Chapter Text
“Harry, what the fuck?”
Really he’s the one who should be asking that question, Harry thinks angrily as he reloads his gun. Half an hour ago he was cooking a nice anniversary dinner for the two of them, fussing over the chicken and rehearsing the knock-knock joke he’s been saving up for the occasion. And now here he is, crawling through the wreckage of their kitchen on his belly, trying to stay low so he doesn’t accidentally present Niall with an easy target.
He doesn’t waste breath replying, just drags himself up behind the kitchen island. It’s good cover, at least, and he needs it – a quick check reveals he’s down to four rounds after the first blast of fire, without a spare slug in sight. He’d barely had time to fish his Glock out of the crisper and turn off the stove before Niall was bursting through the back door, calling out his name.
Zayn was right. He’s gotten sloppy living out in the suburbs. Careless, even. There was a time in his life when he’d kept extra rounds tucked away in every corner of his home. You never knew when the Russian mob might come knocking. Harry’s not an idiot; he’s a professional.
Also a bit of an idiot, maybe, given his current predicament.
“Listen, Harry, I know you’re very upset right now, but – ”
The chandelier explodes in a spray of glass. Niall curses.
“Shut up, Agent Horan,” Harry says grimly, lowering his gun. “I’d rather just get this over with.”
*
Thirty minutes earlier
His phone won’t stop buzzing.
Harry’s been ignoring it for about half an hour now, as he waltzes around the kitchen lifting lids and tasting sauces, serenading his empty house. “You make me feel! You make me fee-EEEL! You make me feel like a – oh, would you stop that please!” he shouts.
His phone stills on the counter. "Sorry, Harvey, I didn't catch that.”
“It’s Harry, Siri. Remember?”
No matter how many times he slowly, patiently repeats his name to her, she never manages to get it right. Niall says she’s just taking the piss, but Harry’s got a more generous conception of robot nature. He’s seen Her, after all. They might be soulmates, him and Siri, if this thing with Niall doesn’t work out.
“Incoming call from Zayn,” Siri says. “Would you like to answer, Hard-on?”
Harry opens his mouth to protest, then glances down. Not entirely inaccurate. Well, he's been looking forward to their anniversary dinner all week: planning the perfect outfit, selecting the perfect menu, brushing up on blowjob tips in back issues of Cosmo. He wants everything to be just right. Niall’s been so stressed at work lately, working long hours on some auditing project Harry doesn’t quite understand. Before meeting Niall he had no idea that accounting was such an emotionally demanding profession, or that it might require such long hours in the gym.
(“You know what they say,” Niall always tells him when Harry asks. “Mind, body, data.”)
"Decline call," Harry tells Siri. Zayn probably just wants to scold him for not filing the paperwork on his last hit or something. It can definitely wait, whatever it is.
“Like a natural woman,” he sings quietly to himself, stirring the pasta.
"Did you say, Order Chinese again?"
"Yum," Harry says without thinking. "Oh – no, wait, Siri, don't – "
He lunges for the phone, disconnecting the call on the second ring.
Seven missed calls from Zayn, which, persistent much? Harry thinks. But below that, more intriguingly, is an encrypted message from headquarters marked Top Priority.
He chews on his bottom lip, thumb hovering over the icon. He's sworn to himself he's not going to take on any more cases, just finish up the handful of long-term projects he's got going. He's retiring, damn it, and this time for real. He’s even drafted his letter of resignation to Simon in an email, though he hasn’t worked up the nerve to send it yet.
But it can’t hurt to just read the message, right? He might be leaving the whole killer-for-hire business behind him soon, but it’s fun to stay in the loop. See who’s assassinating whom, how much they’re getting paid for it, that kind of thing.
He glances over his shoulder first – Niall can be oddly stealthy at times – then types in his login credentials.
*
It takes him a moment to understand what he's looking at.
