Chapter Text
It was probably Colin's fault. But in his defense, Bill enabled him.
"So," Bill said, almost conversationally over lunch, "Fake boyfriend, huh?"
Ah, shit. Colin put down the Reuben he'd just taken a bite of and stole a glance across the table. They so rarely ate with each other like this, because Bill was a flighty and busy motherfucker who took off as soon as he was done—in lieu of Colin's best attempts to get him to loosen up. But—for once—after the Patrick Graham case, Bill had asquiesced.
Colin took it as a victory—any step was a step in the right direction.
He eyed the man. Bill hadn't moved, really, had set down his own half-eaten sandwich and was studying him with something sharp in his gaze. "Does that bother you?" Colin asked, carefully.
Bill shrugged, faux-casual. "Not if it doesn't bother you."
He returned to eating with a practiced efficiency, as if this made perfectly acceptable sense. Even stranger was the way Colin's eyes were automatically drawn to the flex of his jaw as he chewed and swallowed.
"I thought you'd have more objections," Colin said.
"It's an unconventional tactic, I'll admit, but it's a good cover." Right. A cover. "Besides, I get to actually be in the field and not waiting on you; seeing as that's where you seem to get into the most trouble."
"Right," Colin said aloud. "Missing the action, I suppose?"
Bill gave him an unreadable look. A shadow crossed over his face—like clouds over the sun—and Colin went back to eating, pretending like he hadn't said anything at all.
The mission was relatively straightforward. A month ago, on the 11th, a small bomb was set off inside a cathedral. It hadn't killed anybody, thankfully—just injured a staff member who'd been cleaning inside. It'd even been kept out of the news—gag order on everybody who knew, Bill and Colin included. The word was, not even the deacon of the place knew what'd really gone down.
One of the two Senators, Karl Hansen, had booked that cathedral for his wedding the very next day, on the 12th. So either the bomb was an attempt on his life, or it was meant to disrupt the wedding from taking place.
Colin bet on the former.
The problem, then, was that the bomber disappeared into thin air following the attack, and a manhunt hadn't turned up anything fruitful. The cathedral had reopened its doors to the public, and those in the know dismissed it as a one-off thing, and those who didn't said freak accident.
So the plan was: get in, get the intel, get out without announcing your presence. Keep it hush-hush. Very simple. Colin's probably had better ideas, but in the end: path of least resistance won out.
"I know I don't normally ask you to go in with me," he said, turning to face Bill in the passenger seat. "But when we're in there, you have to follow my lead. Could get kind of messy."
"You haven't told me yet what we're doing," Bill pointed out, not looking at him. His eyes are fixed on the road, and he slowed down at a yellow light. Colin would have just hit the gas, but he's been banned from driving any vehicles (the ones that Bill gets them are FBI money, and after that last stunt…well.)
"Ah," Colin said, thumbing through the pictures of the cathedral on his phone. Two hundred metres away, and Bill'll turn right onto Rockwood Avenue. It was placed at the corner of Rockwood Ave. and Merilee Street, an imposing relic from the 70s plopped right in the sprawling urban metropolis of New York. "Well, I was going to get to it."
"Right…so?"
"We're shopping for a spot for our wedding venue," Colin stated, impassive, "And you're my fiancé who just so heard about the place and forced me to come with."
That got Bill's attention. He squinted at Colin, unreadable emotion on his face, and said—very slowly and patiently—"You want me to be fake-engaged to you?"
"Well, yeah," Colin said. "You can finally show off that shiny engagement ring I know you have for a reason."
A pause befell them, stifling in its awkwardness. Colin wished he could open a window or something, but Bill had childlock on all the doors—a precaution, Colin's sure, that works with the criminals he drags in daily, but Colin resists the implication nonetheless—and Bill turned back to the dashboard.
"I don't, actually," he said, shortly.
"Don't what?"
"The ring," Bill muttered. "I don't have it."
The light turned green, and he pressed down on the gas, cruising smoothly between the waves of traffic. Colin furrowed his eyes at the windshield as Bill didn't look at him, back ramrod straight and uncomfortable. "Wait. You don't—"
"Katie and I broke it off," was all Bill said. "We just… weren't compatible anymore."
"Oh." Oh felt inadequate for the situation. So did I'm sorry, but Colin didn't really know what to say to that. He hadn't ever been one for marriage, but Bill clearly had: he hadn't worn his ring out on his finger—too afraid of losing it—but Colin had seen flashes of a chain around his neck. Colin wondered, briefly, whether he'd kept it. "I'm sorry, mate."
