X. Singapore, Singapore

X. Singapore, Singapore

X. Chapter One

The problem with the Singapore op is a severe shortage of information. It's not the only problem, mind, but the biggest one.All they have is the name of a financial consulting company, an operation base, and a recorded exchange with Monsieur Jeannot that suggests CTS Consulting generates some of its revenue by laundering money for a fund that, in turn, has been identified as a sponsor of the Islamic State.

Toby is not a numbers kind of guy.

When he was married, he was more than happy to leave financial matters in Jada's capable hands. These days, he pays an obscene amount of money to a tax accountant recommended by the Agency, just so he can save a few hundred bucks on taxes. It's a net loss, no question about it, but if he had to, Toby would pay double to avoid doing his own taxes, and even more if he could get someone to also sort through the bills and records the tax accountant needs upfront to work his voodoo magic.

The point is, Toby is not a numbers guy. The international guidebook of money laundering is closed to him. He severely hopes that Mike's previous stint with the organized crime unit means he has a better working knowledge of those issues, but he also hopes it won't be necessary. They're only sent in to capture the raw data, after all; the analysis will fall to others.

It's a morning flight, and after finding Mike at the gate, Toby follows him to their seats. Business Class leaves plenty of room between them, no risk of accidental touching, and also no risk of accidental conversations if Mike's behavior of late is any indication.

Well, it'll give Toby more time to polish his plan for accessing the records of one Chan Teck Soon, CTS for short. Polishing is good. Polishing is essential given those records are likely protected by a modern security system and enough hired muscles to toss intruders out on their asses. Right after shooting them in the face.

Walking right in front of Toby, Mike stops in the aisle and glances over his shoulder. "Do you prefer the window?" It's the first time he's spoken since they said good morning at the gate.

"I don't care," Toby tells him. It's a lie because of course he cares, just not about the window seat.

Mike nods and settles in his assigned seat, setting himself up for the long flight with the routine of someone who's done this a hundred times before. One seat and an emotional ocean away, Toby does the same.

It's entirely unexpected when Mike asks, "First time to Singapore?"

"Um." Toby squints and waits for the other shoe to drop.

Mike shifts, arranging his long legs into a more comfortable position. "What?"

"Are we on speaking terms again?" Toby tilts his head. "Because that's great, don't get me wrong. I just must have missed the memo somehow."

Mike shrugs, but in spite of the casual gesture he's watching Toby closely, his eyes unreadable. He's wearing sweatpants and a faded hoodie for the flight, and still he manages to be the most beautiful man Toby has ever seen.

Until he opens his mouth, and what comes out is, "Had an interesting chat with Liu yesterday."

Toby's spine stiffens, but his voice remains steady—all that expensive government training wasn't entirely wasted on him. "Really? What did he tell you?"

"Why?" Mike's features are smooth, his gaze unwavering. "You worried about something?"

Vaguely, Toby is aware of Economy Class passengers starting to board the plane, filling up the aisle with their bodies and luggage. A wheelie bag gets stuck between Toby's seat and the one on the other side of the aisle, and even as the seat jerks when the owner tries to get his bag loose, Toby's entire concentration is swallowed up by Mike's calm features. His heart feels a bit tight. If it's pity that has Mike talking to him again... Well, Toby doesn't want it.

"Should I be worried?"

"That's for you to decide." Mike's face shows no discernible emotion. "Shouldn't you know, though? From what I understood, you and Liu are close."

"We were field partners for quite a while. Doesn't mean I can predict the strange workings of his mind."

"Hmm." Mike shifts again, crossing his legs at the ankle. His thighs fall open and that's just unfair. Toby's gaze drops before he snaps it back up to Mike's face. Whatever hope he harbored that Mike missed the slip dies a quick death when one corner of Mike's mouth curls, satisfied. "Well," Mike begins, and the pause that follows is deliberate and cruel. "Mostly, we talked about Hawaii. He thinks you'd like it."

Whatever Liu told Mike, there would have been enough between the lines to keep an English lit major busy for a year. Fucking Liu and his unsolicited meddling. Toby frowns at a random passenger in the aisle, and the guy blinks at him for a confused moment before he counters with a glare of his own, probably blaming it on Business Class rudeness.

On the bright side, Mike has come out of sphinx mode.