In the photo Niall’s hair is dark brown instead of bottle blond, so short it’s practically buzzed. He’s got on some kind of uniform Harry doesn’t recognize, and he’s staring straight ahead, eyes fixed unsmilingly on the camera.
It's kinda hot, Harry thinks, popping a piece of carrot into his mouth. Then he reads the message below it, and nearly chokes.
Target: Agent Niall James Horan
Position: Secret Intelligence Service - MI6 branch. Ex-SAS. Rank and current status unknown.
Priority Level: Urgent
Reward: £6 million
Suspect should be considered armed and highly dangerous. May be traveling with military associates. Payment will be rendered upon proof of termination.
There are two sets of GPS coordinates listed at the bottom of the message. Harry doesn't recognize the first one, but the second set looks familiar. That’s because he’s standing right on them, clutching a wooden spoon in one hand and staring down at his phone.
"What," he says.
"Sorry, Harpo. I didn't quite understand that. Did you say – ”
"Siri, this is really not the time!"
It’s a prank, is Harry’s first thought. Zayn and Louis must’ve gotten wind of his retirement, even though he hasn’t told anyone yet, and they’ve somehow hijacked the messaging system and sent him this as a going-away prank.
“Very funny,” he says out loud, in case they’ve got secret cameras going. He hopes they’re not waiting outside to surprise him. If so he’ll have to ask them to come back later, or preferably never, because he can’t risk Niall seeing them and asking difficult questions like Who are these blokes? or Why didn’t you ever tell me you were an assassin?
Ha ha Zayn that is very funny he types. Can it wait though Im busy.
He adds the sexy salsa lady emoji, two aubergines, and, upon further reflection, a dragon.
His screen lights up almost immediately with Zayn’s response.
would you pick up ur DAMN PHONE H !!
N knows everything
hes en route
What!!
pack only what u need
stay calm n DO NOT get emotional !!
c u soon xx Z
Stay calm.
Okay. Harry can do that. He’s the picture of calm. Cool as a cucumber, really, or any number of refreshing summer vegetables.
Only – he can’t quite process it. Niall, a spy? Niall Horan, unassuming young Irishman, golf enthusiast and secret binge watcher of Say Yes To The Dress, is some kind of James Bond ex-military spy? And he’s got a price on his head, and he's on his way home, and –
Harry’s eyes go wide. The spoon clatters to the ground.
Niall knows about him. He knows.
*
Four years earlier
"The gentleman in the corner sends his regards."
The bartender slides a tall, frothy pink drink down the bar towards him. Harry accepts it graciously, turning halfway around on his barstool and treating the gentleman in question to the sight of him leisurely pursuing the straw with his tongue. The guy’s staring at him openly now, his expression hungry.
Harry has to resist the urge to roll his eyes. Sometimes his job is so easy he thinks a trained monkey could do it, as long as that monkey had beautiful hair and very pink lips and a British accent.
Shouldn't be long now, at least. He surreptitiously checks his watch – almost eleven. If he's quick about it he might even be able to get the first flight out tomorrow.
He’s about to get up and saunter over, hips swaying, when someone slides onto the barstool next to him.
"I like your mermaid.”
Harry blinks. It’s the Irish bloke from The hotel – Niall something, he thinks. The one who’d been watching him earlier over his sunglasses while Harry splashed around in the hotel pool. Niall had even graciously applauded his backflip.
Harry had inquired about him at the desk after, strictly for recon purposes, of course. According to the pretty hotel receptionist, who's been giving Harry the best gossip for a few days now, Niall's here on a golf holiday with friends.
Harry looks down at his tattoo. “A lot of people think she shouldn’t have, you know, girl parts and a tail," he says. "Like, she should have one or the other.”
“Well,” Niall says. “Not to be crude, but it seems like mermaids should get to have orgasms too.”
“Exactly!” Harry says, nearly upsetting his drink in his excitement. He looks at Niall with new interest. To his knowledge, he’s never been in the presence of someone who shares his views on the subject of mermaid sex.
