackets had money, from betting on rigged fights and had pioneered a new arena, hoisted into the sky by lighter than air ships, towed by massive balloons so that the audience, rich, could watch people fight, poor, somewhere new and terribly exciting. What a joke. His thumb pinned on a small, out of the way publication by a gossip columnist: the latest in a series of gladiators being bought out for private work, by an unknown buyer. It was a long shot. A man walked past him, tall, broad shouldered, in a tailored suit and top hat, cane clicking against copper lined cobblestone, attractive, dominant; Phil pulled his eyes away. He tugged the collar of his starched white shirt a little higher on his bare neck, not thinking about that. A whistle shrieked. The train station was a mess of people, men and women bustling off the platforms as they arrived at their destination and hurried off to supper or a place to retire for the evening. The whole thing felt a bit fantastical, he’d been contacted by telegram, sent an envelope with an absurd amount of cash, a train ticket and a target. Usually he wouldn’t have bothered with such an unorthodox request, but he was a little desperate. A voice crackled to life over the copper speakerphones scattered throughout the station - a tinny, cheerful voice boomed out - ‘final call for all passengers bound for overnight train Orient with service to Vearn, this is the final call!’ No time like the fucking present, Phil stood, dusted himself off and picked up his briefcase, which bumped comfortingly against his thigh as he walked across the platform, cane gripped in his other hand. A friendly looking woman, in a blue stewardess’ dress, checked his ticket punching the top of it with a bright smile on top of an ornate silver collar with a metal rose worked into a series of delicate loops.
“My Dom got it for me, isn’t he sweet? We’ve been married fifteen years,” the woman chirped, her lips moving at dizzying speed.
“It’s beautiful.” Phil’s lips thinned out as he forced a smile.
“Thank you! I’m so glad I found someone like him, he was even willing to let me work, so long as it was something respectable.” The woman preened, handing his ticket back with a flourish as she ushered him inside. “You have a nice trip, Sir, just let me know if you need anything at all.”
Phil did his best not to flinch at the honorific as he ducked inside, ticket clenched in his palm. Whoever had hired him had shelled out for the good stuff, he was directed to a private berth with a bunk, a small writing desk and a chair. It wasn’t first class, but at least he was alone. He set his briefcase down, smiled at the valet , also collared, though this one was just simple leather with a bit of an inlay, and sat down stiffly on the edge of the bed. He looked over towards the window: the crowds were thinning, people having better places to be than traveling by train at this hour. He stared down the mostly empty platform as steam shrieked from the whistle and the massive metal beast shifted below him, someone moved through the crowd - massive, broad shouldered, with long hair pulled back in a tight bun and trailing a slight, older gentleman with a limp. Phil fixed on the taller one, the swoop of a lock of hair, clear eyes, set shoulders and a collar just visible above the neckline of a dress that was trying and failing, through a series of green ruffles, to hide the stature of the person inside. There was something achingly familiar about the silhouette. Phil twitched the blinds on his window shut and pressed his arm against the wall, used his elbow to cushion his face as he breathed out. Not here, not now, he had to keep it together, stop thinking about ghosts in the mirror. He was dead; he’d watched him die, lost everything good that he’d never even deserved in the first place - a steam whistle cut through his downward spiral. The train lurched, began its puff and chug as they pulled out of the station. Dinner would be in an hour, then he could get to work. Phil pushed himself away from the wall, he was going to lay down, he wasn’t going to think about things, he was going to go to dinner, find his target, off them and get the hell out of dodge.
The dinner service was stuffy, and Phil was begrudgingly grateful for his richy, rich upbringing keeping him from making an absolute fool of himself. He knew which one was a salad fork, even if he was a little rusty, and his travel clothes didn’t really fit the dress code. There was a pipe organ, playing itself through a series of motorized gears, which he fixed on through several courses of soup, then salad, then some kind of bird in sauce. He tracked the people who came into and left the car; he still needed to find his target, he just knew they were on this train. The second class dining car was the gift that just kept on giving, as he was served desert, an automaton box was brought out and set up, birds which sang a series of sweet, overlapping notes. Phil loved technology, he’d wanted to build beautiful, fantastical things when he was younger. That sure as fuck hadn’t worked out. He distracted himself by asking the waiter what the chef’s process was for making the pots de crème - equal amounts of cream and milk, tempered with an absurd number of egg yolks and a moderate amount of chocolate, poured into ramekins and then baked in a water bath in a middling oven for roughly an hour, sprinkled with salt and served. It was good, not that Phil was much of a cook. He could boil water for tea and that was about it. The bird’s stopped singing. Phil got up, a nice diversion but he had work to do. His target wasn’t second class, which meant he needed to find somewhere to scope out the right people. The first class smoking car provided a perfect location. He slipped in past the minders, stuck himself in a corner dark enough that no one could see how shabby his waistcoat and trousers were in comparison to the finery on display and waited.
