IV. Newark, U.S.

IV. Newark, U.S.

When Toby had freshly finished his training, Liu became his first field partner. Two missions in, they started lunching together every second week, and they've kept it up even after Liu's promotion—according to Liu, he'd rather offend his superiors than miss out on Toby's conversational tangents, and Toby was by no means eager to sacrifice the closest thing to a friend he could afford at the altar of hierarchy. So the tradition survived: every two weeks, unless one of them is out of the country.

It was Italian today, a new place that's been well-reviewed. Toby's stomach, comfortably full with lasagna, agrees. They've decided to walk back, taking advantage of the nice weather, and Liu is in the middle of waxing poetic about some new sofa he's about to buy when Toby sees Mike again.

Mike.

Visible through the bullet-proof glass shell of Kroning Ltd.'s headquarters, he's leaning against the reception, talking to Jesy. His dress pants cling in all the right places, and he's even wearing a button-down shirt that's appropriate for an office setting. It emphasizes rather than detracts from his lean, yet muscular build.

Toby's steps falter.

"What's wrong?" Liu asks, cutting himself off mid-sentence to shoot Toby a questioning sideways look. Toby needs to invest in less perceptive friends—also in friends who warn him that Mike will be arriving; Liu didn't even mention that they've concluded the transfer. A warning would have been nice.

"Forgot to call the moving company," Toby says, belated.

Liu raises a brow. He does that well, the whole silently-judging-your-bullshit spiel.

"I'm serious," Toby tells him. "I forgot to confirm the date with them, and if that means they've abandoned me for some other client, I'm in a bit of a tight spot. Have you tried moving all by yourself when you're blessed with the kind of employer who enjoys sending you on short-notice trips to, oh, New Caledonia or Marrakech or Hobbiton, because why not Hobbiton?" He's beginning to warm to his topic.

"I still don't understand what's wrong with your current place."

Nothing's wrong with it. Toby could see himself still there a year from now, maybe even having bought some actual furniture that didn't come with the lease—and that's the problem right there.

"It's just time to move on," he says, instead of sounding vaguely neurotic.

Because Liu knows when to let sleeping dogs lie, he shoots Toby another skeptical look, but doesn't comment. Liu is first through the rotating doors, which gives Toby another second to compose himself. Christ, why did this take him by surprise? He knew Mike would show up; he just didn't know when. The apparent answer is: now. Get the fuck over it.

Toby grits his teeth. Okay, this is fine. Mike is just a guy that Toby had sex with once, that's all. As far as Toby is concerned, that night in Nouakchott never happened. Move along, nothing to see here.

He follows Liu inside.

"Mr. Redding!" he hears as he enters. Liu's tone is all smooth businessman, his casual air left outside the doors. "Glad you made it."

Mike turns and straightens out of his slouch, just enough that he doesn't appear disrespectful. "Mike, please."

"Mike." Liu nods. "I didn't expect to see you in already. Thought you'd take a couple days looking for an apartment, like we suggested."

An apartment. Mike will take an apartment here—there's a chance that Toby will run into him when grocery shopping. That's fine, that's cool, no problem. Behind Liu, Toby tries to look collected and welcoming, but not too much so.

"I'm staying at a hotel, for now." Mike's gaze slides past Liu and settles on Toby, a careful smile tilting the corners of his mouth. "Toby. I see you've escaped the collective gratitude of Paul and Nathan with all your limbs attached."

"Theirs, and that of their families. You should have seen the welcome committee at the airport." It had been a little embarrassing to be the center of so much grateful attention—wives and siblings and a couple of friends, drawing him into their circle before he could make a clean getaway. "If we're ever in Brooklyn, we're invited for lunch, dinner, breakfast, anything. Emphatically invited, as a matter of fact. Apparently, Nathan is a great cook." Who always leaves the kitchen a mess, according to his wife, and why does Toby even know this about people he'll never meet again?

"That's nice. We could do that." Mike sounds earnest about it, and, uh.