“So what’s it mean, anyway?” Niall asks.
"You're not supposed to ask people what their tattoos mean," Harry tells him, chasing the straw again with his mouth. "What if it was something really personal?"
"Like what?"
"I dunno," Harry says. "What if it was for my dead mum or something?"
"Is it?" Niall says. "'Cos if so that's a bit weird, mate, no offense. Since she's naked and all."
Harry considers this. "My dead girlfriend, then. Who was lost at sea.”
"Oh," Niall says, his face falling a bit. "So you're – it's girlfriends mainly, is it?"
"Just the one," Harry says solemnly, "but after the shipwreck I swore I'd never love another woman as long as I lived. So it's blokes for me now, mostly."
Niall laughs. "I'm Niall Horan, by the way."
"Harry Styles," says Harry, which is surprising, because when he's on assignment he usually tells people he's called Alberto or Jose or Jean Valjean, depending on his mood.
Over his shoulder he can see the guy who'd been buying him drinks glaring daggers at them both, looking like he's about ready to storm out in a huff.
Harry remembers, suddenly, that he's on a job. He's a professional, not a uni kid on holiday free to flirt with any bloke who catches his eye.
"Sorry," he says, standing up. "I've got a prior engagement."
Niall catches his arm. He’s not smiling anymore.
"Listen, Harry," he says. "It's none of my business, really, and you can tell me to fuck off if you like, but you might not want to go home with that one. I've heard – well. People say he doesn't play nice."
The guy's a small time drug lord with delusions of grandeur, whose exes tend to disappear and turn up months later in small, nearly unidentifiable pieces. That's why Harry’s got a switchblade in his pocket and two syringes of an untraceable synthetic poison tucked inside each of his sparkly gold boots.
Harry doesn't play nice either.
Of course, Niall doesn’t know that. He probably thinks Harry’s just another tourist out on the pull.
"S'pose I should go home with you instead," he says. For some reason it makes his heart beat a little faster, saying it out loud. "Nice Irish lad. Butter wouldn't melt in your mouth, all that."
"Dunno about that last bit," Niall says. "But, um. You could, if you wanted. Go home with me."
Harry looks at him. Incredibly, Niall blushes.
"Um," he says. "Or not, never mind. Sorry, I thought – " He trails off, gesturing weakly with his drink. "I'll just, um.”
He's cute when he's flustered, Harry thinks. He’s cute, period.
"Okay,” he says.
"Okay?" Niall asks uncertainly.
Fuck professionalism. Zayn can yell at him in the morning.
"Let's get out of here," Harry says, slinging an arm around Niall’s waist. "You and me, Niall Horan. Let's blow this popsicle stand."
*
Now
“Shut up, Agent Horan,” Harry says. “I’d rather just get this over with.”
It’ll be better if they don’t talk, he thinks. Or look at each other, or acknowledge each other in any way except for the part where he puts a bullet in Niall’s head and flees the country.
“Harry,” Niall says from the living room, where he’s taken shelter behind the ruins of the china cabinet. “Let’s not shoot up any more of the furniture. I think there’s been a miscommunication.”
“Don’t play innocent with me, Niall. If that’s even your real name.”
“Okay, first of all, it is my real name,” Niall says, sounding exasperated. At least he’s dropped the innocent act. “And second of all, I’m not saying I’ve handled all of this perfectly, but I’m not sure you’ve got any claim to the moral high ground here, Mr. I-Used-to-Be-A-Baker.”
“I was a baker,” Harry shoots back. “And I still am, on weekends and holidays when Barbara’s short-staffed.”
When you think about it that way, he hasn't even really lied. More like left out a few details, that’s all, like the part where he was recruited straight out of school to join Europe’s most elite security firm and then spent years traveling the globe killing people for money.
“Well then,” Niall says. “I take it back. You’re a paragon of honesty.”
