Chapter Two

III. Chapter Two

On the bright side, Paul and Nathan won't plan another birthday trip that involves traipsing through dangerous territory as a homage to their younger, wilder days—not if the way they're huddling in the backseat is any indication. Whenever Toby glances in the rearview mirror, it's to find them staring into the night with wide, scared eyes, flinching at each passing car.

They'll have to hold out just a little longer. Since the official permit for this mission wasn't processed in time by the Mauritanian Powers That Be, this remains a secret operation until everyone's safely left the country.

Toby tips his head against the backrest and stares blindly out into the night. Each time he blinks, he's right back to watching Mike shield the hostages with his own body, standing tall and unafraid, as if a shot to the head won't kill him.

Jesus fucking Christ.

Nouakchott's center embraces them with its bright lights, with people out on the streets, their truck just one of many vehicles on the road. Normalcy, right. That's what it looks like. Toby's head is still spinning, a knot of sick pressure sitting right behind his sternum.

At least Paul and Nathan seem to calm down slightly at the familiar sight of everyday life, Paul sitting up a little straighter, both of them relaxing their tight holds on their duffle bags, blissfully unaware that Mike takes several detours to ensure that no one's following them. Mike's grip around the wheel never loosens.

They leave the truck in a parking lot some blocks away from the hotel. While Mike switches the license plates with those of another car, Toby wraps the weapons back up and stores them in the plastic bags from before—reduce, reuse, recycle. Wordlessly, he joins Paul and Nathan. They look exhausted to the point of collapse, and Toby knows what that's like—when the adrenaline subsides and all you can do is stay on your feet.

His heart is still beating too fast.

They're not safe yet. They won't be entirely safe until the flights take off, and even then, it'll take touching down in whatever friendly country they can get to first for Toby to truly relax.

Mike straightens, slips his army knife into the pocket of his khaki pants, and joins them. "Let's go."

He leads the way, shoulders tense and back rigid. Toby brings up the rear with Nathan and Paul between them, meekly trailing along, kept upright by the promise of safety and a soft bed. Almost there.

They're far enough from the heart of the city that they don't encounter anyone, the sand-covered roads dark and empty. Broken bits of seashells crunch under their shoes, evidence of the beach's quest to invade the city. When a car approaches, Mike hisses for Nathan and Paul to duck into the narrow space between two dark houses, Toby following suit in case Number Five caught a glimpse of him.

There's a chance, a very good chance, that Number Five is all that remains of that particular cell. Assuming they followed the normal operating mode, their contact to the rest of the network would have been limited, enough so that he might not even know where to turn for support.

Still. Better safe than sorry.

The car passes without slowing down. Toby steps back onto the road to find Mike reclined against a house wall, fiddling with his cell phone, a poster boy for not-a-care-in-the-world if it wasn't for the strain around his mouth. The glow of the display illuminates his face.

He could have died today.

Toby swallows and looks away.

"Clear," he calls out to Paul and Nathan. "Let's get going."

They proceed carefully towards the hotel. The tall building, no beauty by anyone's measure, shines like a beacon of hope in the night, and Toby notices their charges staring at it with the reverent air of those who've seen the light.

"You've almost made it," he tells them. His voice comes out scratchy, as though he's forgotten how to use it. Turning to Mike, he tucks his hands into his pockets and stares at a spot just left of Mike's ear. "Who's creating the distraction?"

"Better keep you out of sight." Mike frowns. "I'll be the asshole American tourist who's convinced that someone stole from his room."

Toby nods with the air of a connoisseur. "A classic."

He's trying, he really is. Mike is too: he cracks a wan smile that's really more a grimace, a pale flicker of his radiant normal. His voice is tight. "Oldie but goodie. Give me a couple of minutes before you follow."

He doesn't wait for a reply. Separating from the shadows, he walks forward and is caught by the full glow of the hotel's porch light, strolls into the building without a backwards glance. Toby stares after him, a sense of deep unease settling in his bones.

He shakes himself out of it. After pasting a reassuring grin on his face, he turns to Paul and Nathan. "Almost there, fellas. Are you with me?"

***

Once Nathan has washed off the dried blood, his head wound proves to be shallow. Paul's bruise will take a few days to fade, but nothing is broken. They'll be fine. They'll be fine.