"All right, look." Toby turns back to face Mike. "I'm sure your home island is very pleasant. But want to hear something unpleasant? Flying." He makes an all-encompassing gesture at the crowded aisle, the functional design, at the standardized, plastic-wrapped pillows and Economy Class passengers complaining about narrow seats, row after row behind them. "You know that noise of crunching metal when the plane takes off, like it's about to come apart at the seams? Hate it. The noise, generally speaking—yes, there are noise-cancelling headphones for that, I know. But this? All of this? Is not what I dreamed about as a kid when I wanted to fly."

By the end of it, there's a faint smile lingering on Mike's face. More the trace of a smile, really, but beggars can't be choosers. "You dreamed about flying?"

"I wanted to be Superman," Toby amends. "Then I realized just how dorky that cape really was and watched one too many movies with secret agents, which taught me that it means ninety percent hot guys, and in the end, the hero gets the girl, so." He lowers his voice. "Here I am."

That's when he remembers Mike's soft-spoken explanation about his parents, about how it's the reason he's doing what he's doing. Wow, Toby is kind of an ass.

With a shake of his head, he looks past Mike at the flat expanse of the airfield. "Sorry. Your motivation is rather more noble than mine, I'm afraid."

"Yeah, because it's a competition." Mike leans in, his next words quiet. "And revenge doesn't classify as noble, last time I checked. Anyway, it's not about why you joined; it's about how good you are."

"I'm pretty damn good." Toby is interrupted by a steward who's doing the personal Business Class greeting tour; anything you need, just let me know. Tony turns back to Mike as soon as the guy has moved on. "I guess you're not too bad either."

"You guess." Distant humor swings in Mike's voice, and Toby latches onto it like a drowning man.

"Volatile tendencies and god-awful driving notwithstanding."

"Are you saying we make a good team?" There's something searching in Mike's gaze, like he's trying to figure out a puzzle he's only just beginning to understand.

It's a simple question and an equally simple answer, except of course there is nothing simple about it. "We do make a good team," Toby says slowly.

"Professionally speaking, I assume?" Mike's gaze doesn't waver.

The reply takes Toby longer than it should. He's saved by the plane jerking forward, the steward starting his routine demonstration of safety features and emergency behavior. Even as Toby leans back and pretends to watch, he's aware of Mike staring at his profile. He doesn't dare meet Mike's eyes.

***

The descent into Singapore puts the plane and the sinking sun at a steep angle. Depending on how Toby turns his head, he's either fully encased by shadows or one of his eyes is blinded by the sun while his other can't adjust to the lack of light.

He could shield his eyes.

Instead, he tilts closer to Mike and fully into the sun, watching the ground draw nearer. While Mike angles himself to provide Toby with a better view, he doesn't retreat as far as he could.

Maybe they'll make it through this op without either killing or jumping each other. The odds are mediocre, but as Toby's still working on a more optimistic attitude to life, he'll hold out hope until one of them ends up with a gun to the temple or his pants on the floor.

***

"All I'm saying" —Toby turns the key that opens the door to their temporary home— "is that there is something rather schizophrenic about a country welcoming you and tagging on a death threat in the same breath. Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde, anyone?"

Mike adjusts the weight of his own backpack and grabs Toby's suitcase before Toby can do just that. He follows Toby into an apartment that is decorated in the typical style of people who believe that a subscription to House Home replaces an individual touch, the fading daylight showing a lot of white mixed with strategically placed spots of color. It was sublet to the Agency by an American couple that got a nice, one-month luxury cruise in return, along with a hefty sum of money. The apartment's most important feature is a kitchen window that grants a nice view over the offices of CTS Consulting.

"Can't say that some old gothic novel is the first thing that comes to mind in relation to Singapore." After setting Toby's suitcase down on a thick, beige carpet, Mike glances around the living room, sparsely furnished, dominated by an enormous couch and a huge TV screen mounted on one of the walls. "Does this city even have bookshops still, or is it all holograms?"

"That is not the point." Toby needs to choose partners that are less likely to challenge his views. Then again, he might get bored. "The point is that your first impression of the country is a form that says ‘Welcome to Singapore' on one side and ‘We'll kill you if we catch you with drugs' on the other. Talk about mixed signals."

