Chapter Two

VII. Chapter Two

A full day of observation yields the following results:

Toby is severely tempted to offer them some free advice in proper procedure, but as it makes the job easier, well, he's not going to look a gift horse in the mouth.

"Is it just me," he asks Mike on the way back to their car, "or do they seem primarily worried about one of their own making off with weapons?"

"Funny, isn't it?" Mike vaults over a fallen tree like they're teenagers on a fun little school outing. Toby looks at the obstacle in his path, takes two steps to the side, and walks around it like any sensible man would—yes, he can do it; he just doesn't see the need.

"What's funny?" he remembers.

"How often ideological groups fall apart from the inside once their focus shifts from making the ruling classes tremble to organized crime."

Toby taps his chest with a fist. "Amen, Comrade."

It's worth it for the way Mike grins at him, a quick flash of teeth that holds no memory of the sadness he revealed last night. What happens in the tent stays in the tent, Toby guesses.

Since that's a dangerous mental path to pursue, he puts up a roadblock sign. Tilts his head back to study the moss-covered trees arching above them, mist clinging to their tops and dampening reality. Keeps following Mike back to camp.

***

"Blow it all up. That's your plan." Toby repeats it slowly, without inflection. "Color me shocked."

"Why not?" Mike sounds genuinely baffled.

"Because one, have you considered therapy? Maybe your urge to blow up things hints at some deeper issues, just saying." Toby is careful to keep his voice light. In the sparse glow of a torch light, he needs to concentrate on his task, leaning in close to remove the wire insulation. "More importantly, we've got enough explosives, but we're short on timed detonators. I'm sorry, but we'll have to sabotage the cars manually."

Mike considers this. He's sitting on the forest floor, surrounded by equipment that he's examining before evenly distributing it between two backpacks. "Fine. How about a compromise?"

"A compromise?" Toby glances up long enough for a smirk. "I didn't know you had it in you. Will the earth grind to a halt? Will pigs take flight? You realize that means you agree to not go chasing after whatever idea pops into your head when you need your regular shot of adrenaline."

"I compromise," Mike says, a mulish twist to his mouth.

"Really."

"Yes, really." He appears to grapple for a moment, then adds, "In Mauritania. I listened to you, didn't I? I let the last guy go."

Toby pauses, just long enough to ensure that his fingers are entirely steady. "That's different."

"Yeah." Mike lets the trigger guard snap into place, then sets the rifle aside, his tone off-handed. "Yeah, I guess it is."

Exhaling a slow breath, Toby glances at Mike's shadowed face, dark clothes allowing him to melt into the night. "So, about that compromise?"

"Right." Mike flashes him a grin. "We do things your way. In return, I get to drive us all the way back to Quito—"

"You drove like a madman on the way here. Why would I let you anywhere near the wheel again?"

"Because that way we're both hurting." Another grin. "Also, you will keep handling any and all coordination with the Ecuadorian authorities."

Like Toby would trust Mike to do that. He'd probably cause a diplomatic incident of some sort just because he couldn't care less about sugarcoating and choosing his words with care. Toby's been handling it so far, and he's not about to stop now—not that he'll let Mike know that, of course.

"You drive a hard bargain," he says instead.

Mike squints at him. "You don't seem particularly averse."

"It's a deal," Toby tells him, before Mike can attach further conditions. "You want to start on the second detonator?"

"Sure." Mike shifts one of the backpacks over so he can sit down beside Toby, cross-legged, his knee resting lightly against Toby's thigh. While Toby adjusts his position so they can both work comfortably in the beam of the torch light, he doesn't move away. Mike doesn't, either.

***

The bombs are set to detonate at 4:00 a.m.

At 3:27 a.m., Toby and Mike emerge from the shadows and take down the two men guarding the cars before they can utter so much as a sigh. While Mike moves the bodies out of sight, Toby pours a mixture of sugar and rice into the cars' tanks.

At 3:36 a.m., the guard in front of the food cottage dies silently. Toby and Mike retreat back into the forest, taking the long way around to approach the barn from behind. As Mike wins a quick game of Rock, Paper, Scissors, Toby lets him take care of the first guard and sprints past while the man is still upright, Mike's grip preventing all sound as the body slides to the ground. Toby catches the second guard just as unprepared. As Mike passes, he pauses just long enough to whisper, "Last one's mine," before he moves on.

