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The echoing crash of Thomas Griffen striking the exhibition floor fifty feet below still vibrates through the polished concrete, a sudden, violent punctuation mark to a chaotic evening. James Carter stands amidst the wreckage of shattered display cases and splintered ancient artifacts, chest heaving as he sucks in the humid, air-conditioned draft of the Los Angeles Convention Center. The air smells of ozone, gunpowder, and the distinct, metallic tang of adrenaline. He spins in a slow, panicked circle, his eyes raking over the debris-strewn floor.
"Lee!" Carter’s voice cracks, a sharp, ragged sound that cuts through the sudden, eerie quiet of the massive hall. "Lee! Where you at, man?"
He expects a sharp comeback, a grunt of pain, or the rustle of a silk suit, but there is nothing. His heart hammermels against his ribs. They have only known each other for four days—ninety-six hours of cross-cultural bickering, near-death experiences, and an unexpected, high-stakes mutual understanding that has fast-tracked them into territory that feels a lot like being in a semi-established relationship. But right now, the silence is terrifying.
Carter looks up, tracking the dizzying heights of the steel rafters where the final struggle took place. High above, suspended in the cavernous, shadowy vault of the ceiling, a flash of dark fabric catches his eye. It's Lee. The Hong Kong inspector is dangling fifty feet in the air, his fingers white-knuckled and straining as they cling to a narrow metal beam. His body sways slightly, a fragile weight suspended over a lethal drop. Even from the ground, Carter can see the visible tremor in Lee’s forearms. The man is running on fumes, and gravity is aggressively pulling him down.
"Carter! Help! Do something!" Lee’s voice is stripped of its usual composure, thin and strained with genuine panic as it echoes off the high ceiling. His fingers slip a fraction of an inch, the slick metal offering zero traction against his sweat-drenched palms.
Carter’s eyes go wide, his hands fly up in a frantic, placating gesture as if he can physically hold his partner up through sheer force of will. "Hey! Be cool, man! Hang on! Just... just stay right there!"
"I can't hold on anymore!" Lee shouts back, his legs kicking out slightly in a desperate, instinctive search for leverage that simply is not there. A terrifying creak echoes from the metal above. "Carter, please!"
Carter’s brain kicks into hyperdrive, a chaotic mix of terror and his own brand of coping-mechanism bravado. He looks at the sheer drop, looks at Lee’s failing grip, and decides that a little distraction is better than total panic. "Hang on for about an hour!" Carter yells up, cupping his hands around his mouth, a sudden, ridiculous grin breaking through his anxiety. "I'm gonna go get the ambulance! I'll be right back!"
High above, Lee’s face contorts in absolute disbelief and utter exasperation. Even on the verge of plummeting to his death, the absurdity of his partner’s timing hits him like a physical blow. He is definitely not in the mood for the Los Angeles Police Department's finest comedy routine.
"What are you doing?!" Lee roars, a vein prominent on his forehead as his left index finger slips entirely off the beam. "Carter! This is not funny!"
"I'm just playin'!" Carter shouts back instantly, his demeanor switching from joker to action hero in a fraction of a second.
The playfulness vanishes, replaced by a cold, sharp focus. Carter moves with explosive energy. He shoves his heavy service weapon firmly into the waistband of his trousers, the cold steel biting into his skin as he turns on his heel. His eyes scan the immediate perimeter, landing on a massive, heavy-duty velvet ceremonial curtain draped across a towering exhibition display. The fabric is thick and heavy, anchored to a long, solid iron rod that seems capable of supporting the weight of a small vehicle.
Carter lunges forward, gripping the end of the iron rod with both hands. He plants his designer shoes against the slick floor and pulls. The metal groans against its mounts, incredibly heavy, threatening to throw out his back before the rescue even begins. He strains, his muscles bunching beneath his jacket as he forces the heavy rod loose, dragging it backward across the floor.
"I gotcha, I gotcha!" Carter grunts to himself, keeping his gaze locked upward.
He jogs backward, his steps rapid and clumsy as he navigates the debris field. His heel clips a piece of broken dynasty pottery, but he recovers with an awkward, flailing hop, refusing to break eye contact with the man dangling from the ceiling. Upstairs, the battle is lost. The sheen of sweat on Lee’s palms completely betrays him. With a sharp, sudden gasp, Lee’s fingers lose their purchase entirely. Lee screams, a raw, piercing sound of pure survival instinct as his body enters a free fall.
"No, no, no!" Carter bellows.
Pumped with a massive hit of adrenaline that makes the entire world move in slow motion, Carter stops his retreat and digs his heels into the floor. He throws his entire body weight into a dead sprint, pulling the heavy iron rod behind him to stretch the thick velvet curtain completely taut across the floor space. His lungs burn, his throat raw as he lets out a sympathetic, guttural scream of absolute effort. Lee falls like a stone, but his trajectory aligns perfectly with the angled, heavy fabric. He hits the drawn-out curtain with a tremendous, deafening thwack. The material dips violently under the kinetic energy, but it holds. Instead of a fatal impact, the momentum shifts, sending Lee rocketing down the fabric like a high-velocity, energy-powered slide.