Jesy, catching sight of Toby's expression, snorts out a laugh before her gaze slides to Liu. Dear sweet God, not another one. To Toby's surprise, Liu gives her a smile that softens his entire face. Most interesting.

And none of Toby's business.

"It would be nice," Mike insists. "They're idiots to go hiking in a country that's unsafe, yeah, but I'm sure they won't do that again."

No, Toby is pretty certain that even if Paul and Nathan were to put their brains on standby and plan another trip like that, their families would lock them in the basement with three regular meals a day until the madness passes. That's not Toby's point.

"I'm never opposed to a good, home-cooked meal—not like I get a lot of those." He draws his shoulders back and, for the first time today, meets Mike's eyes. "But I was trained to do the job, leave minimal evidence, get out. Dropping by for dinner doesn't fit the MO."

"Then maybe your MO could do with a revision." Mike's tone is light, but there's a hint of something darker underneath.

"It's kept me alive so far," Toby tells him. With that, he nods at Liu. "Thanks for lunch, always a pleasure. Unless you need me for something, I'll head on up—lab said they'd give me a call." He's overly aware of Mike's presence, and since this actually concerns the guy too, he turns back to explain, "Remember our communication devices from the last op? I sent them in for analysis. It's a good system, never had any problems before, so I want to know what went wrong to have them just cut off like that."

A man who over-explains is a man with something to hide.

It's something that Toby's psychology lecturer liked to say. Fittingly referred to as Peppermint Peppy, Mr. Jones had a balding head, a protruding belly thanks to halting all physical exercise once he'd retired from the field without adjusting his diet accordingly, and he always smelled of mint liqueur. Damn good teacher, though. Either way, Toby doesn't think he's over-explaining to, say, hide an itch to be elsewhere—this information is relevant to Mike. So.

"Let me know how it goes," is all Mike says.

"Of course, partner." Toby needs to stop talking. Unbidden, his eyes fix on a glimpse of bare skin where Mike's shirt gapes open at the throat. "Have a good start, let me know if you need anything." Whatever you need. Christ, he definitely needs to stop talking. His ears feel a little hot.

"Thanks," Mike says smoothly, easily.

"Okay."

Toby raises a hand, smiles, and is about to turn away when Jesy asks, "We still on for squash on Thursday?"

Damn, doesn't she know Toby is trying to beat a hasty retreat around here?

He focuses on her—anything but the thoughtful consideration in Mike's eyes. "Sure, if you want to go down badly."

Jesy's grin is all predator. "Not a chance in hell, Brown."

"Don't say I didn't warn you." Toby makes himself grin back and lingers for another beat, even though he carefully avoids looking at Mike. "Okay, see you guys later."

With that, he does turn around, only to have Liu call, "Wait up, Toby! Just quickly need to discuss something with you."

Toby will never make it out of this lobby. He is destined to die here—starve, probably, as the water fountain next to the reception desk should keep him sufficiently hydrated to draw out the process. "Sure," he mumbles, halting his steps.

A glance back shows Liu's boss mask firmly in place as he addresses Mike. "You'll be fine? I assume someone will be by to grant you regular access and show you around?"

"Nathalie from HR will pick him up any moment," Jesy inserts.

"Good. Mike, please drop by my office once you're settled and we'll have coffee and discuss your placement with us."

"Great, thank you." Mike's smile sketches tiny crow's-feet at the corners of his eyes. Toby breathes, looks away, and is glad when Liu finally catches up and they continue through the access control, unhurried. They don't talk until the elevator doors close with a soft ping, just the two of them going up.

"Is there a problem?" Liu's voice has lost its professional edge, but his tone is serious. Toby really does need to invest in less perceptive friends.

"A problem?" He crosses his arms. "What problem?"

"That's my question."

"Be more specific."

Liu gives him a long, patient look. "You're itching your elbow."

Damn. It's a nervous tell that Toby's got mostly under control these days. He drops his arms just as the elevator glides to a smooth stop on his floor. Escape: so close.

"Toby." Liu gets in the way of Toby's graceless exit when he blocks the doors. In the mirrored wall, his frown is starkly reflected. "I need to know if there's a particular reason I shouldn't send Mike with you to France next week."