"They're just trying to send a message." Mike has already moved further into the apartment, opening doors and peering inside. He has yet to set down his backpack, but Toby wouldn't be surprised if it weighed close to nothing—if previous trips are any indication, Mike's idea of necessities means a couple of white T-shirts, an extra pair of cargo pants, underwear, socks, a razor, a small sample of cologne, and weapons.

"What message?" Toby asks. "Hi, we enjoy killing tourists?"

"Don't do drugs if you value your life." Mike returns to the living room. Seeming to remember that he's still carrying his backpack, he lets it slide off his shoulders and to the ground before he peers into the kitchen. The windows of CTS Consulting's offices are brightly lit.

They retreat back into the hallway.

"How about I get some takeout while you set up surveillance?" Mike offers. "You don't like me around that anyway."

"You don't understand my system."

"That's because you made some weird alterations that make it impossible for anyone else to set it up."

"I'll have you know that they're not weird at all. They're damn useful, and I'd patent them if it didn't mean giving away the secret sauce."

"Whatever you say." Mike looks amused, maybe even fond. After that stretch of days when he barely acknowledged Toby's presence, it sparks a strange, twisting warmth in Toby's stomach.

This is not conducive to getting the job done.

"Keep that attitude up," he tells Mike. "In fact, if you were to address me as ‘Your Highness' from now on, it would make things a lot easier. Repeat after me: ‘Whatever you say, your Highness.'"

Mike gives him a blank look.

"And I had such high hopes for us." It's out before Toby catches the broader truth that will hopefully be lost on Mike. Quickly, Toby jumps onto a different track. "Now, get me some dinner, and not all will be lost. Something greasy, please. With ketchup. Or mayonnaise—even better: both."

Mike chuckles, the stylish, dimmed lamplight painting him in soft hues. "You know that stuff is bad for you, right?"

"What happened to ‘Whatever you say'?"

"Just looking out for your arteries, princeling."

"You and Haley can join forces. School is putting her through some sort of cooking class because apparently that's become popular again." Toby crouches down and unzips his suitcase, lifting the top layer off to retrieve the customized elements he squeezed into the second compartment—a lens that is supremely sensitive to brightness, for instance. Combined with the standard equipment they picked up at the airport, it should make for a nice set. "She's been on my case ever since she learned how to spell vitamins."

"We nag," Mike says brightly, "because we care."

"You nag because you're a health nut seventy percent of the time, and a committed carnivore the rest of it," Toby corrects. He doesn't allow himself to read anything into Mike's words; this easy back-and-forth is a temporary equilibrium that allows them to focus on a shared task.

"Your lack of belief wounds me." Contrary to the claim, Mike sounds more cheerful than anyone ought to after an endless flight and a jerky cab ride.

"You don't seem very wounded."

"I hide it well." Mike draws closer to watch as Toby arranges his tools on the dinner table, hovering near Toby's shoulder with the curious air of someone who really wants to put his hands all over things that aren't his.

"You break it, you buy me a new one," Toby tells him absently.

Mike hums. "Really, though. Haley and I just want you to be healthy and fit until you're well into your seventies, and mockery is what we get for it?"

"I don't mock Haley," Toby informs him. "Also, I am healthy and fit, thank you very much." He is—he's putting work into his body, and even if he maybe cannot quite compete with Mike's, like, eight-pack or whatever, he sees no reason to be self-conscious.

"Not much longer if you keep up a steady diet of fast food."

"Oh ye of little faith. Look. Until this" —turning slightly to face Mike, Toby lifts his shirt and points at his stomach— "turns into a beer belly, no one gets to shove salad down my throat. No one. Not Haley, not my mum, not you. Are we clear?"

"Clear." It's soft, and when Mike looks up, there's heat in his eyes, their gazes tangling for a moment.

Mike looks away first. Toby lets go of his shirt, feeling vaguely stupid and unbalanced, like a man jerked fresh out of water who is surprised by the sudden weight of his own body.

"Fine. I'll see if I can find something that'll shorten your lifespan by ten years," Mike says. He leans closer, reaching around Toby to get the wallet from his backpack, and steps back before Toby has time to react.

Good. Toby isn't supposed to react.