"But I get to handle the bombs," Toby mutters into his microphone.

The only reply he gets is a barely audible slithering sound, cloth dragging over cloth. He straightens and follows at a slower pace, finding another dead man around the corner. When Toby catches up, Mike has already opened the barn doors and is looking quite pleased with himself. Next to the entrance sits the lone guard who would have been doing the rounds, peacefully asleep but for a dark splotch that spreads from his chest.

"Just so we're clear…" Toby turns on his heels to retrieve the bag they left some short distance away, quiet conversation continued through the comm link. "This is not a competition. You don't get points for each guard you take down, especially not when I graciously let you go first so you can feed your adrenaline addiction."

Mike's laugh is just loud enough to be picked up by the microphone. "I am perfectly harmless."

"…said the lion to the mouse." Ah, shit. Toby should switch on his brain before giving Mike an easy opening like this. He picks the bag up and turns back to the barn.

"You know, little mouse," —Mike sounds comfortably loose, like a frat boy three beers in at some house party— "I've got ten different ways to respond to that. Do you prefer alphabetical, or by theme?"

"Call me little mouse again, and I will shove one of those bombs right up your ass."

Maybe also not Toby's best line. He's on a roll; why quit while he's ahead?

Fortunately, Mike leaves it at a quiet snicker and doesn't reply. When Toby enters the barn, he finds Mike bent over a small basket with grenades—somebody didn't read the ‘safe storage' section in the manual—and wow, this should make for a nice display of fireworks. Shame they'll have to miss the show.

Mike moves aside to let Toby place one bomb amongst the grenades. The second one joins a pile of ammunition, everything ready for the main event.

They don't bother hiding the bodies before they hurry off; if one of their companions happens to be in the mood for a middle-of-the-night stroll and comes across them, he'd have to make his escape on foot. Even if the bombs are discovered, there won't be time to dismantle them.

At 4:00 a.m., Mike is maneuvering their truck back onto the dirt road that will take them to the Pan-American Highway. Behind them, there's a sharp bang, much like a plane breaking through the sound barrier. Mike twists behind the wheel to catch at least a glimpse of the mischief they caused. Thick smoke, lit from below, is all they can see.

Police sirens start blaring as soon as the echo fades.

"Well then." Toby leans back in the passenger seat, taking the chance to admire Mike's profile while Mike is watching the road. Mike is attractive; it's not a problem. "Back to Quito it is. Maybe there's time to pick up a gift for Haley. I'll take my chances with the airport tourist traps."

"Will you actually give it to her this time?" Mike follows it up with a quick smirk, like he knows. Toby's heart performs some silly quick-jump thing—a belated reaction to the excitement of the op, or possibly a side-effect of the adrenaline just wearing off.

"I'm saving the snow globe," he says evenly. "For her birthday."

"Sure you are." Mike is still smirking, sending Toby a bright look across the dark interior of the car.

"Eyes on the road," Toby tells him. "Especially when it's a road with potholes that could swallow us whole. I'm too fucking young to die, Mike."

While Mike snorts, he does turn back to face the road. Off to the side, the jungle is lit up by flashing blue lights.

After a moment of silence, Toby slides deeper in his seat and lets his head fall back, a comfortable weight settling in his limbs. Yawning, he gives Mike another quick sideways glance, eyes lingering for just a second before he lets his lids drift shut.

***

Toby wakes up just as the exit sign for Quito flashes by. The eastern edge of the sky is flooded with light, morning traffic in full swing. Sitting up, Toby rubs at his eyes, trying to clear some of the sleepy haze. "Good morning. You drove straight past the exit."

Mike glances over, his smile easy. His fingers are tight around the wheel, though. "Yeah."

"Oh, good. Glad we discussed it, weighed our options, and came to a decision we can both support." Toby frowns at Mike and counts to three, to four, to five.

No explanation is forthcoming.

