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The job in London is taking longer than necessary and it pulls at Chris’ patience until his temper is hanging by a thread. There’s still a long way to go, more legwork and‘cooperating’ with the police, but what tests Chris’ fortitude most of all is the weather: he hates getting rained on and it rains everyday here, like clockwork. And it’s cold in the middle of January, and the food tastes like cardboard scraped through gravel and dipped in ash. There’s a working list of things Chris hates about London, not one of which is the field agent tasked to work with him: a rookie from the looks of it, still wet around the ears on account of how eager he is to jump on anything resembling a lead. If they had a tip line, the kid would be running all over London, and it would’ve been entertaining to watch had Chris’ services not been on loan for a limited amount of time only.
Chris reclines in his seat and props his boots up on the table. They’ve set up a surveillance system aimed at the building across the street but so far that’s proved to be an exercise in futility. It’s been a week and they still have nothing to pin on the guy, except his unusual love of female escorts. There’s a new woman every night. But that’s hardly illegal activity. The man has a taste for brunettes, and that’s helpful to know if all else fails and they have to lure him into prison instead.
Chris yawns and pops a crick in his neck, watching the feed with tenuous interest. It’s boring at best, and arse-numbingly tedious a lot of the time. He’d rather prefer watching paint dry; that at least has an end in sight. The last few days have been nothing but a waste of his time. If the MI5 think a tax accountant is hacking into the mainframe of three of the largest commercial banks in the country , then their government deserves whatever’s coming to them.
This is precisely why Chris makes it a point to steer clear of politics, never mind the fact that cooperating with agencies like the MI5 affords him some flexibility in terms of career options. As long as he isn’t doing anything illegal per se, they turn the other cheek; in exchange, he has to scratch their back.
The door opens behind him, and Chris wheels his swivel chair around to face his visitor. It’s the rookie – Tom, and he’s armed with bags of takeaway that smell heavenly. At least he’s good for something and understands the importance of working on a full stomach. His superiors are some of the people Chris won’t think twice of leaving in a burning building.
“It’s you,” Chris says cheerfully, spreading his arms expansively.
Tom rolls his eyes and shuts the door with his hip. He’s grumpy, but attractively so, and has rented Bridget Jones' Diary twice on Netflix last month. Interestingly, his porn history includes the keywords: twink, bear, and daddy, but Chris knows it’s not his place to judge. Still that kind of leverage would be useful. Knowledge is currency, and when dealing with the government, the more you know, the more indispensable you become. And failing that, he can always use the knowledge to annoy the shit out of Tom. He’s a marvel to rile up; he loathes Chris with a passion Chris finds rather flattering.
“Who else where you expecting?” grumps Tom, his lovely face scrunching up. He has naturally curling hair and bright blue eyes, and dresses like a disgruntled Cambridge professor: in rumpled charcoal grey and brown corduroy. It’s awful; it’s like he wandered into his dad’s closet as a child and stumbled back out, fully-formed and smelling of musty shelf and moth balls.
“I was hoping a leggy blond but then again you fit the bill too,” Chris shrugs. He lets his gaze track the long lean lines of Tom’s legs before settling on his face and smiling wide. “What are we having tonight?”
“Curry,” Tom grunts, and Chris doesn’t miss the telling twitch in the corner of his mouth. He sets the bags of food on the table, on top of the dossier which Chris has to move out of the way.
Tom reaches into the bag and hands Chris his food in a steaming plastic bowl. When their hands brush, Chris winks at him, setting Tom off which is only par for the course: he darts away like a flighty bird and makes himself scarce, disappearing into the kitchen with a grumble and a loud bang of cupboard door.
Chris lifts the lid off his bowl and breathes in the nascent heat of crushed peppers and cinnamon. There’s nothing in the world better than hot food not prepared by the English; he can immediately tell it’s authentic curry – lovingly prepared by the hands of immigrants.
Chris lets out a pleased noise and digs his spoon into his rice. “I was worried we were going to have fish and chips again,” he calls after Tom. He hears Tom put the kettle on – louder than necessary – but other than that, make no other response to indicate he’s heard Chris.
When Tom returns a few minutes later, he has two mugs of hot Earl Grey tea. He pushes one in Chris’ direction and Chris smiles again, privately, setting the mug next to the one from this morning, still largely untouched.
“Thanks,” he says, sincere.
“You’re welcome,” Tom says with a hint of bite that does not go unnoticed. He seats himself on the ottoman in front of the coffee table cluttered with files and a laptop rigged to monitor Chris’ online activity. For now it’s showing what Chris wants them to see: his penchant for online poker and taking personality-quiz surveys.
“Anything interesting happen while I was away?” Tom asks, spoon hanging from his mouth as he taps a key on the laptop.
Chris shrugs and talks around a mouthful of rice. “I’ve been playing Oregon Trail for the last half hour and have just shot forty buffaloes. But besides hunting them into near extinction, I’d say it’s been pretty uneventful. I’m nowhere near the finish line.”
“I meant Avery,” Tom says patiently. “Are we making any progress?”
Chris just smiles and shrugs again noncommittally. He wants to see how far he can push Tom into his breaking point. The cracks are showing; all he needs is a little more encouragement, and if not that, a swift hard shove.