"Fries," Toby calls after Mike. "Make it extra-large. And don't forget ketchup and mayonnaise."

Mike pauses just long enough to smile back over his shoulder. "Wouldn't dare." His voice is soft and intimate, as if there's a whole different layer to his meaning. Once the door has closed behind him, Toby needs several seconds before he remembers how to move.

Jesus. So maybe Mike is still interested.

***

For all that they exist in the same space, they don't actually see much of each other over the next couple of days. Most of their waking time has them taking turns at reviewing slices of CTS life as seen through the apartment's window. Mike is also busy tailing employees to a nearby bar while Toby spends hours trying to hack his way into CTS Consulting's internal surveillance system that would give him eyes inside the building. Their paths cross only long enough for brief updates on their finds.

It's the slow, painstaking process of gathering pieces of the puzzle and arranging them into a picture that hopefully isn't too fragmented. Toby minds it less than Mike does.

After three days, they have a rough overview of CTS Consulting's employees and their respective positions in the food chain. Day four marks a first rough sketch of the security measures they'll have to bypass, and a day later, Toby's afternoon shift confirms that Chan Teck Soon's personal assistant is allowed inside his boss's office even when said boss is traveling. This turns Mr. Ken Tan into their golden ticket.

Three phone calls later, Toby has arranged for everything they need and goes to wake Mike.

Usually, Mike is a light sleeper. It was one of the things drilled into Toby during training, and it can't have been much different for Mike—late-night pretend attacks, unannounced wake-up calls that gave recruits precisely thirty seconds to roll out of bed and get right into ten push-ups and another ten sit-ups. Training was a bitch.

Toby was never very good at the whole rise-and-shine thing. Mike, on the other hand, has shown a certain aptitude, but when Toby creaks the bedroom door open, Mike doesn't stir. Either his training is failing him, or he really was as tired as he looked when Toby pretty much ordered him to get some fucking sleep, man.

Quietly, Toby creeps further into the room. Late sunbeams paint wide stripes across the floor, highlighting the upper half of the bed. Mike looks radiant against the silvery sheet that brings out his tan and the darkness of his lashes. Even after catching up on some rest, he's got circles under his eyes.

Toby balls his hands into fists to keep from touching.

"Hey," he murmurs. No reaction, so he repeats it a little more loudly. "Mike. Hey."

Mike's eyes open. He blinks once before his gaze clears and he sits up, the sheet falling to his waist, sunshine pouring over him. He isn't wearing a shirt. Of course he isn't wearing a shirt because wearing a shirt would decrease the pull of temptation, and Mike is clearly not in the business of making anything easy for Toby.

"What?" Mike asks. "What's wrong?"

There is no slur to his words, precision in his every move when he throws the covers off and swings his legs over the edge of the mattress. Toby takes a step back and thanks God for small favors because at least Mike is wearing boxers. Toby couldn't have been held responsible otherwise.

He laces his hands behind his back. "Hold your horses—nothing's wrong." That's when his brain decides that now would be a good moment to desert him, because the next thing that comes out of his mouth is: "Do you always sleep shirtless?"

Mike's brows draw together as his eyes focus on Toby. Then he grins, broad and cocky. "Actually, yeah. I do. Is that a problem?"

"Not a problem. No." It takes effort for Toby to drag his gaze away from the subtle shadow of Mike's chest hair, from the swirl of tattoos hugging his bicep, and the dark circles of his nipples. Toby swallows thickly. "Not a problem at all."

"Good." Mike's drawl is lazy, comfortable. He makes no move to cover himself up. "Glad we're agreed."

"Just..." Toby takes a small step back and narrowly avoids bumping into a chair. "Just don't parade down the street like that. This is Singapore; for all we know, public displays of indecency may be a capital offense."

"I don't think a bare chest qualifies as a public display of indecency."

"Look into a mirror, and you'll get my point." Toby feels the back of his neck heat. Rather than wait for a reply, he snatches Mike's shirt up from the chair and throws it at his head. "Put this on. We've got work to do."

"All work" —Mike obediently tugs the shirt over his head— "and no play."

Toby makes himself turn away. There's a reason he's doing this: if Mike doesn't care for more than a quick fuck here and there, it will hurt. Toby can't get in over his head before the job is done.