"There is no problem." And Toby will convince himself if he just repeats it often enough. The lasagna weighs heavy in his stomach. "I mean, don't get me wrong—the guy's a menace, likes his weapons and inflammables way too much if you ask me, hasn't found a gun he didn't want to fondle." Mike expertly handing a rifle, fingers sure on the barrel: that way lies madness. "But." Toby pulls his mind back from the brink. "He's a good agent. Very good. Fast and skilled, committed. We complement each other well, so no, there's no reason you shouldn't send us to France."

Why?

Why is Toby doing this to himself? He's been offered an out on a fucking silver platter, and instead he's talking himself into the corner that will force him into close and repeated contact with Mike.

"Right." Liu draws the word out, inviting Toby to expand. No, thank you. After a few moments have passed in silence, Liu nods to himself, and grins. It turns him from someone who could be on the cover of a successful classical album—one of those accomplished Chinese pianists, black-and-white portrait, soft focus—into a boyish rogue. "Glad to hear it. I'd hate finding another pair to party on a yacht."

"Free drinks?" Toby asks.

"Almost guaranteed. But" —Liu finally steps aside to let Toby pass— "unfortunately, Mike will be the only one putting in an official attendance."

"How is that fair?"

"It isn't." Liu shrugs. "I bet he's a more enthusiastic swimmer than you, though. SEALs will be SEALs."

He might have a point there. With a wry look, Toby shuffles past Liu and exits onto his floor, sparing a moment to hope that Mike's office will be located elsewhere. He can't avoid Mike forever, and that's fine; he isn't planning to.

It's just until he gets his head sorted out. A couple of days, max.

***

Jesy's message is short and looks like it was spelled in a hurry—that, or she's linguistically challenged: ‘sry runnig l8 half hr sent m'

M. M?

Malin, Mary, Martin. Mike.

Mike?

Mike indeed: he enters the locker room right as Toby is about to send a single question mark Jesy's way, clad in scruffy sweatpants and a loose T-shirt, carrying Jesy's racquet.

"Aloha." He shoots Toby a grin that passes for carefree if one misses the subtle tension tucked into the corners of his eyes. Toby doesn't miss it, and that probably says something about him, about them.

"Hey." Sliding the phone back into his locker, Toby gets up and crosses his arms. "Jesy sent you?"

"She named me her second. Kept insisting it's only until she gets in, though." Mike adjusts the strap of his backpack, glances up at the neon light illuminating the room—the Agency's underground fitness center is untouched by modern trends in the gym scene, such as the pleasure of natural daylight. A brief pause before Mike adds, "You've been avoiding me, so this seemed like a good way to catch you."

"I'm not avoiding you," Toby says, too quickly.

Mike sends him a look that borders on insulting.

"I'm not," Toby insists. "I've been busy."

"Busy," Mike repeats, no inflection. "Too busy to discuss the plan for France?"

"I'm moving apartments." It's a lame excuse—Toby is aware. "I was going to find you later today."

Mike snorts. "Right."

Rather than argue the point, Toby picks up his own racquet, weighing it in his hand. He doesn't want to play Mike—two people, a shared court and a fast-as-a-bullet rubber ball spell disaster if Toby is one of those two people, and Mike is the other. Of all the times for Jesy to be running late...

After Toby's been quiet for a few moments, Mike shakes his head and crosses to the locker that must have been reserved for him. He stabs at the keypad, his back to Toby, and Toby's eyes are drawn to the arches of Mike's shoulders, the bunch of muscles.

"Are we playing, then?" Mike asks without turning around.

Toby slams his own locker shut and drudges up a cocky smirk that he doesn't feel. "We're playing."

A beat passes. Then Mike turns around, a similar smirk on his face that comes with a challenging edge, the cool neon light emphasizing the angles of his face.

***

They warm up in separate corners of the court, and in the interest of the game, Toby gives himself license to study Mike's build. With Jesy, Toby can count on his superior weight and sheer physical strength; with Mike, he needs to rely on other factors.