“Good one,” Harry says without thinking. Last Christmas he’d gotten them both matching Word-of-the-Day calendars for their desks, in hopes of improving Niall’s abysmal Scrabble game. Progress has been slow, but moments like this are encouraging.
“Thank you,” Niall says, and then adds cunningly, “You know, I’d quite fancy a game of Scrabble now. What do you say we put the guns down and work out all this aggression on the board?”
“What a great plan. How’s this for starters: N-E-V-E-R, and also D-I-E.”
“Harry!”
“I’m not playing Scrabble with you,” says Harry hotly, “because you ruined our dinner and you ruined the house.” He wants to add, And you ruined our lives, but doesn’t. Notorious assassins don’t get emotional when their boyfriends turn out to be undercover spies.
His phone buzzes in his pocket. are u out yet?? Zayn wants to know.
Harry laboriously taps out a one-handed reply, still clutching his gun. no hes hiding behind the china cabinet. which is totally ruined by the way. mums going to be so upset. but dont worry Zayn I wont let him take me alive
???
ru talking about N ??
did u listen to my voicemail ??????
Harry rolls his eyes. For a tech mastermind, Zayn can be hilariously old-fashioned sometimes. He’s the only person Harry knows under the age of thirty who bothers leaving voicemails. But of course Harry can’t listen to it now, he’s got an objective.
Speaking of Niall, he’s being awfully quiet in the living room. Harry wonders if he’s decided to sneak out the back and escape into the night so neither of them will have to die. It seems unlikely, but he's learned from yoga that you have to visualize the world as you wish it to be.
He counts to ten under his breath, listening hard, then gets on his stomach and starts crawling again towards the hall.
Niall vaults smoothly over the kitchen island, landing in a crouch a few feet in front of him.
It’s very James Bond meets Jackie Chan. Harry would be impressed, if he weren’t busy scrambling to his feet, gun in hand. He had no idea Niall could move that fast, what with the bum knee and all. Maybe that’s part of his cover story, like the accounting job and the dyed hair. How deep does the rabbit hole go? he wonders. Is Niall even Irish? Does he actually hate sports?
“Come on, Harry, I’m unarmed,” Niall says, holding up his hands. “Left my gun in the other room.”
“Well, that was stupid of you,” Harry says, no longer impressed. Honestly, what a rookie mistake. “How’re you meant to kill me if you haven’t got a weapon?”
He eyes him suspiciously. Niall doesn’t look like a hardened military operative. He just looks like Harry’s easygoing fiancé, except there’s plaster dust in his hair from where Harry’d shot apart the living room ceiling earlier, and his glasses seem to have been shattered in the fray.
“I’m not trying to kill you,” says Niall, “though I will incapacitate you with my bare hands if necessary, so don’t push it.”
Harry peers at his tie, which, upon closer inspection, is patterned with drawings of stick figures playing golf. A few are raising their clubs aloft, presumably to express their fanatical devotion to the sport.
“That’s awful,” he says, meaning the tie.
“I’ll try to be gentle,” Niall says grimly, before ducking under the gun and slide-tackling him into the wall.
*
In the ensuing struggle, the gun is knocked out of Harry’s hand and goes spinning away down the hallway. Harry fights like a wildcat, flailing his limbs about and sinking his teeth into whatever comes within biting distance. But it’s no use. Niall’s all wiry muscle, whereas he’s got noodles for arms and only scraped a pass in hand-to-hand training because Zayn let him win.
“I can’t believe you just did that,” Harry complains, squirming wildly beneath him. “You know I bruise like a peach.”
“Sorry, pet,” Niall says, as he catches a stray elbow aimed at his face and forces Harry’s wrists over his head. He’s not even breathing hard, as if subduing Harry has barely taxed his capabilities.
Harry feels slightly put out, and also a little aroused, which is going to make things awkward if Niall doesn’t stop moving around in his lap soon. This must’ve been what Zayn meant when he warned him not to get emotional.