Toby isn't fine. He feels hazy, jittery, too big for his skin. Maybe it's the adrenaline wearing off, or the gut punch of an op that nearly failed.

He almost lost his partner. He's never come quite this close before, within just an inch of it.

He almost lost Mike.

Gently, with control, he closes the connecting door between the two rooms and leaves Paul and Nathan to their exhaustion. They might wake up at some point during the night, dark images pressing in, but for now, they're slumbering peacefully. At least someone is. In the other room, Toby pauses at the desk to confirm that the alarm system he set up is running smoothly, then turns his attention to Mike.

Who is preparing for a second trip to the port.

"What" —Toby puts great weight on each word— "are you doing?"

"What do you think I'm doing?" Mike remains focused on his packing job. Neatly arranged on the bed near him are the three complimentary mini-bottles of toiletries supplied by the hotel, their previously colored contents replaced with translucent liquid. Toby isn't an idiot. In fact, he's pretty smart, graduated with top marks and all, so he can make an educated guess as to what it is, and shampoo, shower gel and conditioner don't make the list.

"Something stupid," Toby says. "That's what I think you're doing, but feel free to convince me otherwise." He draws closer, peering around Mike into the backpack. Pistol, knife, rope.

Mike turns away to grab some ammunition.

"This," Toby points out, talking to Mike's back, "is the part where you tell me there's a perfectly good and sane explanation for what you're doing."

Mike remains silent and yeah, okay. Something stupid it is.

Sitting down on the mattress, Toby picks up one of the bottles, weighing it in his hand as Mike returns to stuff the ammunition into his bag. "When you," Toby begins lightly, "explained to Paul and Nathan why we'd have to lie low, did you listen to yourself? Specifically to the part where you told them we don't actually have a mandate?"

"No one asked you to come." Against the ceiling light, Mike is reduced to a silhouette. "I'm used to doing things alone."

There's a glaring flaw in Mike's plan, namely the fact that there is no way, no way in fucking hell that Toby will let him go anywhere, and especially not alone—not when there are around thirty-eight ways this could go terribly wrong, not after what happened earlier, not when Toby's chest still feels tight, even now.

"Oh, you're used to doing things alone. Well, clearly that makes sense, then." Shaking his head, Toby sets the bottle aside and leans back on his elbows, away from the light until it is no longer quite so blinding, stops cutting straight into his skull. In theory, he could pull rank and order Mike to stay, but somehow, he doesn't think it would go over well. It's not the kind of rapport they've established.

"It does," Mike grits out.

Toby snorts, doesn't even try to keep the derision out of his tone. "What the hell's this about, really? Got to prove you're a big boy? A warrior, one man against Mauritania?" Toby consciously lowers his voice. "Come the fuck on."

"As I said" —Mike directs his determined frown at a point above Toby's left shoulder— "you don't have to come."

"Jesus. Were you dropped on the head as a child? Repeatedly, maybe?" Toby shoves a rough hand through his hair, then sits up to grab Mike's wrist, forcing him to stay. With a thumb on the pulse point, Toby feels the accelerated beating of Mike's heart and this, right here, is his confirmation that Mike is just as out of it as Toby.

Mike stills. There's a beat when they stare at each other, silence spiraling out and making the room expand around them.

Toby swallows. "We..." He has to stop, take a deep breath. "We just took out several members of a terrorist cell. We got the hostages out alive. You almost got shot, and neither of us has had a wink of sleep since we arrived. We are not welcome here." He tightens his grip, just briefly. "This? All of this? Is why it would be a monumentally bad idea for you to go after the one guy who got away. I doubt he's a threat."

Mike is absolutely still, his gaze fixed on Toby's fingers wrapped around his wrist. They stand out against Mike's tanned skin.

Exhaling on a shaky breath, Toby lets go. His thoughts are a tangled mess, but he has words, always words, enough of them to talk straight past whatever just happened. "Look, if you want to boss me around for an hour, fine. If that satisfies some alpha macho need, be my guest. Need me to shine your shoes? I'll do it. I'll do whatever it takes to keep you right here in this room."

Or maybe Toby has exactly the right amount of words to make it worse.

For the first time since Number Four went down, their gazes meet—meet and hold. Mike's expression is blank, but his eyes are a little wide, a little crazy. "Toby," he starts, then stops sharply.