Groaning, Toby leans forward, both elbows on the dashboard as he tries to get a clear view of Mike's face. "Fine, I'll bite. Is this a kidnapping? Are you taking me somewhere to dump the body? Because" —he waves a vague hand— "I'm armed and perfectly capable of defending myself. Also, this would have been way easier back at the hacienda. Collateral damage is your friend."

Mike looks over just long enough to confirm that he looks wide awake, his eyes clear. "I thought we could head to Costa Rica for a couple of days. There's a direct flight from Guayaquil to Liberia—that's in Guanacaste, northwestern region."

Mike just randomly decided that they should take a vacation. Sure. Toby hopes that his blank stare conveys how utterly unimpressed he is with this explanation. "How long a drive to that Guawhatever place?"

"‘Round seven hours."

Seven fucking hours trapped in closed quarters? Mike must really want this.

"I'll pay," Mike adds, before Toby can put that thought into a question. "Obviously. I wasn't planning to put it on expenses."

Toby doesn't avert his eyes. "Why?"

"Why what?" Mike is staring at the road as if it might collapse under them—not an invalid concern about the Pan-American, broadly speaking, but around Quito, it is relatively well-tended and broad, with two lanes in each direction instead of one.

"We can make this hard." Toby leans back and clasps his hands behind his head. "Or we can make it easy. So, why the sudden need to go to Costa Rica?" Hmm. Or maybe not that sudden: Mike may have been mulling this over since Liu briefed them.

"There's this village, Samara Beach." Mike is still staring straight ahead. "From what I remember, it's beautiful."

"Listen, friend. Here's how conversations work." Toby pauses as a taxi in front of them performs a clean U-turn on the highway, the car hobbling through the ditch that separates the two directions, nearly pulling to a halt on the opposite lane before the driver hits the gas and manages to get moving before another car hits him from behind. "Relative of yours?" Toby asks.

Mike doesn't miss a beat. "Think I've got a cousin who emigrated to Ecuador."

"That's what I thought." Toby pulls his mind back to the issue at hand. "Now, listen, here's how conversations work: when a person asks you a question, you reply with relevant information." He lifts one hand to tick off his fingers. "So. One: why do you want to go there? Two: why now—you can take a trip there any time, make it two weeks instead of a couple days, take some time to work on your tan. Well, more of a tan." He drops his hand and twists his entire upper body to face Mike. "So, at the risk of repeating myself: why?"

"Is there a chance you can just accept it for what it is? A free getaway trip to a nice beach village; all you have to do is nod and say thank you."

Toby doesn't dignify that with an answer, and after a moment, Mike sighs. He checks the rearview mirror, then pulls onto the left lane and shoots Toby a sideways glance that Toby meets evenly.

"Right. Never mind." One corner of Mike's mouth lifts. "How about this: let's go, and I promise I will explain."

Toby is willing to bet that Mike is not in the habit of asking for anything, from anyone. It's why he hesitates. "You will explain."

"I will." Mike nods. "Promise."

Agents are supposed to get in, fulfill their task, and get out; slightly extended stays might be tolerated if they happen outside the Agency's budget and are well within reason. Toby has never taken advantage of that wiggle room.

He studies Mike's face—the clean angles of his features, the subtle tension hiding in the corners of his mouth. It'd be just a couple of days, just the two of them in some beach village without a job that justifies the time they spend together.

Toby clears his throat. "No records. And Liu is not to learn of this—maybe we had to track down a terrorist who saw our faces, and it took us a little longer than planned to get back."

Mike glances over, the tension around his mouth fading. "Okay."

"And I want a decent meal out of it too." Toby isn't sure why he's still talking except if he doesn't, there'd be silence in the car, and he's not sure he's ready for that right now. "In fact, make that a rib eye steak the size of a crêpe, and just as thin."

Mike's lips curve upwards—not quite a smile, but well on its way. "You take bribes, then."

"Fortune is a whore and everyone has a price, babe." Right after it's out, Toby bites down on the inside of his cheek and exhales, doesn't inhale for a few seconds. It's just playing around, but he can't afford to let his guard down quite like that.

Mike doesn't react in any obvious way. "I'll remember that. And no problem for the steak; we'll find you one."

"All right." Toby inhales and leans back in the seat. The sun has taken over entirely, everything bright and fresh, the sky of a translucent blue that stretches over the mountains. He gives a magnanimous wave. "Drive on, then."