It’s just that it’s surprisingly difficult to concentrate on his mission objectives—terminate lying fiancé, destroy incriminating evidence, report back to Simon—when Niall’s leaning over him and breathing hotly against his face, saying things like, “Now, are you going to hold still for me or do I have to tie you up?”
Harry shivers a little. “I’ll hold still,” he lies.
“Really?” Niall says, looking doubtful.
“I'm sorry I freaked out and tried to kill you,” Harry says. “I was just upset about dinner. I’m ready to talk now.”
He sucks his bottom lip into his mouth and gazes up at Niall, wide-eyed, the most cherubic expression he can manage. Niall doesn’t quite let up on his wrists, but his grip loosens a bit. God, Harry can’t believe how gullible he is. If this is the best Britain has to offer, he’s a little concerned.
“Okay, for the record, I don't believe you for a second,” Niall says. “But we’re a little pressed for time, so – ”
As soon as he’s within range, Harry spits in his face.
“Jesus, Harry!”
It’s all the distraction he needs to twist free, scrambling to his feet and sprinting for the stairs. Niall’s cursing behind him, hot on his heels, but without a gun he can’t do much unless he catches him. At the top of the stairs Harry turns around and kicks out at his chest, to push him back down.
That turns out to be a mistake, since Niall uses his weird judo powers again to catch Harry’s foot in midair and pull him back down on the landing.
A lot of things about their sex life make more sense now that he knows about Niall’s secret identity. Harry reflects on some of them as he’s flipped onto his back and pinned for a second time, his wrists bound securely to the stair railing with Niall’s fashion crime of a necktie. Maybe it should have struck him as odd that an accountant knew how to tie so many different kinds of knots, most of them one-handed, some of them underwater.
Possibly all the sex was just training for this, the final betrayal. This makes Harry even angrier.
“I’m a British citizen,” he shouts. “You can’t hit me, there are laws!”
Niall looks exasperated. “I’m not hitting you,” he says, “which you’d realize if you’d shut up and listen to me for five bloody seconds.”
Harry hollers louder, just to spite him.
“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” says Niall. He fists a hand in his shirt, pulling him up hard, and smushes their faces together.
“Mmph,” Harry says, startled.
A tongue presses at the seam of his lips. He tries to keep them shut, but Niall just keeps licking determinedly at his mouth, licking all around it, till their faces are both shiny-wet with saliva and Harry can’t tell whose spit is whose anymore.
“You’re so gross,” he gasps, twisting away, wrists straining at his bonds. He tries to buck Niall off his lap, to conceal the fact that the whole face-smushing spit thing is getting him kinda hot. “You’re slobbery and horrible and I hate you.”
Niall snorts. “Come off it, Styles. I could make you come in your pants just by slobbering all over you.” As if to prove his point, he suctions his mouth onto Harry’s neck and blows a wet raspberry there.
Harry makes a completely undignified noise, something between a squawk and a moan, his legs falling open. This is advanced psychological warfare, the likes of which he’s never encountered before.
“That proves nothing,” he says, breathless, which earns him another raspberry. It’s louder this time, wetter, and while he’s squirming Niall takes advantage of his distraction to ruck his t-shirt up around his armpits. Harry shivers, body trembling against Niall’s. His nipples are painfully hard, all four of them.
Must be a draught coming in through the shattered windows, he reasons. It’s definitely not got anything to do with the heat in Niall’s gaze.
“Look at you,” Niall says, and then shuts his mouth fast, like he hadn’t meant to say it out loud. Harry feels smug, until Niall scrapes a thumbnail over his nipple, drawing a whimper out of him.
“Want me to do one here?”
“No,” Harry says promptly. “I want you to untie me so I can kill you and escape to Mexico.”
It only makes Niall laugh. Not exactly the reaction he’d been hoping for.
“You’re something, Harry Styles,” he says, and digs his nail into Harry’s bare skin, just hard enough to leave a crescent-shaped mark there. “Still haven’t figured out what.”