"Mike." Toby gets up, and he's not short by anyone's standards, but he still has to tilt his head back slightly to look at Mike. They're standing too close, inappropriately close. Toby doesn't want to take a step back, though, because that would draw attention to his discomfort, would mean admitting that he's on uneven ground. He clears his throat. "Agent Redding—"

Mike's mouth twists. Toby does take a step back then, just a tiny one, because that's how far he gets until his calves hit the bed frame.

"Okay," he says quietly, rushed. "Jesus, just—stop. Stop. Going back out there? Not a good idea. The worst." Toby lifts both hands, palms up, and calmly, deliberately holds Mike's gaze. His heart is beating fast in his throat. "Whatever you need, Mike."

He knows what he's offering. He wonders if Mike knows too; if Mike even wants to know. Toby feels strangely off-balance, his thoughts a parade of non-sequiturs. His chest hurts.

Nothing moves for a beat, nothing but the hotel fan slowly whirring above their heads. Then Mike says slowly, testing, "You're serious."

Toby lets his hands sink, breathing out. "Yes. I am dead serious, yes. Speaking of dead, you are not going out there alone on some stupid, crazy impulse that can only lead to disaster. Okay? Okay."

Mike doesn't move for several seconds. His eyes are still wild, fixed on Toby with heavy intent. Of what, Toby can't be sure. He holds himself very still and upright, staring back at Mike and refusing to break the silence—he's crossed a line already; several. It's for the best of reasons, of course, the very best, whatever it takes to keep them sane and alive.

Fuck, he needs Mike to do something, say something—anything.

Mike reaches out, hesitates. Then he circles Toby's wrist in a mirror image of just moments earlier. "Tell me I didn't read you wrong."

Toby swallows thickly. His heart is the drum and the bass, and there is no way Mike will miss it. "This is a bad idea too."

"Toby." Mike's tone is urgent. "Did I read you wrong?"

It is a bad idea. A fucking awful idea, in fact, with almost as much potential to blow up in their faces as Mike running loose in a foreign country. Toby should be the sensible one here, the rational one, should claim he didn't mean it—except he did. He can barely hear past the hammering in his ears, his thoughts like dogs chasing their own tails.

He closes his eyes and counts to three. Behind his lids, Mike is already waiting with his arms spread, a human shield made of flesh and bone and stubborn determination. Toby inhales on a rough breath, a phantom shot ringing in his head.

"You didn't." He opens his eyes. "You did not read me wrong."

"Thank God," Mike mutters.

Then he tugs Toby forward, and even though there's no real strength behind it, Toby stumbles into Mike, catches himself with a hand on Mike's chest. Mike smells of sweat and aftershave and hot sand, the warmth of his skin seeping through his T-shirt. His stomach expands on a breath, and Toby slides his palm down to feel the bumps of defined abs. This is so much better than a stolen glance.

When Toby lifts his head, he finds Mike watching him with a keen, sharp focus.

"What?" Toby asks softly.

Mike shakes his head, opens his mouth to speak. Then doesn't, and suddenly it's Toby who wonders whether he read it all wrong, whether this was a test he failed. Whether this is the end of their partnership, and it'll come with a punch to the face. He stiffens, but doesn't move back, not yet.

"Mike?"

"Yeah." Mike breathes deeply, in, and out. He covers Toby's hand with his own, effectively stopping all further exploration, his other hand still wrapped around Toby's wrist in a firm hold. "Tell me if I'm taking advantage."

Oh, of all the things...

"You're not." Toby tips up his chin and lets Mike see him—the naked strain of the last few hours, the exhaustion, the need for something real. "Not unless I am, too."

"You're not," Mike returns.

There's a moment, balanced on the edge of a knife, when they can still walk away.

Then Mike moves, forcing Toby back against the bed until there's nowhere to go but down, down, and Toby lets himself fall, landing heavily on the mattress. Two small bottles get lodged under his back, but before he can dig them out, Mike is right there, trapping Toby with the weight of his body. There's nowhere Toby would rather be.

We're alive.

He shoves both hands under Mike's T-shirt, running them up Mike's back, fingertips tripping over the ripples of Mike's spine. When he lifts his hips, Mike settles down more heavily, leaving Toby with no room to move. Their bodies are locked together, one of Mike's thighs hard between Toby's legs.