"Hold on! Hold on!" Carter screams, the friction of the rod pulling violently against his grip, threatening to tear his shoulders from their sockets.
He desperately looks around for a pillar, a bracket, or anything stable where he can deposit or wedge the end rod to lock it in place. But the physics of a forty-four-year-old man falling fifty feet mean things are happening way too fast. He runs out of time instantly. Lee is hurtling down the fabric incline, a blur of dark clothing coming straight toward him at breakneck speed. Realizing the impending collision, both men lock eyes for a split second, the sheer terror of the impact uniting them.
"Oh, shit!" they scream out in perfect, panicked unison.
A second later, Lee reaches the end of the curtain slide. The momentum catapults him off the fabric entirely. He launches into the air, arms and legs flailing, completely ungracefully sprawling through the empty space directly at his partner. Carter instinctively drops the rod and throws his arms open, trying to execute some semblance of a heroic catch. He fails miserably. The impact is loud and chaotic. Lee’s shoulder catches Carter square in the chest, and the sheer force sends both of them flying backward. They hit the hard exhibition floor in a tangled mess of limbs, sliding a few feet through the dust before coming to a violent halt.
For a long moment, the only sound is the ragged, synchronized gasping of two men who probably should be dead. Carter stays flat on his back, staring up at the distant rafters. His spine feels like it has been compressed into an accordion, every muscle in his lower back screaming in agonizing protest from the way he landed. On top of that, Lee’s dead weight is pinning him squarely to the concrete, knocking the remaining wind out of his lungs.
Lee lets out a low, pathetic groan. He slowly shifts his head, looking back up at the dizzying height from which he just plummeted, and then down at the chest of the man beneath him. A profound, immense wave of gratitude washes over him, burning away the residual terror of the fall. He is alive. Because of Carter.
"Thank you," Lee breathes, his voice barely a whisper, thick with an emotion he doesn't quite know how to articulate in English. "Thank you."
Before Carter can offer a trademark witty retort, Lee leans up, cups Carter's jaw with a trembling hand, and presses his lips firmly against Carter's. The sudden contact absolutely freaks the detective out. Carter's eyes widen to the size of flying saucers, his brain short-circuiting at the sheer boldness of the move in the middle of a literal crime scene. His survival instincts spark, and he weakly thumps his fist against Lee’s shoulder, a muffled protest vibrating in his throat.
"Man, what the hell you doing?!!" Carter sputters the moment Lee pulls back a fraction of an inch, his voice a mix of high-pitched shock and faux-outrage. "We are in public! The FBI is outside, the LAPD is outside, and you out here trying to get romantic?!"
Lee looks down at him, his expression entirely earnest, his dark eyes soft despite the bruises forming on his cheek. "I was just trying to be polite."
Carter blinks, his chest rising and falling against Lee's. He stares at the absolute sincerity on the inspector's face, the indignation slowly draining from him, replaced by a sudden, heavy warmth that has nothing to do with adrenaline. He sighs, his arms relaxing against the floor.
"Well, alright then," Carter grumbles, a small, defeated softening to his mouth.
Lee takes this response as absolute assurance. A subtle, knowing smile touches his lips, and he leans back down, burying his fingers into Carter's jacket as he presses his lips against Carter’s again—this time with far more deliberation and a deep, passionate intensity that completely derails Carter's train of thought. To his absolute horror and secret delight, Carter realizes a couple of things simultaneously. First, despite Lee being a lethal martial artist who can break a man's jaw with a swift kick, his lips are ridiculously soft—like, shockingly gentle, almost like a girl's. Second, and perhaps more concerning to his ego, Carter’s body is completely refusing to cooperate with his brain.
His brain is yelling about protocol, professionalism, and the fact that they are covered in dust, but his arms are actively wrapping around Lee's waist, pulling the smaller man closer. He is kissing back, and he is kissing back hard. As their lips move together in a slow, rhythmic heat, Carter's mind drifts to the past few days. He knows what people around the department and the embassy have been whispering. He’s heard the offhand comments from the feds, the casual labels tossed around by people who saw them walking side by side through Chinatown or arguing like an old married couple in the middle of a stakeout. Some of them had straight-up called them the "black boyfriend" and the "Chinese boyfriend."
They hadn't really had the time or the energy to fully correct anyone over the last seventy-two hours of non-stop gunfire and kidnappings. But right now, with Lee’s weight heavy and warm against him, his hands sliding up Lee’s back, Carter idly wonders if there's even any damn need to correct anybody at all. Because, damn, the inspector can kiss. It’s thorough, it’s grounded, and it’s completely erasing the ache in Carter’s back. The kiss stretches out, grounding them both in the reality that they survived the night.
Slowly, reluctantly, Lee begins to pull his head back, his breathing shallow as he starts to shift his weight off Carter's chest, perhaps thinking he has pushed his luck far enough for one evening. But Carter isn't having it. His hands grip the fabric of Lee's suit jacket, anchoring him firmly in place and hauling him right back down.
"Hold on, hold on," Carter murmurs against Lee's lips, a lazy, confident grin spreading across his face as he looks up into his partner's eyes. "I ain't done being polite."