VI. Newark, U.S.

VI. Newark, U.S.

There are advantages and disadvantages to an op that's basically the U.S. doing some foreign government a favor. An obvious plus is easy access to permissions, weapons, and backup if necessary; also, no need to cover their tracks. The downsides aren't quite this obvious, but Toby has always been wary of situations that allow outsiders to connect his face to a job, fake name or not.

Hey, one man's paranoia is another man's foresight.

They leave Liu's office together, Mike carrying the folder that contains the basic facts and their plane tickets—the Agency is hopelessly attached to paper when there is this thing called eTickets; save trees, do your part for the planet and all.

It's a time-critical mission: the longer they wait, the higher the risk that their target, a group of FARC members, moves from Ecuador's border region back into Colombia. That would remove them from the jurisdiction of the Ecuadorian government, and if Mike and Toby were to follow, it would mean a lot of paperwork as it would take them beyond the scope of their original mission.

Toby is not a fan of paperwork. He is also not a fan of letting Haley down.

"Coffee?" Mike stops in front of the elevator. "I could use one before we jump into planning this thing."

"Can you live without soy milk?" Toby doesn't wait for a reply; he's seen Mike order coffee at airports in India, Mauritania and France, and there doesn't seem to be any regularity to it—sometimes he takes it black, then with sugar and milk, soy milk, almond milk, and there was also that cinnamon atrocity in New Delhi. "The coffeemaker on my floor is decent. When it works, which it does about one time out of three."

"I'll take my chances." Mike is smiling as he hits the button for the fifth floor. He's wearing gray slacks and a light blue button-down today; not quite the suit and tie that's recommended for employees of Kroning Ltd., but Toby appreciates that it's a step in the right direction. He also appreciates the way Mike's shoulders fill out the shirt, but that's neither here nor there.

He waits until they're inside the elevator before he says, "Give me five minutes, though, all right? Got to rearrange some stuff—I was supposed to take my niece swimming this afternoon. Not that I'm a fan of chlorine, mind you, or the way your hands and toes get all pruney after a good soak."

"If you ask me, swimming's the closest the human body can get to flying." The stark elevator light turns Mike's eyes a light hazel. There are faint circles under his eyes. Toby suspects he needs to sleep more, but pot and kettle.

"Of course you'd say that. You and Ha—you'd get along with her. With my niece." Toby crosses his arms, leaning one shoulder against the wall. "She must get the wet gene from her mother's side because in my family, we're all sensible people. We prefer walking, on solid ground."

Mike doesn't react to the near-slip, his expression open. "What are you going to tell your brother?"

"Nothing for now." The blinking panel of the elevator flashes red numbers at them: 11, 10. Fascinating. "My brother's with a client—he's building up his career right now, that's why he asked me to pick her up. But there's an emergency childcare service for situations like this, they'll meet her after school and keep her fed and entertained." He lets one side of his mouth curl into a smile he doesn't feel. "They should introduce a frequent user program. I'd qualify for some kind of executive platinum status by now."

"There's a pool at my hotel," Mike says, apropos of nothing. Toby snaps his gaze from the panel to Mike's face, noting the cautious tilt to his lips, his upper body angled away just slightly.

"A pool," Toby repeats. "That's nice. That's very, very nice for you. I'm glad." He pauses. "I thought you were going to look for an apartment? I mean, feel free to throw money at overpriced hotel rooms, be my guest. Good to support the local economy and all. Fair warning, though, that I won't be paying extra for your soy milk when you run out of money."

Mike's grin is quick to shine and slow to fade. "Where's your heart, Toby?"

Toby's heart is right there, skipping half a beat just because Mike lowered his voice to a teasing murmur that could, by all rights, be interpreted as flirting. Hopefully, continuous exposure will breed immunity—that's the concept of immunodesensitization, isn't it? Lessen the impact of an overreaction by means of repeated and increasing exposure.

"My heart," Toby states with dignity, "is just fine, thank you. But soy milk does not belong in coffee. Neither does almond milk. Neither does cinnamon, for that matter. It's unnatural, is what it is."

"You're particularly judgmental today." Mike sounds amused, even a little fond, and it pulls Toby up short.

"It's Monday. It's Monday, and my supposed free afternoon with my niece just turned into planning a ramble through the jungle when there are still unpacked boxes in my apartment that I haven't even touched. So yes, I will spend the rest of the day judging everyone and everything. Deal with it."

The elevator dings to a halt. Toby exits first, head held high and stomach heavy with having to disappoint Haley, yet again.

"A ramble through the jungle," Mike mutters, still with that thread of amusement woven through his voice. He follows Toby out. "Anyway. My point stands: there's a pool at my hotel. It tends to be empty during the day."