"What do you want?" Toby asks, thinks, what do you need. His voice isn't as steady as he'd like, but he's past the point where he really cares. Under the bright glow of the ceiling light, Mike's face is clear, his eyes a lovely shade of hazel, and that's not something Toby should notice because they're not about that. It's just sex, mutual relief, the fading of adrenaline. A way to keep the memories at bay.

That's all.

"What I want?" Mike pauses for a low, serious chuckle. "Lube and condoms. And then I want to fuck you."

Jesus, trust Mike to do this right. Toby's heart is off to the races, his mouth dry, but not too dry to croak, "My suitcase. Check the small inside pocket."

Mike rolls to his feet without comment, shucking off his T-shirt as he crosses the room. The overhead light bounces off the relief of his back. With Mike's pants hanging low on his hips, Toby gets a clear view of Mike's slender waist and the strong line of his spine, of the twin arches of his shoulder blades, several interwoven tattoos hugging one bicep. Toby presses the edge of his hand against his stiffening cock.

"Take your clothes off," Mike orders over his shoulder. He adds, "Please," a second later, and it's such a small thing, but it cuts through the haze of arousal and makes Toby smile.

Toby gives himself a second to watch Mike bend down to root through the suitcase—Christ, his ass. Sucking in a breath, Toby jerks his shirt over his head, undoes his pants and pushes them down his legs along with his boxers. He swipes it all off the bed along with the miniature bottles that started it all.

Mike returns, bare feet soundless on the carpet. There's an obvious bulge denting his pants, and why is he still wearing clothes when Toby could bet that he's gorgeous all over?

Just sex.

"Too many clothes," Toby tells him.

The bed creaks when Mike climbs back on, settling on top of Toby. The fabric of Mike's pants feels a little rough on Toby's skin, and some grains of sand have found their way onto the sheets, scraping against Toby's back. He welcomes the immediate, grounding reality of it.

Arching off the bed, Toby delights in the naked glide of their chests. Mike pushes him back down, and Toby could protest—would protest, but Mike's fingers wrap around his biceps, anchoring Toby to the bed with soft, but insistent control that makes something inside Toby's chest come undone.

For a brief, endless moment, Mike's face hovers above Toby's. His breath ghosts over Toby's chin, and Toby stares up at him, feeling oddly weightless, untethered in spite of the mattress underneath, Mike strong and firm on top.

Shifting in Mike's grip, Toby opens his mouth to say something, and can't find the words. He inhales.

Mike closes the gap between them.

It's no-holds-barred, Mike pressing Toby down into the bed, his tongue in Toby's mouth like he's laying claim. Toby tests Mike's grip as he tries to twist closer, only closer. Mike doesn't give an inch.

Toby can't swallow a groan when Mike's clothed thigh rubs against his groin, a delicious, dragging weight that makes Toby spread his legs, hips rolling up against Mike's. It earns him a half-mumbled curse, then Mike sinks his teeth into Toby's bottom lip. The pinprick of pain is no deterrent, does in fact prompt Toby to repeat the motion. Mike gasps into Toby's mouth, his hold slackening for just a moment before it tightens again.

It's heady, knowing that Toby can affect him like that. He wants more, wants to see Mike undone—one small taste, and he's already addicted.

Just sex.

Their mouths come back together just as Mike releases his hold on Toby's biceps, immediately moving to trap Toby against the headboard instead, both of Toby's wrists secured by one of Mike's hands. The metal is cool against Toby's knuckles, and he shifts to accommodate the change in position, sinks further into the bed as the tip of Mike's tongue traces the line of his teeth. Mike smells like grease and gunpowder, like sand and leather and, underneath, a hint of soap and cologne.

Their breathing is loud in the silent room, the bed squeaking with each sudden movement. Toby spares an errant thought for Paul and Nathan, hopes they're fast asleep.

Mike pulls back just enough to murmur, "Lift your hips"—no ‘please' this time, and Toby doesn't want ‘please;' he wants Mike to get on with it, wants Mike's fingers and his cock, wants everything, and now. As he lifts his hips, his stomach brushes against the bulge in Mike's pants. Mike stills, eyes sliding shut before he opens them again and stares down at Toby, drinking him in. Toby holds Mike's eyes and slowly, deliberately, lets his legs fall open. Smiles.