"Thank you," Mike says lightly.

"You should thank me." Toby rubs a hand over his jaw, stubble scratching against his palm in deference to two days spent in the wilderness. He'll get a shave when they arrive wherever Mike has booked for them.

Another quick glance shows that Mike is smiling a little. His cheeks are smooth, only a faint shadow of stubble visible in the clear light—Toby pretended not to watch Mike shaving yesterday morning with the aid of the car's side mirror, but he can easily recall the blade gliding smoothly over Mike's skin, white foam dripping to the forest floor.

Two days in Mike's company, without the distraction of a job. This is a bad idea.

Toby doesn't want out.

"For the record," he says, "I don't usually do this."

Mike is quiet for a moment before he looks over, his tone serious. "I know. Thank you."

"You're welcome," Toby says. "And you will explain."

"Do you always need to have the last word?"

Toby nods. "Yes."

Mike is smiling at the road. "Yeah, I thought so."

"Shut up and drive."

For a moment, it looks as if Mike might do just that. Then his smile grows into a grin. "Aye."

"Not funny," Toby tells him.

"I beg to differ."

"Who asked for your opinion? Huh?" Toby shakes his head and adds quickly, before Mike gets a word in, "No, don't answer that. Just drive while I figure out what exactly we're going to tell Liu."

This time, Mike doesn't reply, but his grin persists, his hands relaxed on the wheel. Toby tries to shut off any thoughts that extend past the next few hours.

***

They arrive in Guayaquil in the afternoon and book a flight for the following day. After dropping their baggage off at a mid-range hotel where Mike booked them two rooms, they ditch the truck in a parking lot with their remaining supplies locked inside—nothing that can go boom in the night. Toby calls their Ecuadorian contact to share the location, and that's that: they're done.

A shower and a shave later, Toby meets Mike in the hotel lobby, and they leave to explore the town.

While Guayaquil won't make it onto the UNESCO list of World Heritage Sites anytime soon, there are a few nice areas and a historical center, policemen positioned at just about every corner to guard one thing or another: be it the entrance to a museum, the goldfish at the Malecon, or Guayaquil's waterfront promenade that snakes along the enormous Guayas river which curtails the city on one side. There are multiple shops lining the promenade, and Toby disregards Mike's suggestion of buying Haley a set of six Tequila shot glasses with Ecuadorian symbols. Instead he picks up a dreamcatcher that's made of blue leather with colored feathers dangling off it—the shopkeeper swears it keeps bad dreams at bay, and Mike pretends to believe him, inquiring about the science of dream-catching with the air of an enthusiastic tree-hugger who arranges his furniture according to the Feng Shui method. Toby is surprised at how much fun it is.

Even though they took turns during the second half of the drive, Mike didn't really sleep. As that means he's been awake for some thirty-odd hours, they have an early dinner of rice and beans ("I could have cooked this myself, Mike! Next time we keep the gas cooker.") before they head back to the hotel and retreat into their separate rooms.

Tiredness is pulling at Toby's muscles, the few short hours of sleep he had in the early hours of morning only carrying him so far. Despite that, the noise outside the window keeps him awake—snatches of music, voices and traffic; a stark contrast to forest sounds and Mike's quiet breathing.

The hotel's mattress is much more comfortable than the tent floor, but Toby sleeps badly anyway.

***

At the airport, Toby buys a copy of El Universo. Today's headline brags about how the Ecuadorian police and armed forces succeeded in sending the FARC a strong message. Good for them. Toby stuffs it into his carry-on, for perusal on the flight.

They read it together after take-off, heads bent close. Mike snorts aloud at a passage that cites the commander-in-chief, who praises his men for taking down a group of dangerous criminals who were armed to the teeth, yet no match for the Fuerzas Armadas del Ecuador.

"Does it ever bother you?" Toby asks in an undertone. While they have the row to themselves, there are travelers in front and behind who might take an interest.

"Operating in the shadows? Not getting any credit?" Mike folds the newspaper and spares it a thoughtful glance before he shakes his head. "Not really, no. It's not why I chose this. You?"