"And this is relevant how?" Toby asks although maybe, just maybe he's beginning to understand the roundabout logic at play. He doesn't want to jump to conclusions, though.

Mike gives him a look that toes the line of insulting. "You're not an idiot."

"Oh, the jury's still out."

Another look.

"Fine." Stopping in front of the break room, Toby spreads his hands. He makes sure there's no one nearby and keeps his voice low. "I'd love it if I didn't have to cancel. Honestly, I would. And if she splashes around some fancy hotel pool while we find a quiet corner to discuss Ecuador—yeah. It'd be nice." It would also mean breaking about seven different rules, but who's counting? "Are you sure you don't mind, though? I love her, but she can be a handful."

"I like kids," Mike says with an easy shrug, like it means nothing. "Don't get a lot of chances to interact with them, so I can't claim I'll be great at it, but I'm sure we'll be fine. Did I mention there's a whirlpool?"

He likes kids. Well, fuck everything—Toby might as well just lay down his weapons because clearly there's no point in him trying to pretend he doesn't like Mike, and anyway, it's not like Toby couldn't use more friends.

So. This is fine. Probably.

"Her name" —Toby glances up and down the corridor, at the row of closed doors— "is Haley."

Mike's smile lights up his entire face. "Haley," he repeats, like it's a secret for just the two of them.

***

It's no mystery why Mike chose to reside in this particular hotel: in addition to a fitness center and a pool, they rent out so-called workout rooms that come equipped with a treadmill. Guests who wake up at an ungodly hour only need to roll out of bed, flick on the TV, and it's off to the races.

"You," Toby says after one look at the room behind Mike, "have a problem, my friend."

Mike frowns and glances over his shoulder as though he's trying to solve a riddle.

"Addiction!" Toby gestures at the room. "Who needs to wake up to the sight of a treadmill? An addict, that's who. There are programs for that, you know?"

"You work out," is Mike's answer.

"I don't fall asleep after saying good night to a treadmill."

"It's just convenient, is all," Mike says, and there's a moment when Toby wonders if Mike is happy here, whether the circles under his eyes hint that he's not sleeping all that well. None of Toby's business.

Mike's gaze slides past Toby to Haley, trailing behind with her attention taken up by the new dolphin trainer Barbie she got from Matt this morning—a transparent attempt to make up for how much of his time is currently devoted to clients. Making a name for oneself as a financial consultant is hard work, Toby would never doubt that, but he wishes Matt didn't try to buy Haley's understanding with presents; it sets a bad example.

But then, Toby's not her father. On the other hand, his responsibility as an older brother comes with a certain obligation to know everything better all the time.

"Mike, meet Haley." Toby waves a hand, and it's automatic, the way his voice softens, brightens. "Haley, Princess, that's a beautiful Barbie—all that long blonde hair, and with the pink bikini, truly fantastic. Now, say hello to my friend Mike, please. Or do I need to have a word with your dad about the kind of manners he teaches you?"

"Baaaas." Despite the slight whine to Haley's tone, she looks up with a toothy grin. Toby loves that grin. During those long months that he spent camped out on Matt's living room couch, Haley's grin was the first thing he saw each morning. It made it easier to face the day. "Hello Mike," she says seriously.

There's something rather hilarious about seeing a tough, devil-may-care guy like Mike melt like butter simply because a ten-year old with pink scrunchies and a garish Barbie is grinning at him. Toby has to bite the inside of his cheek to stifle a smile when Mike crouches down to be at eye level with Haley. She isn't easily intimidated, but Toby appreciates the thought all the same.

He's also quite amused to see Mike—who only ever loses his cool when Toby pushes, and pushes—at a loss, searching for words. "Hi Haley. That's a very nice Barbie. Did your uncle get you that?"

"No." Haley's headshake makes her unevenly braided pigtails bounce. "Bas doesn't like Barbies. He says they make girls feel insecure when they grow older. But he got me an Eskimo dog that comes up to here" —she demonstrates shoulder-height— "and it's really cool."

"What about snow globes filled with glitter?" Mike asks. "They're cool too, right?"

Shit, Toby should have expected the question. Taking a step back, out of Haley's sight, he frantically shakes his head and makes a cut-it gesture, mouthing ‘Birthday' in the hopes that Mike will understand.

"I don't think Bas would like them," Haley says after a moment's consideration.

Mike's reply is an enormous grin that's just about the brightest thing in the bleak hotel corridor. It makes Toby clear his throat and look away quickly. "So," he says. "Are we going down to the pool or what?"