"Don't be." Bill turned to check his rearview, and then exited out onto Rockwood Ave. "Some things just weren't meant to be."
"Can I ask…why?" He hadn't ever met Katie. Bill was intensely private about his personal life, almost to an unbearable degree, and tended to keep his work-life separate whereas Colin had blown that line to smithereens years ago.
Bill was silent for a long moment. Outside, the leaves on trees were turning orange-red and dropping as autumn descended on them, the chill breathing its wintry omen on the city. Colin had started taking to wearing scarves every day, all the time, but Bill usually went without—seemed to not even register the cold. Lucky bastard. "Work," he said, eventually. "You know how it is. She just… realized that it wasn't what she wanted."
The thing was, Colin could. He knew exactly how it felt.
"Well, it's still terrible." Again, inadequate. Silence reigned as Colin mulled over his next words. "You still get to be fake-engaged to me, though, so it's not a whole loss."
Bill shot him a look, but the corners of his mouth tilted up in a small not-smile as he pulled the car into park.
The church was grandiose: high ceilings, stained glass letting the afternoon sunlight in to splay across the marble floors, rickety wooden pews lining up in rows like soldiers. Colin tucked his hands into his pockets, staring up at the altar, and Bill whistled low in his throat. "Fancy," he said. Understatement of the year—the bibles tucked into the pews had golden gilding on the sides.
The place where the bomb had gone off was obvious—the cathedral had closed for a week while the repairs were underway, but Colin could still see the scorch marks on the floors, the newer pews—a brighter stained wood that stuck out like a sore thumb amongst their peers—and the white walls signified where they'd had to be cleaned of soot and debris. Or repainted entirely in some cases, Colin noted, looking at the tiny white spots near the doorway.
"Wonder how much that repair job cost," Bill murmured quietly. His voice didn't quite echo, but it still rung like a hushed bell in the empty space.
Probably enough to pay Colin for a year, and he didn't come cheap. "A lot, knowing these rich bastards," Colin said. He glanced around, strolling right up to the pulpit. There wasn't much left behind from service—it was 5PM on a Monday, and the janitors had gone through the place pretty quick.
He hadn't been religious growing up. Maybe once upon a time Colin Glass could have been a religious man—the universe did have a lot to answer for—but he'd always been a take-destiny-in-your-hands type, anyway. Not that it did him a lot of good. The altar was left clean and dusted, and Colin peered closer for a better look.
A cough rang out behind him. When Colin turned, a man was standing shoulder to shoulder with Bill, dressed in dark vestments and clerical collar visible from a distance. He's frowning, severe and stern, dark features drawn in annoyance.
"Sir," he called out. "Please get down from there."
Next to him, Bill mouthed just do it. Colin glanced at Bill, then at the man, and then slowly made his way back down.
"I'm so sorry," he laughed, practised and fake, slinging an arm around Bill's waist. Play along, he begged in his mind. Bill stiffened under that bespoke suit but—thank everything—pointedly didn't flinch away. He's warm where he's pressed into Colin's side. "I got just too curious, but you know what they say—about cats and curiosity, that is."
The man frowned at them behind his wire-rimmed glasses. If Colin had to describe him in a word, he'd say the man was not ugly or handsome—just average. Forgettable, black robes and all. He had a pasty face, dark hair and beady eyes, like a bird; small and bright behind the shield of glass and steel. The clerical collar seemed to sag on him, a sad afterthought to an already forgettable package. "Sir, the cathedral isn't open to the public at the moment. Mass will be held on Wednesday."
"Oh no, no," Colin chuckled, "Sorry, I should've said. My fiancé and I—" he squeezed Bill closer, "—were looking around, hoping to be able to hold our wedding here! We drove past and thought it looked positively beautiful."
Against his side, Bill hasn't relaxed even though he's letting Colin tug him around. He's stiff a wooden board. There's a reason why Colin does all the undercover work—Bill's not a natural actor, which is going to pose a problem if he doesn't fucking relax. He's not even smiling, for fuck's sake.
Colin just needs him to play ball for two minutes. And he's already failing.
The man looked between them, Colin's smooth rictus smile, Bill's overly-neutral expression, and said very stiffly: "Our marital packages start at upwards of fifteen thousand."