Toby serves first.

He starts them off easy, the ball rebounding off the front wall, well within Mike's range even if he doesn't move. Mike hits it at an angle that lets it rebound off the side before it drips off the front wall, just above the tin and unreachable if Toby hadn't already been moving in the right direction, prompted by the shift of Mike's muscles.

All right, then. Mike knows how to play.

As expected, Mike is fast and strong, willing to take risks, his every hit precise. He's... beautiful, fuck. This is such a bad idea.

Toby holds his own, though—he's more agile, and he's better at predicting the ball's final destination even when it rebounds three times. He's also better at strategically hindering Mike's moves without blocking him so openly that it would be considered a foul, and lead to replays or points for Mike. It's not breaking the rules if Toby gets away with it.

It takes several rallies for Mike to catch on. When he does, his response is to plant himself in Toby's path repeatedly, openly, and while a referee would call it off, there is no referee and Toby is perfectly able to give as good as he gets.

His pulse is pounding in his ears. Mike's T-shirt is dark with sweat. The court is silent but for their gasping breaths and the thump of the ball when it connects.

When Toby serves, the ball hits the front wall with enough force to rebound off the glass wall at the back. Mike hits a perfect boast that comes off the front wall, landing on the nick, Toby sliding across the floor to make it in time. He considers sticking out his leg when Mike rushes past; instead, he jumps back to his feet and hits the next one easily, Mike already too certain of the point to put much effort into it. Rebound, bounce, and Toby is in Mike's path, he's well aware that he is, but he makes no move to get out of the way.

He ends up with his back against the side wall, Mike bracketing him in with his hips. His racquet digs into Toby's thigh.

Behind them, the ball bounces once, twice. Rolls another few feet and comes to a halt.

"My point," Toby manages to gasp out. If asked, he would blame his harsh breathing on the exercise, only on the exercise, nothing at all to do with Mike. Dimly, Toby is aware that if anyone were to walk in on them now, it'd look bad—this is squash, not a wrestling match, and there's no actual justification for Mike pinning him against the wall. Toby could break free—should—but his thoughts are spinning like a kaleidoscope, and Mike's eyes are a fascinating shade of hazel that seems green in this light, his chest solid against Toby's, and they're so close, all it would take...

No. No.

"What" —Mike's voice is rough, his chest rising and falling rapidly— "is your fucking problem? I asked you whether it was okay. Twice! You had every chance to stop me, so you don't get to fucking blame this on me."

What? Toby's breathing is still too fast, Mike panting into his face, and it's the exercise, just the exercise, that's all it is. "Blame you? I don't blame you for anything."

"Could have fooled me," Mike grits out.

"I do not blame you." Toby fights his own body that wants to close the gap between them, every nerve cell firing away. "We made a mistake. Let's move on."

"You sure aren't acting like you've moved on." Mike sounds openly derisive, and it's so at odds with his usual relaxed air and easy smiles that it stings, just a little. Toby lifts his chin.

"I've been busy."

For a long second, Mike doesn't move. They're staring at each other, unblinking, too close, far too close. Then Mike takes an abrupt step back, all his warmth gone from one moment to the next. Toby almost reaches for him and balls his hands into fists instead.

"Fine," Mike says, low and even. "I guess we'll just never speak of it again, then."

"Fine," Toby says.

"Fine." Mike puts heavy emphasis on the word.

Toby runs a hand through his hair before he makes himself straighten up, his legs a little unsteady. His heart is sprinting nowhere, fast. Fucking Mike. How did they end up here?

By way of a single bad decision, that's how.

"Let's just..." Toby clears his throat, staring back at Mike, who's watching him with an unreadable expression. "Let's be professionals, all right?"

"Professionals." Mike sounds as though he tasted something vile.

"Professionals." Toby nods quickly, taking a half-step forward. When he glances down, it's to find Mike's hands white-knuckled around his racquet. "We work well together, don't we?"

Mike inhales deeply—and then Jesy knocks against the glass wall. "Sorry I'm late," she calls. It's slightly distorted, bouncing off the walls and the inside of Toby's skull.

