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When Neil got the call, he already knew.
He was placed in Mumbai a week ago, to await further instructions. For that week, he had had nothing to do; no real mission, not even knowing whether it will be a real mission. It all depended on Him. Whether He would take the bait – whether He would pick up the phone and make the call. But of course He did. It was never meant to go any other way.
But it hurt. Neil was hurting. And seven full days of idling had done nothing to stop it from hurting. On the contrary—without so much as even a laptop to distract him with work, Neil had been slowly succumbing to the darkest of places. He slept in, and never made the bed, he barely ate, but emptied the mini-bar all the same. He drew the curtains apart, and then back together again after deciding it was far too bright. He didn’t leave the room for anything else but the occasional trip to the lobby to ask whether something had been left for him. Just in case. But there never was.
And when the burner phone he had been issued with finally rang, Neil picked it up with trembling fingers, listened to the instructions—Bombay Yacht Club, two hours—and promptly threw up.
He had the sickening feeling he’d been there before. The club looked familiar even though he had never visited it prior to this moment. Was it yet another side effect of this job? Never knowing whether you’ve already lived through the exact same situation before? An involuntary shudder pierced Neil at the thought, and the pain in his temples pulsed in a shameful reminder of a week full of (low) spirits.
He feared the folder in his hands would soon be soaked when he kept sweating like that. There was no air at the bar. Neil opened a button behind his already loosened tie. He couldn’t breathe. His mouth was filled with cotton. He would suffocate in this very room and no one would be there to save him because He didn’t know him.
Neil, panicking, looked for the nearest doorway—and saw Him. A pang of recognition in his chest, twisting into something much more agonising. He looked so young. So fresh, ready to take on the whole world if it meant He could save it. Neil swallowed thickly, and waited until He had sat down on one of those highly uncomfortable straw chairs (he had never sat on a single one of such chairs).
His youth was striking, His concealed energy was paralysing, and Neil was only just dreaming. He had to be, because otherwise he would be seeing a ghost. Swallowing down the hysterical urge to laugh, Neil rounded the corner and sat down into a chair next to Him.
“It seems you need an introduction to a prominent Mumbai local on short notice,” he fumbled out quickly, surprising himself when he didn’t trip over the words. “I’m Neil.”
If Neil didn’t know who He was, he would be insulted by the lack of introduction, but then they shook hands and Neil was positively suicidal. How could they ask it of him? (Even though he knew the answer to that.) To have to look into His eyes—His lovely eyes, full of life—and act as if they didn’t know each other. But as they slipped into business, Neil found he could work through the pain (as always).
No hostages, no noise-making. Neil thought he was experiencing a déjà-vu, all of it, all of Him, seemed so familiar—he needed a drink.
“Vodka tonic,” he called a waiter and, generously, before realising the mistake he had made, added “and uh, diet coke.”
When Neil finally looked up at Him, He was already staring. Neil could feel his breath hitching; He was so beautiful. Only just recently had those eyes focused on Neil’s face as he explained yet another theory of his, glanced sideways to catch Neil’s eyes on a mission, roamed Neil’s body up and down, His pupils dilated. Only just recently had Neil loved, and been loved. (And now?) He was right there. Right there. For Neil to look at and speak to and touch. If he just reached out, he could run his thumb along His nose, His lips, twist his fist into His shirt and pull Him closer. So why was He looking at Neil as though he had grown a second head?
“What?” he asked, puzzled. “You never drink on the job.” It’s always been like that.
“You’re well informed.”
Fuck. Cursing himself, and this job, and this bloody ghost sitting across from him—Neil forcibly dissolved the protruding memories, and changed. A charming personality (an act) had always been one of his virtues, alongside his quick thinking and wit, so why not make a use of it? Perhaps he could charm himself into believing this farce of introductions and simple business.
“It pays to be in our profession.”
He cocked His head the tiniest bit; displeasure. “Well I prefer soda water.”
Neil grinned, a little deliriously, despite it. “No, you don’t.”
The hotel room was quiet without Mahir. He had to run some more final errands for the mission, and he didn't want company. Neil couldn't decide what to do with that knowledge, nor what he should think about being alone with Him in a single closed room after so long.
He was currently hovering over a table filled with different papers and blueprints and sticky notes, hands braced on the edges, His sheening brow furrowed. His button-down (for once not one of those ridiculous polos He was so awfully fond of) was half-opened, hot from having hyperventilated and then held His breath for minutes for what must have been dozens of times this afternoon.