Colin felt his eyebrows jump into his hairline, and he resisted scoffing. Fifteen thousand? It was a beautiful place to get married, Colin could admit that—he hadn't been lying—but fifteen thousand was obscene. For a wedding?
He could feel Bill's surprise when he shifted. "I'm surprised," Bill said, indelicately. "Surely you're not charging that much with the damage to the building."
"Damage?" The man bristled. Colin would refer to him as a priest, but greed isn't a particularly holy trait, so. "There is no damage."
"There's a hole in the floor," Bill said.
The not-priest floundered. "It's an old building," he protested.
"Sweetheart," Colin squeezed Bill's hip, injecting faux-surprise into his voice. Internally he tried to scream shut the fuck up, holy shit, stop talking about the h-word. "What are you talking about, darling?"
"I—" Bill turned, saw the look on Colin's face, and stopped abruptly in his tracks. He shuffled, from foot-to-foot. "It's…never mind, I must have been seeing things."
The man frowned at him. Colin was getting more and more disillusioned by the minute—he had to put a pin in this before Bill said anything else. "I'm sorry, he's just tired," he said, to the priest, and stuck out his hand. "Look. Let's start over. My name is John Hannock, this is my lovely fiancé Tyler, and you are…?"
"Father Cossack," the man said, shaking Colin's hand. "I run the church."
Colin resisted a grin. "Pleased to meet you. My fiancé and I would love to speak about those marital packages of yours—no price too steep for love, isn't that right, honey?"
He jostled Bill a little, who attempted something of a smile and a nod, although those attempts fell…somewhat flat.
Cossack raised his eyebrows. "Alright, then. You'll need to speak with our in-house wedding coordinator, Neil, and tell him Scott sent you—he'll explain all the options, and he also does wedding planning as a whole if you're interested."
"Fantastic," Colin said. "Where can we find this Neil fellow?"
Ten minutes later, on the road, Colin turned to Bill and said: "You know, that one was kind of my fault. Didn't coach you well enough."
Bill didn't blink, but he did twitch slightly, which meant he'd heard Colin and was just refusing to acknowledge whatever the hell he'd said. The noise of traffic filtered in through the slightly cranked windows—Colin had budged him on that, at least.
"I mean," Colin carried on, leaning back in his seat further, "You really kind of blundered it, there."
"It did the trick," Bill snapped. The car in front of them braked, sharply, and Bill followed suit while muttering angrily under his breath. Colin would have never pegged him for a road rage kind of guy, but here we are.
"Bill," he said, tolerating and patient and definitely a little condescending—look at how much Colin can pack into a single word, he's got range—"You insulted the man's church, and you also stand like a schoolboy sent to the principal's office. You look like a cop trying not to be a cop, and not a happily engaged man."
"Because I'm not," Bill said, mutinously. "I went along with it, didn't I? All I did was point out that the church had a fresh new hole in it courtesy of what started with B and ends with omb."
"Remember when Nikki said there was a coverup?" Colin asked. "And how we have to keep it on the downlow?"
"He didn't even notice, Colin."
"Your acting needs some serious work, is all I'm saying." Colin stared out the dashboard and watched as the clouds melted from a light grey to orange when dusk started to creep in, painting the overcast sky with color. "You need to learn how to loosen up." Something Bill seems eager to get a failing grade in, for whatever reason.
Bill turned to glare at him. "I'm not like you. I thought that was obvious."
Good, because two Colins would be terrible, Colin thought. "You don't have to fake anything," Colin said. "Just—playing along. Not looking like a cop would help."
"I'm dressed to regulation."
"Yeah, regulation uniform for feds. Look," Colin sighed, reaching back and throwing his arm carelessly around the back of Bill's seat, studying the way a stray curl fell over his forehead and his ears—it had, at one point, started coming loose as the day wore on and the product lost hold. "How about this: pretend I'm someone you actually like."
"Someone I actually like," Bill echoed, dubiously.
Colin nodded. "Right, you don't need to say anything, just pretend I'm that Lafferty chick, or…oh, oh, pretend I'm Katie."
Immediately, Bill's face screwed up in an expression of—something, not disgust, not anger, but somewhere in between. It buried the hurt that had resurfaced, and Colin abruptly realized he'd misstepped. Ah, shit.
"I'm not doing that," Bill hissed. "You're nothing like Katie."