The silence lasts for two seconds, no more than that, but it feels like forever. Mike ends it.

"Sure, whatever," he tells Mike, then turns away to face Jesy with a smile that is very, very close to believable, but his grip on the racquet has yet to loosen. Steady voice, though. "No worries; I kept him entertained."

Jesy narrows her eyes, quick glance flicking back and forth between them. "Thank you," she tells Mike, "for your monumental sacrifice."

"My pleasure." Mike doesn't look at Toby as he says it, moving to hold the door open so Jesy can enter, then slipping out himself after handing over her racquet. "See you around," he calls over his shoulder.

"See you," Toby echoes weakly, disappointment over nothing a heavy coil in his stomach. Breathe through it.

By the time Jesy steps into the serving box with a determined expression, he feels almost normal. They're fine. Or at least they will be.

***

Jesy beats him with embarrassing ease. As Toby can't very well explain that it's Mike's fault that his reactions are slow, his mind not on the game, he demands they schedule a rematch. She mocks him only a little before she accepts, her dark eyes laughing at him.

Toby showers and changes into his suit, only to decide he's had enough for the day. He goes home to an apartment that's half moving boxes, digs out a pair of black pants and a top to match, and changes again.

The club welcomes him with heavy bass and a cloying mix of sweat and cologne, men in varying amounts of clothing on the dance floor, or reclining against the bar in the middle. It doesn't take Toby long to find a suitable candidate—and if the guy happens to be tall, slender and dark-haired, with eyes that are almost too light for his type...

Well. It'll get it out of the system.

***

Sneaking out in the early hours of morning isn't a chivalrous way to end a one-night stand in anyone's book. Toby hasn't done it in a while, but sneaking about is something he's actually trained for, and there's an odd, dirty thrill to shutting the door behind himself, stepping out onto an unfamiliar street with the first light of day just brightening the eastern edge of the sky. His limbs are aching comfortably, a light, pleasant tiredness clouding his thoughts.

He goes home to shower and change into an office-appropriate outfit, leaving his clubbing clothes in a heap on the bathroom floor. Once at the office, he stops briefly at his own desk before he goes to find Mike.

It's early still, and Toby wasn't sure he'd find Mike in already. He is, though, and he looks up sharply when Toby raps his knuckles against the doorframe. Toby enters without waiting for permission.

Mike's gaze fixes on Toby's face, flickers down the length of him, and back up. His eyebrows draw together. "Morning, Brown. What can I do for you?"

Back to last names? Toby would have pegged Mike as more mature than that. Just goes to show.

To spite him, Toby smiles widely, plops down in Mike's visitor chair, and lets his legs splay comfortably. He's got this. "Mike—and a lovely morning to you too! I think it's time we discuss our next vacation. After all" —he leans forward to prop both elbows on Mike's desk— "I hear that early summer is a great time to visit the C?te d'Azur."

"Is it?" Mike sounds evenly unimpressed, and Toby knows exactly what he's doing: Mike has decided to translate ‘let's be professionals' into ‘let's act like we're awkward acquaintances making small talk at our ten-year high school reunion'. Well, if Mike is being difficult to make a point, two can play that game.

Toby squashes the thought that this kind of distance is exactly what he asked for, and that he should welcome it.

***

"You know, Brown—"

"Toby."

"I've planted bugs before."

"Not on my watch. Let me see you do it."

Mike stares, impassive. Toby stares back, raising his eyebrows in a silent challenge.

With a sharp nod, Mike plucks the tiny device out of Toby's palm and looks around Toby's office with an assessing gaze, expression bland. Even though Toby's won this round, it doesn't feel like it.

***

The more reserved Mike becomes, the more Toby pushes and prods, to the point of being obnoxious.

They spend several hours a day working out an elaborate plan when Toby can easily admit that a couple of hours, combined with some individual tasks, would have done the trick. By the time they board their plane to France—destination Paris, then a connecting flight to Nice—there's a constant strain around Mike's mouth, but his control holds.

At least he's back to calling Toby by his first name.