Chapter Three

III. Chapter Three

Toby wakes up next to a stranger.

Through gaps in the blinds, the morning sun sends bright spots that fall on the bed, one highlighting Mike's earlobe and the line of his jaw, another tangled in his hair. His face is open in sleep, lashes long and dark against his skin, no worried lines diverting attention from the classic cut of his features.

Jesus, what was Toby thinking?

He tries to leave the bed undetected, but training turns most agents into light sleepers—add the fact that they won't be safe until they're out of the country, and there was really never a chance for Toby to slip away. Mike stirs as soon as Toby moves.

On his feet next to the bed, Toby glances back to find Mike watching him with an alert gaze, no trace of sleepiness. He's gorgeous. Still, or maybe even more so.

Toby makes himself turn away. It's harder than it should be.

"Going to take a shower," he says over his shoulder.

He quickly grabs jeans, a T-shirt and clean underwear from his suitcase, but isn't fast enough to miss Mike's somewhat sarcastic, "Right. And a good morning to you, too."

Fuck.

Closing the bathroom door firmly behind himself, Toby leans against it for a moment, trying to regain his balance. You are so stupid. There's no way this won't come back later to kick them in the ass. While not explicitly forbidden, the Agency strongly discourages sexual relations between field partners—not out of malice, but because sex is rarely that simple.

Toby's a professional, though. He's a goddamn professional, and it was just one night, two people high on hormones and a mission that very nearly failed. It doesn't have to mean anything.

He checks his appearance in the mirror: messy hair and an angry red mark at the joint of his neck and shoulder are the only obvious traces. The first can be easily fixed with a shower, and his T-shirt will cover up the second. No problem. No problem at all.

After turning the shower on, Toby steps under the sputtering spray. It doesn't get better even when he lets it run for a minute: like a bad cough, it's all irregular hiccups mixed with dry intervals, far from the cleansing he needs. He showers quickly and without soap, since Mike must have poured the gel down the drain.

When Toby returns to the room, it reeks of sweat and sex, obvious now that he's reasonably clean himself. He finds Mike bent over the computer, a pair of boxers riding dangerously low on his hips. Toby blinks and looks away. In passing, he opens the window and flicks off the air conditioning, then goes to check on Paul and Nathan. They're still asleep, burrowed under the covers in spite of the dry heat that seeps in through the window.

Toby closes the connecting door softly, careful not to wake them, and nods at Mike. "Shower's free."

Mike glances over and raises a brow. "That a hint?"

"A friendly invitation." Too late, Toby realizes what that sounds like and adds, "Not that it's any of my business. Take a shower, don't take a shower; I really don't care. I'll book you next to Paul for the flight, though, so he might appreciate the courtesy."

For several seconds, Mike is quiet. Then he shrugs his assent, muscles shifting with the gesture, and no one, no one should look this good after having slept in a too-small bed, with hair pressed flat on one side, streaks of leftover dirt from when they freed Paul and Nathan. Mike's pistol left a black smudge of carbon build-up on his right hand, and Toby found faded traces of the same black, greasy substance on his wrists. Without soap, he didn't manage to scrub it off entirely.

"Okay," Mike says. "If you need a different name than the one I used here, I have a couple of passports in my bag. Hidden pocket behind the supporting frame."

"Yeah, thanks." With a wave of his hand, Toby crouches down at his own suitcase and pulls out two fake passports he had made for Paul and Nathan. It was a rushed job, not much time for the French contact to produce them before Toby's stopover in Paris, but they should hold up to cursory inspection.

Out of the corner of his eye, Toby notices Mike frowning at him, still at the desk as though he's waiting for something. Toby has nothing to offer.

A few moments pass in silence, then Mike turns away sharply. He retrieves a passport from his bag, drops it on the floor next to Toby as he passes.

Once the bathroom door closes, Toby finds that he can breathe more easily again.

***

They make it to Paris without running into any complications. After they've landed, Toby arranges a transfer to Newark for himself as well as for Paul and Nathan, booking seats for the latter two under their real names. Mike will be taking a different flight—he doesn't say where he's going, and Toby doesn't ask.

With Paul and Nathan repeatedly interrupting each other to voice their gratitude, it takes a while for Mike to leave; he smiles and nods and says all the right things, and never once looks at Toby. When he finally walks off to wherever his gate is, it's after directing the shortest of goodbyes at Toby.

This time, Toby doesn't watch him leave.

***

"Impressive work, Agent." Liu is beaming like a proud father and no, it really wasn't very impressive because they almost failed, but Toby doesn't bother correcting him. "Seriously, Toby. The odds weren't looking good. We both know how rare it is that we can resolve a situation like this so quickly. Well done."

"Thank you." Sitting up a little straighter, Toby wonders whether his tone reveals anything, whether Liu somehow managed to spot the bite mark even though it's hidden underneath Toby's button-down shirt. He couldn't have. Toby is the only one who knows he fucked up.

"Look." Liu leans forward, lowering his voice and shit, shit, he'll call Toby out on breaking the rules—and truth is, Toby deserves it. He failed to stay professional, failed to keep his distance, failed to put the job first when that's the one fucking thing he's good at—the reason he's lying to his brother, one of the reasons his marriage stood a snowball's chance in hell.

He failed.

Barely a second has passed since Liu leaned forward, but it's enough for an entire universe to have died in Toby's head. A frozen lump sits at the base of his spine and makes him feel like throwing up.

Liu smiles. "You work well with Mike. Your skills complement each other well." There's no reproach, no underlying hint of sarcasm. "I want to request his permanent transfer to our unit, pair the two of you up on a regular basis. Any objections?"

None that would sound professional.

Slowly, Toby shakes his head. "Sounds good," he says, and it might come out a little tight, his stomach contracting with the words, but he can't think of a single valid argument that could change Liu's mind. In fact, Toby isn't sure he even wants to change Liu's mind, and that, right there?

Yeah. That's definitely a problem.