It wasn’t very busy, the first class dining salon was probably still on their sixth course, of fifteen. He pulled out a cigarette and lit it, the smell of cheap tobacco filling the space between the leftover smoke from more expensive cigars. He was halfway through his third when the door opened. The hush of skirts brushed against lacquered wood floors overtook the silence - odd, since this was supposed to be the men’s smoking lounge. Phil made a show of rolling another round of cheap tobacco in his lap, glancing up from under the brim of his hat. The woman from the platform was standing inside the door, looking around with a bemused, vacant expression on her face. Phil traced the lines on her nose, there was a bend in the middle of it, like it had been broken, the shape painfully familiar. He was seeing things, none of his business, he was here for someone else. The woman tugged at her collar, fingers stiff inside of silk gloves, glanced around, caught on the edge of Phil’s leg and her hand dropped. He could see her eyes flash, whites visible for half a second before her expression neutralized and the elderly gentleman he’d seen earlier appeared.
“There you are. What have I told you about wandering off?”
Phil missed the rest of the exchange, tracing his eyes over the curve of the man's cane, the expensive suit, and a distinctive watch chain, dangling, like a promise, from the man’s pocket. Just his luck, he was hallucinating ghosts and his target was right here. He didn’t even have his gun. The paper he was rolling slid off of his leg, just to add insult to injury. He bent to pick it up, and his fingers brushed the back of a silk glove. Phil jerked back. A pair of stark, green eyes met his, a wisp of hair, which in the dim light he could imagine in a soft rose shade landed on the side of a crooked nose. Phil’s heart stuttered a two beat rhythm and stopped, he forced himself to breathe.
Techno?
The motions were automatic, thumb held between his pointer and middle finger, twisted to the side like driving a knife in.
He glanced down: a fist curled pressed into the ground with the thumb up, one second, then gone, before the unfamiliar woman was back, scooping leaves up and moving to deposit them in the waste bin. Phil tried to move after him, because he was sure now, he wasn’t hallucinating, he couldn’t be, and was blocked by the gentleman who he was here to kill. Two birds one stone.
“Apologies, Sir.” The man’s voice was smooth, businesslike. Phil did his best not to glower.
“No harm done,” he brushed off his pants, made to stand. He needed to get out of here, he needed to get Techno out of here.
“You’d think following orders would be easy,” the man smiled, all teeth, like it was an inside joke. “It’s a biological imperative, being submissive, barely better than dogs, if a bit smarter. But I suppose it can’t be helped, I did buy this one for cheap.”
Phil would love to not be here actually. He didn’t want to pretend to laugh along with this dominant while his best friend was standing, stiff and vacant, looking off into space like he didn’t recognize him.
“Right, well, no harm done.” Phil repeated, trying to get out of his chair, get out, make a plan. He needed to do something right now or he was going to explode. He wondered if he could break the man’s nose. He had his own cane, and a bad knee, this close he wasn’t much good, that’s why he was the sniper. The ranged backup in a duo that was supposed to work together. They had worked in tandem, like clockwork, and then Phil had run the last time he’d seen Techno. He’d thought the brawler was dead.
“I prefer a submissive who doesn't talk, and this one can’t, win win,” his target was still talking; Phil was really considering breaking his nose. “It makes the training easier, this one’s got special skills, an ex-fighter, can you believe? You’d think the threat of a drop would be enough, but apparently not.”
“Fighter?” Phil forced himself to keep his eyes off of Techno, but he needed to know. The man’s eyes sparkled.
“I thought you might be in the market,” he smiled, all teeth. Phil’s palms were damp with sweat.
“For what?”
“Of course, of course,” the man nodded, “we can be discreet. This one is still being broken in, but I can put you down as an interested party.”
Phil really wished he had his gun, what was it Techno used to say? Keep them talking? He could do that. He was so good at talking.
“Right, I’m definitely interested. What exactly am I shelling out for? I like details before I put money down.”
“Of course,” the grifter was smooth, voice sliding into that deep register that sent the hairs on the back of Phil’s neck standing straight up. “As I’m sure you know, if you drop a submissive hard enough they’ll do anything you order. More powerful than a steam cannon given the right training, and enhancements.”
“Enhancements?” Phil glanced at Techno again, he really wanted to kill this guy. Techno was looking at him, they locked eyes, he gave the barest shake of his head. Phil could feel the command there, how it sank into his bones, this was right, well it wasn’t right but it could be. He could fix it. He got a do over. He could do it right this time.
“The latest in steam technology,” the man said reaching and grasping for Techno’s arm, pulling it dismissively, drawing off the long glove. Copper tubing, inter connected to metal fingers, an entirely new limb that hissed softly where pressure released from somewhere. Techno was still looking at him, and Phil was caught between doing what he was told and doing what he wanted, desperately.
“If this one isn’t to your liking, we do cater to other, more deviant tastes.”
Fuck it, Phil had never been very good at being good. He pulled his cane, twisted the top to open the barrel and leveled it. This close the shot was explosive, a cacophony of noise that rocked the car and ricochet off the walls. Phil didn’t bother trying to cover his ears, he was basically deaf at this point anyway and reading lips sucked. The man reeled, turned and collapsed as he took the full brunt of a steam powered cannonball to the chest. Phil pulled his cane back, powered it down. One bird, now for two. He pulled a hand up, phrases flying off his fingers as fast as he could form them.