"Fuck." It's heartfelt, and then Mike unscrews the lube with one hand. Toby rolls his head to the side to watch as Mike coats his fingers, some of the liquid dripping onto the covers. When Mike reaches down, his fingers are glistening, the harsh light showing everything in stark, obscene detail.

Even though Toby expects it, he flinches at the first wet brush of Mike's finger against his ass. Spreading his legs wider, he uses what little leeway Mike's hold allows to tilt his hips in a way that will make the angle better, easier.

"Fuck," Mike repeats, like a prayer.

Simple instinct has Toby tense up when the very tip of Mike's finger probes inside. He consciously relaxes his muscles and waits for Mike to move.

He's not prepared for Mike to lean over him, not prepared for the way Mike's grip on Toby's wrists tightens with the strain of Mike holding himself up as he sucks on a nipple and twists his finger. Jesus. Toby arches his back to get closer, and Mike's finger slips in to the knuckle.

Mike stops moving.

Toby snaps his eyes open. "Hey," he protests, and the word comes out a little rough. "Did I ask you to stop? Not gonna break, here."

"No?" Mike straightens enough to look down at Toby. A sudden, feral grin blooms on his face. "What if that's exactly what I want, though?"

"Try harder, then." To emphasize his point, Toby clenches down on Mike's finger, experiencing a dark thrill of satisfaction when Mike's eyes widen. Point made, he lets his own mouth curve into a satisfied smirk.

"All right." Mike swallows visibly, his voice husky. "All right," he repeats, and then he pulls his finger out only to push back in with three—no warning, the stretch exquisite, a tiny bite of pain mixed with bright anticipation, just the way Toby wants it.

"Better," he manages, barely, and doesn't even resent the smug edge to Mike's grin.

"Sorry, but..." Mike's fingers still. "I don't think I heard you. What was that?"

Toby didn't expect Mike to be playful in bed.

The focus, sure, no surprise there. The need to dominate? That too, and Toby also expected Mike to be smooth, to be good, really fucking good. Not the playfulness, though. Especially not after a day like the one they've had, when Mike very nearly got himself shot—and forgetting about the day they've had is the whole fucking point of this.

It's still a bad idea. Maybe it's even worse now, with the easy way they connect, but when Toby meets Mike's bright gaze, he can't stop his lips from curving up.

To hell with consequences.

"You" —Toby bears down on Mike's fingers, widens his smile when Mike's eyes briefly lose focus— "are amazing in bed. Great rhythm, flexibility, best I've ever had—whatever you need to hear that will speed this up."

Mike's lips quirk into a full, bright grin. "Warmer."

"You are a god of sex." Toby widens his eyes. "Now would you please fuck me?"

"Since you said please…" Mike's nonchalant tone is belied by how quickly he withdraws his fingers and releases Toby's wrists so he can get up and shove down his pants. Gloriously naked, standing tall and proud in front of the bed, he's just as gorgeous as Toby suspected. Mike's cock is flushed and heavy, and Toby wants him so much he's a little dizzy with it.

Mike keeps his gaze fixed on Toby as he blindly tears the foil packet open and rolls the condom down over his cock. He coats it with a liberal amount of lube, and Toby's eyes keep flicking back and forth between Mike's face and his hands.

"Turn around," Mike tells him. His voice has lost all humor. "Hands and knees."

Toby complies without thought. Tiny grains of sand scrape against his knees, and he focuses on the miniature bites of discomfort in an attempt to regain some sense of control over his body. It isn't working—not when Mike settles behind him, the tip of his cock nudging against Toby's balls. Jesus fucking Christ and all the Saints, Mother Mary, Saint Anne. Toby would like to thank them all for letting him have this moment.

Mike drapes himself over Toby's back, nudging him further up the bed until Toby is leaning against the headboard. He's grateful for the solid metal edge that cuts into his palms. "Ready?" Mike asks, the word an exhalation more than a question, and Toby is so, so ready. Feels like he's been ready for hours.

He turns his head to catch Mike's eyes. "Get on with it, will you?"

His challenge is met with a flash of Mike's teeth. A beat later, Mike captures Toby's wrists in one hand, guides the tip of his cock inside with the other. Toby welcomes the dull flare of pain: Mike's cock is a bigger stretch than three fingers, and Toby relishes it, his entire concentration narrowing down to where Mike is working himself in with small, careful thrusts.

Toby puts an end to that by shoving his entire weight back against Mike.