“Terrifying,” Harry suggests. “Menacing. Formidable.”
“Mm, good ones,” says Niall. "Though I was thinking more along the lines of too bloody stubborn for your own good. Have you got any idea why I came home early today?”
“To torment me with the sight of your horrible face?”
“I can blindfold you, if you like," Niall says.
Harry can’t conceal his body’s reaction. “Guh,” he says. “Stop – stop tricking me with sex things.”
“Hm,” Niall says, a thoughtful expression on his face. “Hypothetically speaking, would that work?”
Yes, Harry thinks. “No. I’ve got my anti-torture certificate.” It’s half true; he’d gone to the mandatory training last spring, but he’d skived off most of the hands-on sessions to smoke up in the toilets with Zayn and failed the exam. He’s scheduled to retake it next month.
“It might help relax you,” Niall muses. “You do get all sweet and sleepy after.” He slides a hand between Harry’s legs, squeezing lightly at the bulge there. “What d’you say, Haz?”
“You’ll never get anything out of me, ever,” Harry says breathlessly, which isn’t quite an answer. “You can torture me all you like and I’ll never tell.”
“Not gonna torture you, pet,” says Niall. “Already know everything I need to know, anyway. Just gonna help you unwind a little. Let me just – ”
He checks his fancy watch, reading something on the screen.
Harry feels slightly insulted. Here he is, tied up and completely at Niall’s mercy, and he’s more interested in the time. He tilts his hips up, rubbing himself against Niall’s hand a little, trying to get his attention.
“Getting started without me, I see,” says Niall, looking back down at him. “Maybe you don’t even need me here.”
Harry whimpers a little at the thought. Maybe Niall would watch him, secretly. Maybe he’s got cameras everywhere and he’d just sit and watch Harry getting more and more desperate, humping at the floorboards, trying to find some relief.
“More fun like this, though,” Niall says, lowering his head. Harry gasps at the sensation of his hot mouth pressed against the bare skin of his chest. A tongue flicks teasingly over his nipple—his favorite one, the top left one—before Niall takes it into his mouth and begins to suck, tongue laving slow wet circles around the sensitive bud.
Harry’s dick twitches in the cup of Niall’s hand, his jeans gone uncomfortably tight. Niall sucks and sucks, worrying at his nipple with his teeth till it’s sore and puffy, the room silent except for the wet sounds of his mouth working. It occurs to Harry that he’s meant to be resisting. He turns his face into his arm and bites at the soft flesh there, trying to keep himself quiet.
“Don’t hurt yourself,” Niall says when he notices, drawing back. His mouth is wet and red. Harry wants to kiss it, bite it.
“Are you quite finished?” he says instead, as haughtily as he can manage.
“Seems a bit rude to finish before you do.” Niall waggles his eyebrows, as if he might otherwise miss the pun.
Harry rolls his eyes. Clearly Niall doesn’t know him at all, and their entire relationship’s been a sham. It’s a blessing, really, that they’ve figured it out now instead of later, after they’d adopted four babies and a rescue dog and finally put up that fence in the back garden.
“You’re the worst,” he says. “And you’re really bad at spy things.”
“Oh really?”
“You haven’t even searched me for tracking devices yet.”
“Maybe I’m new to this,” Niall says. “Ever think of that?”
Harry feels instantly guilty. Not everyone’s lucky enough to have the kind of training Simon’s given them. Niall doesn’t seem to be much good at interrogation, either. Harry hasn’t even had to say I’d rather die! yet, or any of the usual dramatics.
“Sorry,” he says. “Are you?”
“Nah,” Niall says. “But you know me. Mr. Forgetful.”
“Mr. Butterfingers,” Harry offers. “Mr. Chickenlegs.”
“You said a strip search, right?”
Harry hadn’t, but he’s afraid his dick’s going to fall off if he doesn’t get some air down there pronto. So he just scowls menacingly at the ceiling, letting Niall unzip his jeans and yank them down around his thighs.