Neil himself was leaning on the doorway of the bathroom and rubbing a towel over his face and neck. He felt as if he had ran a marathon, and splashing cold water on his face apparently wasn't enough to cool down.
It was quiet, if one didn't count the traffic noise outside. Neil didn't like the quiet. Not like this, when he had all this nervous energy in his body (as per usual before a mission), and when the only two people in the room had a lot to say but weren't saying it.
Neil sighed, hung the towel around his neck and pushed off the doorway. "Cramming?" he asked with a small quirk of his lips.
He simply raised His eyebrow and looked at Neil, but even He couldn't conceal the tug of a smile.
"What does it look like?" He said, slumping down into the armchair behind Him.
Neil stepped up to the table, and gently placed his fingers on top of the Norskfreight's blueprint, looking at the intricate white lines without seeing them.
"How are you holding up?"
Startled, Neil pulled his hand back. He didn't dare turn around. He knew He asked out of courtesy, was simply being polite—He couldn't know—but it caught him off-guard all the same, and he needed to ground himself before answering. "Fine. I mean, good. Just a tad nervous, that's all," he finally said, turning around to look at Him. "You?"
He smiled. "Just a tad nervous, that's all."
Neil snorted in a very unelegant way and punched His shoulder half-heartedly before leaning against the table. "No use parroting my words, you know. Apparently I'm all talk and no action."
"I don't think you're all talk," He said, suddenly serious, dark eyes catching Neil's green ones.
Swallowing, Neil held his gaze, fingers gripping the edge of the table so hard his knuckles turned white. It was so unfair. He couldn't just sit there, all hot and lazy, legs spread and shirt buttons barely holding on. So unfair.
"Neil?"
"Yeah," Neil said. "Yeah, I'm.." he tried again, tugging on his shirt collar (of which one button had already been opened). It was still too hot. "—o hot. I need to, I'm going to open the window."
“Neil,” He said his name, again, as he stood up and took over for Neil’s fingers that were fumbling to open more buttons of his shirt. “The window is open.”
With a shaky exhale, Neil dropped his useless hands and let Him handle it as he closed his eyes; he didn’t want to see the look on His face. Pathetic. He just held his breath for a minute and a half, and now he couldn’t find a balancing breath? Pathetic.
His fingers, having opened a few more buttons for Neil, didn’t drop, as he expected, but instead moved up again, and slowly tugged the towel from around Neil’s neck, letting it drop to the floor.
By now He was close, so close Neil could feel the heat of His body, and His breath on his own face, so hot, and Neil, daring to open his eyes just halfway, only saw Him. His body seemed to act on its own, some kind of magnet pulling him closer to Him, and Neil felt his lips being just a breath away, not bold enough—yet—to close the final distance.
His hands hovered around Neil, he could feel it, this electric field of His, considering whether to give him a spark or not. But when His fingertips gently grazed Neil’s wrist, he couldn’t take it anymore; Neil surged forward, lips crashing upon lips, and if He were a bit more unstable, both of them would have been on the floor by now.
It felt marvellous, even through the sting in his heart, waves of torment and pleasure washing over it in turns. This is wrong. This is a ghost, and Neil’s only just gotten to know Him, and he’s known Him for years, and He doesn’t know it yet, but why does it feel so right? Is it another one of Fate’s cruel tricks? How could he know whether it’s real? But it is, said the treacherous voice in Neil’s mind, it has happened before.
A gasp was pulled from Neil’s mouth as His hands pushed his hips back against the table, and Neil had to brace an arm behind himself to remain balanced. His mouth was a sin, His lips forceful in their want, even more hungry than Neil would’ve thought. Did His attraction to Neil really start with such ferocity, such desire, after having known him for days? Neil ran his hands over His arms, and chest, and then cupped His face, this lovely beard of His, and the burn of it he would feel on his own skin for days to come—and decided that he didn’t mind.
Neil shoved Him backwards, following suit, and they both fell into the armchair, Neil scrambling to find a more comfortable position on top of Him without losing His lips and catching the surprised groan into his own mouth.
His hands, leaving Neil’s hips, travelled up to open the last buttons of Neil’s shirt before tugging it off entirely. The shivers of cool air on Neil’s skin jumped to a whole new level as he felt His hand weaving itself into his hair and pulling. Neil’s head flew back with a breathy moan and he grabbed a hold of His shoulders, just as His lips reattached themselves to the tender skin of Neil’s jaw and neck.