Mike's groan is beautiful, deeply satisfying. The strain has Toby shaking a little, his arms at an angle that will start to hurt very soon, but it's just what he needs right now, is exactly what he needs—the perfect escape. He breathes through the discomfort and bites out, "Move already, or I swear I will—"

Mike pulls out almost all the way, only to slide back in with one smooth, hard thrust. Fuck. He stays right there, plastered to Toby's back and hips moving in tiny circles that send sparks of heat up Toby's spine. Each shift is brighter than the last, better. Toby relaxes into it, resting his forehead against Mike's knuckles since Mike has yet to loosen his hold on Toby's wrists.

When Mike pulls back and then shoves his hips forward hard, Toby's head knocks against the headboard. Toby gasps, retaliates by sinking his teeth into Mike's hand, just a quick, sharp nip. Mike responds with another hard thrust. He follows it up by biting down right at the joint of Toby's neck and shoulder, sucking the skin into his mouth. It's sure to leave a bruise, and the realization lets all of Toby's blood rush south.

He meets Mike's next thrust evenly, twisting his hips in a way that makes Mike gasp. Yes, yes. Mike's mouth moves to the back of Toby's neck for a quick, open-mouthed kiss. When Mike reaches down to wrap his fingers around Toby's erection, Toby lets his head drop, sparks behind his lids that burn brighter, brighter.

Another harsh thrust. Mike's thumb strokes over the crown of Toby's cock, his fingers slippery around the ridge just below.

Toby trembles with his release.

He manages to push back against Mike one last time before he lets himself slump, held up only by Mike's fingers around his wrist. Mike's mouth presses damply to the back of Toby's neck as he thrusts hard, and again, before Toby feels Mike's cock twitch inside him. It's too much, overstimulation with Toby's nerves still raw and his control frayed. He wouldn't change it if he could.

They stay like that for a minute, maybe more. Slowly, Toby regains enough of a grip on his surroundings to realize that he's sweaty and sticky, that they both are. The room smells of sex and freshly laundered hotel sheets. A car honks outside.

When Toby shifts, it prompts Mike to loosen his hold on Toby's wrists, letting go as he moves back. His softening cock slips out with a wet noise, and Toby has no clue what the protocol is. So far, he was too clever to tumble into bed with a partner.

His skin stings a little where Mike bit him. There'll be a bruise.

He straightens, his muscles exhausted from the day's events. God, he's tired. He probably reeks, too. Since the sheets are already disgusting thanks to a mixture of come, lube and sand, Toby feels justified in wiping himself off with them.

"Should take a shower." Since he's a coward, he makes the statement without looking directly at Mike.

The mattress dips when Mike lies down on his side, still naked. "If you want to shower now" —Mike's tone is almost indifferent, but there's an edge to it that Toby can't read— "feel free. Think we could both use some sleep, mind."

He's right. Toby's limbs feel heavy, his thoughts slow. Stretching out beside Mike is a relief, and while Toby is careful to lie facing away on his side, to not get close in a way that Mike might misunderstand, there's no denying that the bed is too narrow for two adult men to fit without their bodies coming into contact. That's what they get for leaving the better room to their charges.

After a heavy second of silence, Mike rolls over. He slides in behind Toby and drapes an arm around his waist.

Something warm and dangerous twists in Toby's stomach, sharpening its claws. He ignores it as he finally allows himself to relax, Mike's arm a steady weight that grounds him to the bed, makes him all the more aware of his exhaustion. "Light," he mumbles.

Rather than reply, Mike leans over to pluck one of the bottles from the floor. He throws it against the light switch, where it bounces off with a plastic thud and plunges the room into darkness. At some point, Toby will have to explain the proper handling of inflammables to Mike.

Not tonight, though.

"Thanks," he says around a yawn, getting as comfortable as he possibly can in a bed this small. He feels Mike settle back behind him and adjusts to account for Mike's body, turning his head enough to catch a glimpse of Mike's profile, shadowed by darkness.

"Hey," Toby mutters. "You won't sneak out to catch Number Five while I'm asleep, right?"

"Not that kind of guy." Mike sounds drowsy and it's just a throw-away comment, a joke of sorts, but Toby hears it echo in his head. Not that kind of guy. Well, what kind of guy is he?

Toby doesn't ask. Of course he doesn't.