"Welcome to my life," he mutters. More loudly, he adds, "How good a pickpocket are you?"

"Pretty good. Quick, deft fingers, in case you don't remember." Mike sounds as if he's still grinning, his tone teasing. "Strong hands."

Toby hates his life. "Let's put them to use, then," he says over his shoulder and deliberately, with his head held high, leaves the bedroom along with a partner who he's almost certain is quietly laughing at him.

He cannot wait for this op to be done.

***

In the end, it's Toby who plucks the access badge out of Ken's bag because someone also has to put it back. If Ken is the observant sort, it's better if he doesn't run into the same person twice.

Since Toby knows precisely where Ken stored his badge after stepping out onto the street, Toby has no trouble fishing it out in passing, doesn't even have to brush up against the guy. Ken, slender and relatively tall for a Singaporean, keeps on walking. There's no indication that he noticed anything out of the ordinary, but just in case, Mike emerges from the shadow of a doorway and follows while Toby slips into a nearby van to extract all data from the badge.

It takes him almost ten minutes to crack the encryption and make the transfer. Most of that time is spent with the echo of music in his left ear, Mike having followed Ken into some kind of club that drew a muttered, "Well, this is interesting," from him, only to then not expand on the comment. If Toby was bored, he could locate Mike by means of the tracker embedded in the communication set; as he's frankly rather busy doing his actual fucking job, he's not in the mood to play games. When he informs Mike accordingly, it earns him a low chuckle.

Once the data has been copied, Toby pulls up Mike's location and runs it against the city map. The search returns a club by the name of BG, its description hinting that the owners take advantage of Singapore's policy to officially outlaw yet openly tolerate homosexuality.

"I take it you're currently surrounded by half-naked guys," Toby tells him. "Half of which are probably eye-fucking you as we speak."

"Jealous?" There's a pleased note to Mike's voice.

"Just trying to do my job." Toby shuts his computer down and clambers into the front seat. "Assuming your higher brain functions haven't shut down, I suggest you meet me outside the club so you can return Ken's badge to its rightful owner. I'll park just around the corner."

"I'll meet you there."

Twenty minutes later, Ken's badge is back where it belongs, and Mike is sprawled in the passenger seat, slightly flushed and the top three buttons of his shirt unbuttoned, the semi-darkness in the van doing nothing to lessen his appeal. He's watching Toby, isn't even trying to be subtle about it.

After about a minute of this, Toby turns his head and snaps, "What?"

"Nothing." There's a secretive smile playing around Mike's mouth. "Nothing at all." His thighs are splayed wide, one of his hands resting casually between them. "Let's stop for dinner at that Thai place around the block, yeah? My treat. I'm getting rather tired of takeout"

It's tempting—taking an evening off, just the two of them in that cozy, dimly lit restaurant, candles on the tables, silk shimmering through the windows. Toby wants it enough that he knows it would be a bad idea.

"Hold that thought until the job is done, all right? We can reward ourselves after."

"Sure," Mike says. His tone is a little off, and when Toby glances over, he finds Mike staring out the side window, his face averted.

Toby lifts one hand off the wheel and wiggles his fingers. "Still with me?"

Mike exhales and turns his head, his smile a glimmer in the dark interior of the van. "Yeah. So, what's next?"

"Next," Toby says, pulling to a halt at a red light, "you have a little chat with Ken."

Mike shifts, tilting his head back against the seat. "Can't wait." He sounds indifferent, and the fact that Toby is anything but just goes to show that he's made the right decision to postpone their restaurant night.

The Thai place is to their right. Toby signals left, back to the apartment.

***

The badge is step one, just enough to get them into the building. For the executive floor, they will need Ken's handprint and a recording of his voice, stating his full name. Joy for all.

Good thing he enjoys his after-work with a side of clubbing.

***

Fortunately, BG isn't packed on weeknights.

There are some guys getting their groove on to the throbbing bass, but most have chosen to linger around the bar, sit at one of the tables clustered around the space, or chill near the dancefloor, back against the wall, because nothing says ‘too cool for school' like a guy who's sipping a beer and tapping one foot to the beat because he's too scared to dance.

Toby's brain translates the flashing strobe light into an oncoming headache. While he won't pass for Singaporean even in this lighting, he isn't the only foreigner and blends right in with a loud group of Americans that have claimed several tables on one side of the room.