Oh, it was so unfair. His name died on Neil’s lips as he pulled himself together enough to remember it was not his past (nor His future). It was the present, and they were strangers, and Neil whimpered under the restraint of time before being pulled back to the moment by His teeth biting down on his collarbone. Neil’s hips gave an involuntary grind at the sensation and He exhaled sharply against his chest.
“Off,” He ordered, without specifying. Neil understood it just the same. After years under His command, it was hard to mistake His choice of words and tone; so He was almost born to dictate, first His team in the CIA and then the tenet crew, and now (Still? Again?) him. Neil bit down the urge to call Him boss out of a teasing habit (He hated it, especially when it came from Neil).
It wasn’t as hard to peel himself off of Him as Neil had thought, but it might have been his need to reattach himself sooner rather than later. On his feet, Neil unbuckled his belt and lost his trousers and pants, while He jumped up to do the same, with the addition of removing His button-down and socks (Neil liked being barefoot anyway).
In his hurry to feel skin on skin again, Neil nearly toppled them both, again, as he guided Him back to sit, then climbing to straddle Him. Now chest to chest, Neil found it almost too much to bear. Everything was hot, he didn’t knew where he ended and He began. He pressed a pack of lube and one or two condoms he had removed from his pockets into His palm before moving to kiss Him again.
He laughed into the kiss, and Neil felt the deep rumble of it in His chest. That laugh, how long had it been since he last heard it? He had lost count of days (no he hadn’t) and was not about to recall the number now (four months, seventeen days, and twelve hours). The pressure of a finger in his backside yanked him from his thoughts, and Neil bit down on His lip. It had been so long since he was last that close to Him (not that he hadn’t tried it himself since, but something was always missing).
“Shh,” He murmured against the corner of Neil’s mouth as they rocked through the stretch together. He was being uncharacteristically gentle, and Neil didn’t know whether it was because He knew (He most certainly didn’t), or because He was holding back. Either way, Neil’s face was flushed by the time He retreated his fingers, and slowly guided himself in.
Neil hissed. Put some distance between their bare chests and propped a hand behind His head, on the backrest of the armchair. Thighs trembling and chest heaving, Neil, taking a deep breath, bottomed out, and stood still for an (excruciatingly) long moment.
And even then He kept still, large hands soothing up and down Neil’s sides and hips and thighs. Neil could’ve punched Him. What he needed now was not tenderness. It was the physicality of it he needed, to make him forget, if even just for a moment.
“Ah—” Neil sighed, “Move.”
Luckily, He also knew how to interpret short commands. Just as Neil rose, He pulled back, and when they met in the middle, Neil saw starts. Millions of them, the entire Milky Way, right in front of his eyes (oh, how cruel of Fate it was to show him all the worlds in which they’d be together).
Neil, submerged in sensation, lost all measure of time and space. At one point he felt himself to be yet a recruit, the first time he’d felt Him close; at another, tired from a day of theorising, laying in bed with Him pressed to his back; and at another, fed up from a mission too close a success for his liking, and Him, unraveling him in their car, on the way back to headquarters.
Snaking his other hand behind His head, Neil pulled Him up to meet His lips once more, relishing in the scrape of His beard, and the wetness of His tongue. And onto His lips, Neil mouthed the words I love you (a small secret just for him) before teetering off the edge, Him following not long after.
Entirely spent, they both lay in each others arms on the armchair, even though Neil’s pelvis was uncomfortably sore and His legs tingling in warning. As selfish as it was, Neil wanted to stay connected to Him for ever, so he would never have to let go, and be a single, lonely human being again. Neil kept running his fingers through His hair, nose buried in His neck, and He kept caressing Neil’s back in unhurried yet deliberate movements. As if they’d done it before. (Neil had; He hadn’t, had He?)
“Mahir will be back soon,” He then broke the comfortable silence.
“I know,” said Neil, and slid off of Him with a grunt. Making sure he was steady on his legs, Neil gathered his clothes, and locked himself into the bathroom, as He stayed sitting down, head thrown back against the headrest when He ran His hands over His face.
Neil was yet again uncertain what it meant, what it had meant before, or what it will mean in the futures and pasts yet to come. But what’s happened happened.
(And when the room did smell of sweat and sex afterwards, Mahir said nothing.)