"Just let me get my things. Anyone else need a towel?" Mike rises and keeps the door open as he crosses over to the wardrobe. A glance reveals that his clothes are neatly arranged, folded and sorted, a likely leftover from whatever military training Mike went through. There aren't many clothes. There aren't many personal items in Mike's room, period: a small duffel bag at the foot of the bed, no pictures, mostly just the standard hotel furniture that is quickly approaching its well-deserved retirement age. While Toby's apartments tend to remain relatively bare, he will always pin one of Haley's drawings to the fridge. It makes the place feel a little less empty.

There's a certain... loneliness about Mike's room. It's just a temporary fix until he finds an apartment, of course, and maybe he hid away some personal things before Toby and Haley arrived.

Anyway: towels.

"Thanks," Toby says. "Got it covered."

"All right." Swim trunks in hand, Mike straightens. He's smiling, just this small, private thing that he might not even be aware of, as he glances from Toby to Haley, then turns away to grab a towel off the bed. "Let's go."

***

Constant exposure, Toby tells himself. That's the key: constant exposure, and he'll be immune to Mike in no time at all.

It's why Toby feels justified—compelled, in fact—to watch as Mike demonstrates the workings of the whirlpool to Haley. They're laughing, both of them, the polished tiles and high ceilings amplifying the joyful sound that mixes with the gurgling of water. When Mike stands up, water rushes down his body in a glorious slide. His chest tapers into a narrow waist, the swim trunks clinging in all the right places, and Toby remembers what it felt like to have that body right up against his own, Mike's weight on top of him, the controlled way Mike moves until he snaps and—

So not the time.

Constant exposure.

Stretched out on a deck chair, Toby pretends to study Liu's dossier. Fortunately, Mike was right about the pool being deserted on an early weekday afternoon; there is only one other guest around, an elderly woman swimming stoic laps from one end of the pool to the other. If she's a double agent, Toby is Elvis reincarnated—and he can't hold a tune to save his life.

He glances up when Mike comes to stand next to him, is momentarily fascinated by the treasure trail that disappears into Mike's trunks, before he manages to redirect his attention. Eyes up here, man.

Mike tilts his head and smiles. It's vaguely disconcerting.

"What?" Toby asks. His voice sounds normal, thank God. "Why are you looming?"

Mike's lips curve up further. When his stomach muscles tighten, it's an advance warning for Toby, but he's not quite quick enough to duck out of harm's way when Mike shakes himself like a wet dog, spraying droplets of water everywhere. Toby snatches up his towel, considers shielding the information dossier, and instead slaps Mike with it. Choices had to be made.

It's with a buoyant laugh that Mike evades him. "So Haley's right: you really don't like water."

"I like water just fine," Toby corrects. "When it's in the form of drinking water and doesn't smell like a chlorine factory threw up all over it. Oh!" He raises a finger. "I am also just fine with water when it comes out of my shower and I'm not wearing clothes, and there isn't a folder with vital information sitting on my lap."

"Your shorts were intended for swimming. They don't count as clothes."

"You're deliberately missing the point about vital information."

"A few droplets of water won't do much damage." Still grinning, Mike claims the deck chair next to Toby's and reaches for a towel to quickly rub himself down. Toby deserves a fucking medal for how his gaze never strays. That doesn't mean the distraction doesn't cost him, though: Mike sends the conversation on a different track by asking, "So, Haley calls you Bas?"

It was only a matter of time.

"Well." Toby glances over at Haley, happily splashing about in the whirlpool, the Barbie presiding over the proceedings. It's because of Mike that Toby gets to see her this afternoon instead of whenever, and that's enough of a reason to offer an innocent piece of truth. "It's short for Tobias. When Haley was younger, she had trouble saying my name, and then my brother ran with it because he claims it's more badass. My best guess is he thinks it's better suited to a crime lord than Toby—Toby is your student neighbor three doors down, or the kid sitting behind you in class, you know?"

"Your brother really thinks you're a crime lord?" Mike shakes his head, seeming more baffled than amused.

"I don't know what my brother thinks. The workings of his brain are a mystery to me—a closed book, a riddle wrapped up in an enigma, think: sausage wrapped in bacon. I honestly believe it's a mystery even to him with an alarming amount of frequency."

A light chuckle as Mike leans back, stretching out on the deck chair like someone just settling in for a nice, relaxing afternoon. With water lapping at the edge of the pool and light streaming in through the large glass window on one side of the room, the air warm, Toby is thrown back to France for a moment.

Blinking, he lets the chlorine smell drag him back to the present. After passing the folder to Mike, he leans back as well, keeping an eye on Haley. As much as he hates her new toy, its one redeeming feature is that it keeps her entertained.

Closing his eyes, Toby slouches further in the chair and absently listens to Mike leafing through the dossier. He makes the sound of flipping pages seem purposeful—it's a gift.