Clutching his damp beer bottle, Toby keeps a subtle eye on Ken while doing his best to radiate fuck-off vibes—sure, he's pleased that his tight button-down earns him more than his fair share of interested glances, but that's neither here nor there when he needs his mind on the job and his own attention keeps spiraling in on Mike, who's further down, reclining against the bar in a black, sleeveless top that leaves just enough to the imagination. Toby would suspect Mike of taunting him on purpose, but they aren't here for another round of tug-of-war.

The tank top is for Ken's sake. Toby's libido would do well to remember that.

Speaking of Ken: he's been inching closer to Mike, much like a dry-land crab doing a sideways shuffle. If he thinks he's being subtle, Toby would be happy to enlighten him. (Of course he won't.) Mike's gaze flickers over occasionally, body angled slightly in Ken's direction in a way that is inviting without seeming desperate for action. It's smart, forcing Ken to take the first step: he is good-looking, yes, but Mike is the top catch of tonight's crowd. He would see no need to throw himself at Ken.

Toby redirects his attention long enough to bestow a dismissive look on a guy who has squeezed in right next to him at the bar even though there's enough space to go around. That's when he notices that the guy is tall and dark-haired, really quite hot under the right light—and fuck, but cheap replacements aren't Toby's style.

He glances back at Mike in time to see Ken touch Mike's elbow with a smarmy smile that he probably mistakes for charming. Bastard. Ken's boyish face is hopeful, and sure, whatever, some might consider him attractive, but Toby isn't into the jailbait twink kind of look, and he doesn't think Mike is either. Ken's biceps are really nothing to write home about; Toby could take him blindfolded.

Which is irrelevant. Mind on the fucking job.

From underneath his lashes, Toby watches as Mike tilts his head with a dark grin, playing up the mysterious stranger persona. It seems to be working for Ken. Taking a long pull of his beer, Toby pushes away from the counter and circles a little closer. He's careful to stay on the periphery of Ken's vision as he leans against the bar and sets his beer down, studying the drinks menu while Ken gyrates closer to Mike. Every lost inch of space ratchets Toby's pulse up by another beat.

He keeps his face impassive when Mike activates the communication link. They agreed that there's no use in here; any recording would be ruined by the amount of background noise. It doesn't make sense for Mike to switch on his transmitter. All it means is that Toby gets to hear Mike's low, intentionally husky suggestion of, "Your place?"

"Yes," Ken answers quickly, eagerly, his faint accent smoothing out the words. "Yes, good. I live very close."

Oh, we know.

Casually, like someone scanning the crowd and finding it lacking, Toby turns his head. Mike is leaning into Ken, but just as Toby glances over, Mike's gaze moves in his direction, eyes black in the flickering strobe lights. Something sharply unpleasant twists in Toby's stomach, but he refuses to look away first.

Ken sets his drink aside—some fruity concoction that suits him just fine—and slides his hand up to Mike's shoulder, then glances at the club as if to gloat about his good fortune. Toby angles his body away so as to shield his face from view. He still hears Mike's soft chuckle. "Perfect."

It sparks a dark echo in Toby's gut. Out of the corner of his eye, while pretending to check the contents of his wallet, Toby tracks Mike and Ken as they proceed to the exit. With a regretful look, Toby closes his wallet and moves along, casually snatching up the glass that contains the remnants of Ken's drink while he's got Mike's voice in his ear, deceptively close, drawling suggestions that make Toby swallow convulsively. God, yes, he would drop to his knees for Mike, would open his mouth and—fuck.

This is why he can't keep working with Mike: he doesn't trust himself to put the job first.

Ken's eager reaction works like a bucket of cold water. Vision clearing, Toby tilts the cocktail glass so the green-tinged light of the bar bounces off it, confirming what he already suspected. "Mike," Toby mutters, lips unmoving. "The glass is useless. Get your boytoy to press his hand against a clean, flat surface that I can swipe for prints. And don't take all night, will you? I'm really not interested in how much you can make him moan."

Mike's tone takes on a sudden hint of warm amusement. "Trust me." While he must be addressing Ken, Toby is sure he's just as much on the receiving end. Possibly more. "I know exactly what I'm doing."