Sorry, I missed you, fuck.
Techno stared at him, eyes wide, fingers framing his face where they were pressed down over his ears. He pulled one hand away, the intact one, skin and bone, and waved it, flat and insistent near his shoulder.
Why?
I couldn’t leave you.
The sign cut off as Phil’s hand started to shake. He shuddered, tears hot and heavy just out of sight. He gasped, tried to catch his breath, his heart was beating too fast, his legs shook. It felt like he was going to break apart.
I couldn’t- not again.
Phil was a disappointment, oldest son and he was just born wrong, submissive and not even good about it. They could have married him off, found a nice rich, dominant woman and he could have still inherited albeit with her managing all of the important bits. Except, well, he didn’t like women. That wasn’t fair, he liked plenty of women fine, just not… like that. Worse, he didn’t want kids, worse even than that, all he was good at was tinkering. Automata were his first love, followed by steam guns and cannons when building small birds that could sing and dance was deemed not good enough. He’d run away first chance he got, joined up with a mercenary crew who needed a marksman and hadn’t looked back. He met Techno on a job, had been sent to silence a scrappy fighter who’d been causing problems for a merchants guild. He hadn’t gone back to collect. Techno was a brawler, which meshed well with Phil’s ranged preferences and they caused problems - even better when it turned out they were compatible. Techno had never meshed well with his government assigned dynamic, and he could drop Phil just fine with a side eye and that frown he did which set creases between his brows. Phil loved it, more so because Techno had never wanted him to be good. He could bite all he wanted and Techno would just sigh. They’d done a lot of odd jobs, killing people, sabotage, whatever they needed to do to make ends meet. Techno hadn’t liked the last job they did together, Phil insisted. It was supposed to be simple, in out, grab the target for ransom, get paid. Except someone had tipped them off that the dynamic duo was coming, it had turned into an ambush, twenty to two. Phil felt his throat constrict as the exits were cut off and they got forced deeper and deeper until Techno was shoving him up, into a pipe, empty and out of use, told him to run, ordered it and Phil… had. He’d scrambled up and out and waited and waited and Techno- he’d seen them carry a body out, big enough to be his dominant and assumed the worst.
Phil’s skull felt like it was packed with steam, it was going to burst and he was going to go with it. His breaths came in short gasps and he was being pulled, no, carried, then tossed inside a small space and then there was someone pressed up against him, sure and solid and warm. Phil gasped, shuddering, tears pricking his eyes as a familiar scent, soothing, warm, muffled by metal and perfume from what was definitely an empty first class car.
Techno?
He pulled his hands up, tried to make them work like he needed them to.
I’m sorry, I’m sorry. I thought you were dead. I didn’t want to leave.
Phil.
A pair of hands caught his, one warm, one cold and foreign.
Phil, it’s ok, I told you to go.
Phil tracked the movements with his hands, eyes burning too much to read them, tried to make the words work with the wrongness he felt. Guilt sat hard and heavy in his stomach.
But I didn’t even look for you.
It’s ok, Phil. I was… well I did kind of die.
What?
Phil reached out, and his hands caught on coarse hair, a crooked nose, Techno pulled his hands down over his neck and to his chest, there was something there, foreign and warm with the heat of steam treated metal.
They maybe brought me back as an unethical experiment. You know how it is with evil rich types.
Fuck you.
Phil decided on, still crying, as he curled into Techno’s chest. They needed to go, he needed to go get the rest of his guns. He didn’t want to leave as a pair of arms wrapped around his shoulders and squeezed.
Missed you too, was pressed into the back of his skull. Phil snorted, dragging his wet face against the folds of Techno’s stupid dress.
“You look good in a dress.” He slurred out, hands shaking too much to sign it. The words were watery to his ears.
Bad enough I’m shirking my government assigned dynamic, I’m faking my gender too.
“News to me, gender is fake.” Phil mushed his face further into Techno’s real shoulder, he wasn’t sure how he felt about the metal one yet. Wasn’t sure how he felt knowing that he could have prevented it. At least they could have been experimented on together. Techno threaded his fingers through Phil’s hair, familiar and grounding. Phil reached up, finding Techno’s neck and digging under the collar, he pulled, hard, until he heard a snap and tossed it aside, violent and angry. Techno grunted.
Bruh, where’s yours?
I took it off. Didn’t deserve it after I fucking left you.
I die and he immediately goes looking for a new guy, rude.
Phil croaked a laugh, watery, a little wet. It was late, they had time to talk before the train got in, it was the middle of the night and there was a whole bed waiting for him back in his cabin. He had Techno back. He hadn’t dreamed that was possible. If he could have that, then he’d figure the rest of it out. Techno pressed a kiss to the top of his head, soothing, comforting, familiar. They’d figure it out, they were together again, screw the rest.