"Hey, Bas?" Mike mutters a short while later, and Bas? Bas? That's—only Haley and Matt get to call him that; it's a rule. Toby has made painstaking efforts to drill that rule into the rest of his family's heads. By now, it is mostly respected unless eggnog enters the equation.

Coming from Mike, Toby doesn't mind as much as he should. Still, it's the principle of it.

"Don't call me Bas if you expect a reply." He keeps his eyes closed. "It's a rare and special privilege granted to exactly two people in this world."

For a moment, Mike keeps quiet. Then he shifts. "All right. Toby, then—explain something to me."

When Toby opens one eye, Mike has set the folder down. His entire body is turned to face Toby, eyes alert. Toby makes a questioning sound.

"What can you tell me about the FARC?" Mike nods at the folder in his lap. "I will read the full briefing, but for now, a short summary could speed up our discussion. I assume it's all in your head anyway."

"How much do you know?" Toby sits up, swinging his legs over the side of the deck chair. "I assumed—but maybe not."

"I'm sure you know what you're talking about." Mike's tone is dry.

"Funny." Toby shoots him a sideways look, then glances over to make sure that Haley is still having fun. She is: she's moved from the whirlpool to practicing headers in the pool, to the subdued delight of the elderly swimmer. Toby will interfere when it's needed, and not a moment sooner. He turns back to Mike. "I'd assumed you were with some other terrorist unit before your placement with us."

"Organized crime, actually." Mike lifts one shoulder and succeeds in looking sheepish yet unapologetic; Toby has no idea how he manages. "I've heard of the FARC in the context of coca trafficking, and I know they're a Marxist organization. I also seem to remember there was a peace deal some years ago."

Throwing up his hands in a little stadium cheer, Toby mimes an enthusiastic game show host. "And the candidate advances to the next round!"

Still seated, Mike clasps his hands to his chest and pretends to take a bow. Damn, Toby likes him, actually likes him.

He lets his hands drop and considers the various pieces of information swimming through his brain. "Right, here's the gist of it: the FARC—Fuerzas Armadas Revolucionarias de Colombia, if you want the whole mouthful—is a Marxist organization with roots in the peasant community. Not so much anymore; they had more and more students joining in the eighties, even tried forming a party back then, wanted to become part of the legal political system." Toby lets his lips quirk. "The attempt went up in flames, so to speak, and it wasn't just the FARC that was to blame."

"They weren't welcome, I imagine?"

"You imagine right." He shrugs. "It was a lot of back and forth after that, drug trade, a mix of Guerilla-style attacks and classic military activities; they don't operate in small independent cells like many of the other terrorist organizations. But as you correctly remembered, there was a peace deal eventually, in late 2016—that was the second try, after a failed referendum."

"Hmm." Mike shifts, propping one leg up. "So what's the problem?"

"Not everyone's happy with how things are going. Some to the point where they've picked up arms again—and it's not unheard of for them to cross over into Ecuador."

"Which is where we come in."

"Indeed." Toby sits up, and Mike's gaze narrows in on him for just an instant. Then it's gone. "You ever been to Ecuador?"

Slowly, Mike shakes his head. His attention moves from Toby to the pool, settling on the water without seeming to focus on anything in particular. "Not to Colombia, either. Costa Rica's the only country in the general vicinity I've visited, but that was a long time ago, not really relevant here."

"Well." Filing the shift in Mike's mood away for further consideration, Toby checks on Haley before he continues. "I, for one, have been to Colombia. Potholes the size of a jumbo jet, volcanoes that could erupt at any moment, and long-distance buses with TVs that show nothing but violent movies. Breaking bones and splattering blood are not what I want to see right after wrapping up an op, trust me."

"Out of curiosity, are there countries you actually like?" Mike's expression is still clouded, his eyes not quite meeting Toby's.

"France isn't so bad," Toby says. It's the first thing that came to his mind, and he quickly amends, "If you speak the language and avoid Paris, at least. And not in July and August, because that's when schools are closed and everything's crowded and hotels are running animation programs. Line dancing, Mike. Karaoke."

"What's wrong with karaoke?" It's a deceptively innocent question, and Toby is onto Mike, so very onto him.

"Karaoke," Toby says gravely, leaning forward to make sure Mike is paying attention, "kills kittens." He pauses for a deliberate moment. "End of discussion."

"Kittens," Mike repeats. He's smiling a little when he meets Toby's eyes, clouds chased away. Toby smiles back.

It isn't anything big, no earth-shattering realization, but something in his brain slots into place, two synapses connecting, and—okay. Yeah. It isn't just that Toby likes Mike—he cares. He actually cares about him.

That rather complicates things.