"I know you know what you're doing," Toby says, moving toward the exit, and wow, talk about layers of meaning. Fresh air, yeah—that's what Toby needs to clear his head. Also, there's no way around the fact that Toby needs to get a visual if he wants that handprint. "My point is, do it faster."

The cooler night air feels like a slap in the face. It helps.

Once the door falls shut behind Toby, the music is suddenly muted and leaves him feeling as though his ears are filled with water, his brain needing a moment to adjust. He walks a few steps before he leans against a wall, pulling his phone out as he draws in a couple of slow, measured breaths. Only then does he look for Mike.

And... well, fuck. Toby hates this op.

He should have told Liu to shove it. Send some other team—any other team.

Curling his free hand into a fist, Toby focuses on the sharp edge of his own nails cutting into his palm. His phone display is bright in the sparsely lit backroad, but it doesn't blind him to how a little over to the side, Ken is pressed up against Mike, full body contact. Mike's back is against the side of a car, his head tipped back so he's presenting Toby with only his profile, blue-tinted streetlight illuminating him. When he shifts to grant Ken better access to the column of his throat, his half-choked gasp resonates in Toby's bones, all sounds emphasized now that the music is reduced to a faint throb in the background. Toby shouldn't be staring, but it's hard to form a coherent thought past that... that thing clawing away at his stomach.

No one is allowed to press Mike back against any kind of surface.

"Would it be a problem" —Toby's fists are already clenched— "if I punched him? Because I want to. Is that healthy? I don't think that's healthy."

Of course Mike doesn't reply. Toby is watching closely enough, though, that he notices it when Mike's muscles bunch. A second later, the tables have been turned and it's Ken with his back against the car, bracketed in by Mike's hips.

When Mike rocks forward, Ken groans, eyes sliding shut. Mike repeats the move, crowding Ken in, and Toby's vision goes a little funny, throat constricted to make breathing harder. He's not even pretending to stare at his phone anymore, yet he still almost misses the moment when Mike flattens both of Ken's hands against the car's metal, into the very spots Mike wiped clean with his earlier shifting. Gasping, Ken arches his back.

Mike is staring straight at Toby.

Two heartbeats tick by to the white rush of noise in Toby's ears.

Then Mike blinks and looks away, steps back from Ken. "Which way?" he asks, his voice notably rough. Toby bites down on the inside of his cheek to keep from making a sound when Ken peels himself away from the car, grinning in broad anticipation as he adjusts his pants. Asshole. Fucking asshole. Maybe Toby can find some excuse to punch him later.

Instead of following Mike and Ken, Toby clutches his phone in one hand and focuses on the grounding scrape of concrete against his shoulders when he shifts, the wall solid behind him. Get yourself the fuck together. Things to do, handprints to retrieve, conversations to tape.

Toby would rather drink acid than listen to Mike getting it on with another man—and to think that this was Toby's plan to begin with. He wonders what that says about his masochistic tendencies.

Probably nothing. Probably just that when it comes to compartmentalization, he needs a refresher course. In the absence of one, he'll have to dig his nails into his palms some more and try not to put his fist through a window.

***

Toby cuts the comm link as soon as Mike gets Ken to point out the correct door.

("Tanai. That you?"

"No, next one. Tan. Ken Tan, that is me."

"Arthur Dent. It's a pleasure to meet you.")

Cutting the link might be unprofessional, but it's either that or yelling at Mike in the middle of a job. Toby chooses the lesser of two evils.

Once blessed silence surrounds him, he attempts to lose himself in the painstaking process of turning the print into a glove that will fool the CTS scanner. It takes the better part of an hour, the sharp stench of chemicals clogging up his nose, slowing his thoughts down even though they keep churning at the back of his mind, a constant hum that keeps him company. After leaving the glove to dry in the bathroom—it'll be fit for use in five hours—he spends ten more minutes isolating the passage with Ken's name, enhancing the clarity. He's overly aware of the breathless edge to Ken's voice, a sick fascination keeping Toby glued to his screen as though the computer-generated frequency curves are holding the key to some deeper truth. All they unlock is a new wave of nausea.

Eighty-seven minutes pass between Ken stating his name and Mike's return, not that Toby is keeping track. He just happens to glance at the clock. Repeatedly. While fighting to stem the flow of his imagination.