"Not anymore." Setting the small table upright, Toby stretches out his legs. He considers leaving it at that, but the propeller's vibrations fill him with a sense of ease, a comfortable buzz in his stomach, and the blinding brightness of the sun reflecting off a cloud-made ocean sparks in his eyes. "It used to," he continues. "For a while, I wanted to take those headlines and shove them at my wife to say, ‘Here, look at me, look at what I did.'" He squints at the view. "Well, ex-wife. Which, you know. Part of the problem."

In the periphery of his vision, Mike shifts. "You were married?"

"Long story." Toby lifts both shoulders in a shrug. "Or maybe not that long. We were fairly young, she was beautiful, and I was stupid. Marriage seemed like the thing to do. Who would have thought that a smart woman will see through your flimsy excuses for frequent, sudden absences? Not me, that's who." He doesn't meet Mike's eyes. "Mistakes made, lessons learned, not necessarily wiser for the experience."

"I'm sorry." It's a quiet statement, Mike's head bent a little so that his lashes hide his eyes. When Toby glances over, he takes absent note of how remarkably long Mike's lashes are.

"Appreciate the sentiment, but it's water under the bridge, you know? Even without the lies, it wouldn't have worked out just because I wanted it to." Mostly, he's telling the truth: he's no textbook example for well-adjusted adulthood, but he has largely dealt with his shit.

Mike is silent for a long moment, his brows drawn together. When he speaks again, his tone is light—carefully so. "I didn't know you were straight."

"Whoa, hold it right there." Toby twists in the seat to get a better look at him. "First off, I assume you've heard of bisexuality as a concept, correct? Because if the answer is no, then you, my friend, will spend the next two days watching The Rocky Horror Picture Show and reading Virginia Woolf's Orlando. Plus other movies, books and TV shows you might have missed while living under that comfortable rock of yours. Forget the beach."

"Oh." Mike looks so openly relieved that Toby wants to hit him. Or kiss him, possibly.

He softens his voice. "Seriously, Mike. I'm not going through a sexual identity crisis of some sort—been there, done that, and have come to the conclusion that while I don't care to define myself in rigid terms, I'm primarily attracted to guys, these days. I wasn't lying when I said that it's our working relationship that worries me."

If Toby was smart, he'd leave it at that. Mike is watching him with a strange, quiet intensity, though, and Toby clearly isn't smart, because what he adds is, "I also wasn't faking how much I enjoyed myself that night. Seriously, get a handle on those insecurity issues, will you? With all due respect, of course."

"Of course," Mike echoes. He's aiming for dry humor, but relief still swings in his tone, and how can someone who looks like Mike harbor persistent doubts about Toby's genuine attraction to him? If Toby was that good-looking, he'd be a cocky bastard about it.

Well, in all fairness, Mike is a cocky bastard—he certainly didn't doubt his ability to charm Jeannot's daughter out of her father's room. Maybe it's just Toby he finds difficult to read, then.

"What about you?" Toby asks. "How do you handle it, not being able to tell your partner the truth? Unless you just... do."

"I don't get into relationships." Mike says it like it's an obvious choice, no further clarifications needed.

"What, never?" Toby knows he's staring, but... Just, never? True, after Jada, Toby made a conscious decision to stay away from anything serious, but he's never treated it so dismissively.

"It's not that weird." Mike counters Toby's blatant stare with a blank look. "You're not about to tell me that life is empty without love, right? That the only way to happiness is through another person?"

"That's exactly what I was going to tell you." Toby keeps all inflection out of his voice. "And maybe after, we can look at my unicorn collection, if you don't mind. Really, though—does SEAL training include lessons in how to switch off your emotions completely?"

Mike's smile creases the corners of his eyes. "That's the advanced course."

"Which you aced."

"Nah. Once in a while, something still slips through." Mike shrugs nonchalantly, muscles shifting with it, and Toby needs to stop being so aware.

"I'm sorry to hear it. That must be disconcerting."

"I handle it with patience and grace."

Toby raises both brows and smirks across the separation, settling into the safety of banter. "A true inspiration, you are."

"Thank you." Mike bends his head, humbled. His eyes are bright with amusement, and Toby looks away after a moment, leaning back in his seat to watch the sun flood the sky with so much light that it's hard to even look at it.