*
There’s something to be said about Chinatown: it’s the saving grace of any city worth its salt. And the food is always spectacular, from the live squid writhing in fish tanks outside to the steamed pork buns to the dimsum. Chris always stays for the dimsum.
Chris has stepped out for the moment and given himself a break. Watching video feeds all day has given him a headache and all this sitting around is making him antsy. He takes a bite out of his spring roll – pilfered, of course, from one of the stalls flanking the street – and walks inside a noodle shop, waiting for Tom to follow. He’s about as subtle as an elephant on skates playing the trombone for someone supposedly tailing Chris from a distance. If he’s the best MI5 has got, then Chris feels sorry for them. The kid is better suited to a desk job than whatever it is he thinks he’s doing besides doing his country a great disservice.
Chris waves Tom over to his table just as a server arrives with a basket of free appetizers.
“I’m not running away,” he tells Tom sweetly, handing him the menu. His Mandarin is a bit rusty but at least there are pictures to go with the descriptions of food. “Sit, stay awhile. I’m paying tonight. God only knows how much you’re making at MI5 with all the budget cuts.”
Tom takes the seat across from him with a strained smile. It’s clear he wants to maim Chris with a pair of chopsticks, if only he weren’t a valuable asset. “Let’s not talk about work,” he hisses, casting a furtive glance across the room at the mention of MI5 and budget cuts. No one is paying attention to them, sadly not even the servers at the counter, which makes his paranoia a little more endearing.
Chris pats him on the hand.
Tom rolls his eyes and pulls his hand away, slouching in his seat. His Tinder profile says he’s 27 but Chris knows there are missing years. “How did you know I was following you?”
“You don’t want me answering that,” Chris tells him. He waves a server over, points to a bowl of egg noodles and fried rice on the menu and signs for two. “And some dimsum, I’m having a craving.” He smiles, before turning his attention back to Tom, steepling his fingers together.
“I don’t like dimsum,” Tom says flatly.
“Then pay for your own dinner,” Chris smiles. He takes a sip of his water and relaxes in his seat. The soft hum of conversation around them is soothing like running water, not unlike the quiet whir and beep of machinery. The shop smells like cooking oil and camphor. It brings him back to his stint in Hong Kong and the little dimsum shop across his apartment that was eventually taken down to make room for a shopping mall. There had been a girl too, with hair cropped like a boy’s; she loved listening to the Mama and the Papa’s.
“Let’s play a game,” he says, suddenly. “Let’s call it hmmmm… how ‘well do I know you’?”
“All right,” Tom says, eyeing him warily. He mirrors Chris’ posture: leaning back in his seat though not relaxing in any way, shape, or form. His lips are pressed tight. Today he’s wearing a pinstriped oxford shirt under a brown fleece jacket. Wonderful. “Go on,” he says, eyes narrowing sharply.
“What did your superiors tell you about me?”
The question makes Tom pause for a second but he deflects smoothly. “That depends. What do you want to know?”
Chris shrugs one shoulder, chuckling, taking another sip of his water while he pretends not to study the veins in Tom’s hands. His silence prompts Tom to talk: “I’ve read your file. Undergraduate from MIT, recruited by Microsoft in 1992. You started your own company in 1995 then sold your shares to your business partner three years later before going off the grid.”
“Ah,” Chris says, then laughs. He does love it when his history is recited back to him, verbatim. “You’ve done your research, I see. But let’s dial it back down. What do you know about me? Personally? How do I like my cheese?”
Tom looks utterly lost, blinking in confusion. “I like Saint-Félicien cheese,” Chris answers for him. “I’ll teach you how to play this game, sweetheart. I’ll tell you what I know about you.” The dread that floods Tom’s face is hard not to miss, and Chris drops his voice to a husky whisper. “I know your porn history in the last six months includes some questionable things. I know you like toys that approximate big heavy cocks. And for some reason unknown to man you’re obsessed with Colin Firth. You’re thirty years old, not twenty seven. You’ve been moaning to your sister Emma about how you haven’t gotten laid since—”
A splash of cold water hits Chris in the face. He blinks, startled, then starts to laugh, wiping at his eyes with his fingers. Tom is livid, absolutely murderous, gripping the glass with white-knuckled rage. Red is a good look on him: those flushed cheeks and that wild-eyed look is giving Chris a hard on.
“Once all of this is over, I’m going to hurt you,” Tom says evenly, his voice shaking just a fraction. He sits back down again, handing Chris a napkin. “Severely, Mr Hemsworth. Mark my words. I’ll break five different bones in your body; don’t think I won’t do it just because I’m MI5. If your research is as thorough as mine, then you’ll know I’ve undergone training to earn my post as a field agent.”
Tom smiles, tilting his head to the side innocently, cupping his chin in his hand. It’s terrifying, but also strangely arousing. Chris feels a frisson of something pass through his ribs that isn’t just lust and he wipes his forehead with the proffered napkin before dabbing at his suddenly-dry mouth.
“Be on your best behavior Mr Hemsworth,” Tom warns, just as their food arrives. “Or you’ll get what’s coming to you.”
Chris sighs, blowing hair out of his face. “Oh, sweetheart,” he says. He sounds smitten; probably he’s always been. “I’m looking forward to it already.”