It came out mean, vicious, far too much honest emotion for four words that Colin didn't want to unpack today or ever. And as much as Bill liked to pretend he was alright, most of the time, he usually was the opposite—he was a pretty shitty liar, in fact. Colin had seen that firsthand. He'd thrown salt in the wound without even realizing.
A wave of something fresh passed right over Bill's face, and the Gordian knot wound in Colin's guts tightened.
"Right," Colin murmured. "Sorry. Yeah, I'm not, am I?"
"No," Bill bit out. He turned away. Colin studied his side-profile, that strong nose, the faint sunset setting his auburn hair on fire where the light hit it. He really was quite a looker, once you got past the massive stick up his ass. Most people overlooked him because he never tried to make an impression. Most never got to see the person underneath. Colin did.
"Sorry," he said again. Softer, this time.
"…It's fine."
They drove in silence.
It was Colin who broke it. "Before we go, let's make a quick stop first to my apartment—you know my address?"
"Well, yeah—what for?"
"Just trust me."
"I trust you about as far as I can throw you," Bill said, half in jest, but he was already punching in the numbers to Colin's address on the GPS.
"Seriously," Bill said, once Colin came out of his room and threw a dark bundle at him. "Are those—"
"Yes," Colin nodded, indulgent as Bill tried to sort through the pile without dropping anything. "For you. If I can't make you act the part I can sure make you look the part."
"Am I even your size?"
"We're pretty similar in build—allowing for height, of course, it should look fine." Never say Colin didn't go for low-hanging fruit, because he did.
Bill glared at him, and then disappeared into Colin's bathroom. Fantastic. Colin sat down to wait.
It was not fantastic.
Colin watched Bill stride out of the bathroom, and his heart sank so low to inhabit the soles of his boots.
Bill's wearing his jacket. Colin could feel his mouth go dry, tongue useless as he took it in.
Bill didn't look bad. Not one bit: outfitted in dark leather and blue jeans, he'd done something to his hair to disrupt the neatness and make it look artfully tousled instead of just "I ran my hands through this four times before I deemed it acceptable". He held himself like he always did: back ramrod straight, shoulders back and jaw tilted slightly up, that "I'm better than you" stance that Colin used to hate back when he barely knew Bill at all.
Except this time, he was wearing Colin's clothes while doing it, and he didn't—
He didn't look bad. He looked the opposite, in fact. Colin ran his eyes up and down Bill's frame, and was unable to find anything out of place. When Colin held the front door open for him, Bill smiled—all sardonic-like, and said "Thanks, honey," in a voice like he was in on it. Inviting Colin in on the joke.
He was having fun, Colin realized, watching him go. Something inside Colin flipped and writhed as he contemplated it, and he thought—for not the first time and maybe not the last time—that Bill Goodman was attractive. And suddenly, Colin didn't feel so comfortable anymore, like someone had waltzed into the control panel of his brain and rearranged all the buttons slightly two inches to the left, so when he reached for something it was just slightly off. Like a picture inside of a frame that hadn't made sense, up until he turned the entire frame upside down and got an entirely different picture. Oh.
The worst part was that this was almost entirely Colin's own fault. He'd fucking played himself.
When he slid into the passenger seat, he very carefully looked anywhere but at Bill directly—it was a little like staring into the sun.
If the sun was ginger and six-foot-one and mouthed off when provoked.
"So," Bill said, turning the key in the ignition. Colin stared at the light band of skin around his left ring finger, traced it with his eyes, and then dropped his gaze. His heart hammered away in his chest as he considered what was normal. What is an acceptable amount of time to stare at your partner, anyway? "To Neil's?"
"To Neil's," Colin confirmed. His voice didn't shake, so that's a win. "Scotty-boy gave us his address, I'll put it in."
"Good," Bill pulled the car out of park as Colin punched in the numbers. "Sooner as this is done with, sooner I can get out of this…getup."
Against all odds, Colin's lips turned up in a grin. "You don't like it?"
"Your cologne is terrible," Bill complained, turning off the street as the GPS robotically instructed him to do so. "Also, you're using terrible detergent—this stuff just smells like fake lemon."
"Why are you smelling my clothes?"
"I'm wearing them!"
The heart-in-boots feeling came back, and it brought along Colin's stomach, this time.
"At least you won't need to wear my cologne," was all Colin said, watching as the scenery outside the passenger side window morphed from brown-leafed trees and suburban houses to the rapid, fast-paced downtown traffic of New York. "Count that as a win."
Bill laughed, and it rung in Colin's ears all the way there.