When the door opens, he takes his sweet time looking up from a detailed map of CTS Consulting's executive floor. For all that he tries, he doesn't succeed in keeping the derision out of his voice. "Have fun?"

"Why would you care?" It's a terse question. Mike nudges the door shut with a hip and comes to stand at the edge of the room, hands shoved deep into his pockets. Something about his expression is off: a strange tilt to his mouth, uncommon tension in his stance, blinking too quickly at the bright lamplight—Toby can't quite put his finger on it.

God, he's so fucking tired.

"You" —he drops the pen with a clatter— "are an asshole."

Mike's smirk is devoid of all humor. "Takes one to know one."

That doesn't even make sense, but Toby jumps to his feet anyway, his chair tilting back and landing on the carpet with a muffled thud. Toby nearly trips over its legs. "Did you enjoy rubbing it in my face? Did you—"

"I wanted it to be you," Mike cuts him off. He sounds disoriented, eyes wild. "That's never happened to me, so just... fuck you. Fuck you for jerking me around like it's—"

"Stop." Toby takes a hurried step back. His hip hits the edge of the table, sending a sharp sting of pain zagging up his side. It claws its way up his chest, burning in his throat. "Just shut up. Shut the fuck up. This isn't the time, okay? We can't—it's fucking dangerous, is what it is." He draws a rough breath while staring at Mike. God, he wants. He wants so fucking much, and Mike wants too, but there are so many ways this could go wrong, and the last thing they need is to be distracted right before walking into the lion's den.

Toby swallows against the ache in his chest and throat. "We need to keep our minds on the job. Just until that's done, and then I'll partner with Jesy and we'll find you—"

"What?" Mike interrupts. His expression frosts over, and he walks forward until he's right in front of Toby, trapping him against the table, eyes sharp and a little frantic.

He's quiet for the space of a heartbeat. Toby doesn't dare move, doesn't dare breathe.

"Fuck you," Mike hisses, voice dangerously quiet. "Fuck you, Toby."

Two seconds is how long it takes Toby's brain to catch up. It's enough for Mike to move past him towards the bedroom, and Toby stumbles after him.

"Hey! Mike. That's not what I meant!"

The door slams with a resounding crack. Toby throws his shoulder against the wood, a stupid, instinctive move, then tries the door handle. It's already locked.

"Mike!" He kicks the door, but it doesn't budge, and Jesus fucking Christ, Toby is too old to go around kicking doors—this isn't fucking high school. Except Mike has that effect on him, manages to reduce Toby to an irrational, emotional car crash waiting to happen. They aren't even dating, and already Toby's heart feels too big for his chest, threatening to break through his ribs. He hates it—hates feeling weak and vulnerable, at someone else's mercy.

Leaning his back against the door, he closes his eyes. There's nothing but silence on the other side, and this feels familiar: the sickening weight behind his forehead, the taste of bile at the back of his throat. He swallows it down.

"And fuck you, too." He isn't yelling anymore. He feels too drained to yell, limbs heavy and tired, and either way, he knows Mike will be listening because that's who Mike is; he might not show it, might not act accordingly, but he always listens. "Real mature, Mike. Thanks for proving my point about how this isn't going to work."

No reply. He didn't expect one.

"Seriously impressive, the way you just jumped to conclusions. Why ask me to explain, right, when you can just blame me for things I never said?" With some difficulty, Toby peels himself away from the door and breathes through the vertigo. "I hope," he tells the empty air, "you choke in your sleep, you ass."

Yet there's very little anger. Mostly, he just feels a bone-aching weariness at the prospect of spending his night on the couch, with a firmly closed bedroom door staring at him and dragging up memories of nights just like this, back when his and Jada's marriage was falling apart. If there's one thing Toby has learned, it's that the more you care, the more it hurts.

Only later—after he switched off the lights to leave the room illuminated by nothing but the orange glow of the sky arching above Singapore—it occurs to Toby that this is not an experience he shares with Mike. That Mike is new to this.

It's almost enough to make him get up. But when he searches his brain for the right words, he can't quite find them. Maybe it's better this way, though; maybe this means they can finish the job in a professional manner and then, afterwards, Toby will explain.

Sleep doesn't come easily.