“Christ, Harry,” Niall says. His voice has gone all funny. “You really are trying to kill me.”
Harry glances down.
“Oh,” he says. “I forgot.”
He really had. The panties were meant to be a surprise – he’d ordered them special online, put them on just before Niall got home – but in all the excitement it’d slipped his mind. The rose-pink silk’s pulled tight over his erection, the tip of it peeking above the lace waistband. There’s a wet spot spreading across the front, sticky with precome.
“This my present?” Niall touches the damp fabric with his fingertips. “This for me, pet?”
Harry’s also bought him a fancy new sports car, hidden out back, but he’s going to keep that for himself now. He’ll need it for the eventual getaway, once he manages to free himself from Niall’s clutches. Which is what he’s working towards, definitely. This is all just to distract Niall, lure him into a sense of false security.
“Maybe,” he says, squirming. Niall takes the hint, shifting off him so he can pull Harry’s jeans down and off, settling down beside him on the landing again. He kisses the rim of Harry’s ear, nibbles at it a little, hand sliding back between Harry’s legs.
“Love how wet you get, babe,” he murmurs. “Like a girl, you are. Prettiest girl I ever saw.”
Harry whimpers when Niall touches him, stroking him through the fabric with two fingers like he’s got a slick, wet slit between his legs instead of a cock. When Niall nudges his thighs apart, fingers drifting lower, he holds his breath.
“Fuck,” Niall says in a strangled voice. “Harry. Please say this isn’t a tracking device.”
Now there’s an idea, Harry thinks. He wriggles a little, so Niall’s fingers are brushing against the base of the plug again. Maybe Zayn can design a prototype.
“I’ll never tell,” he says. “You’ll never get it out of me.”
“Think I’d rather keep it in you, actually,” Niall says, fingers curling around the base of the plug. He rocks it experimentally, watching Harry’s face. “You like that?”
Harry groans and shuts his eyes tightly. “I hate it.”
It’s sort of true, he realizes when he says it out loud. It feels really good but his head’s all mixed up. His heart hurts a little, too. He keeps forgetting that Niall’s his enemy and his mark, then remembering, then forgetting all over again. Zayn’s going to give him hell for this.
The toy stills inside him. After a moment Harry cracks one eye open. Niall’s looking at him.
“I know you’re angry with me,” he says. “D’you want me to stop?”
“No,” Harry says instantly, because when they stop they’re going to have to go right back to trying to do each other in. Or they’re going to have to have a Talk, probably one where Niall tells him he just doesn’t see himself with someone who kills people for money, long-term, and he hopes Harry understands. He takes a steadying breath. “Wanna come.”
Niall looks at him for a moment longer, then nods. He tugs the panties to one side and starts fucking the plug into him again, working him open till Harry’s trembling and gasping, toes curling against the floorboards. His fingers keep catching helplessly at the silk of Niall’s tie, the insides of his wrists still pressed tight together. He feels shivery with need, panicky almost, a hysterical edge to it.
Niall props himself up on one elbow. He’s touching Harry’s hair with his other hand, nails raking across his scalp, fucking him slow and steady.
“Do you remember,” he says suddenly. “That first night, in Bogotá?”
Of course Harry does. Everything about that night had seemed magical, fated almost, like the stars had aligned to bring the two of them together at that seedy bar.
Niall had kissed him for the first time in the cab back to the hotel, tentative and sweet. Harry had responded by climbing into his lap and snogging him senseless, grinding his hips till he had Niall moaning into his mouth and the cab driver was cursing both of them out in Spanish.
They’d wound up having to walk the last mile back to their hotel, collapsing into fits of giggles every few steps, dragging each other off into alleyways to kiss and touch and kiss some more.
Harry had been working for Simon for years already, spending most of his time on assignment in the company of people who’d cut your nose off and burn your home down soon as look at you. Meeting somebody like Niall – open, innocent, carefree Niall – in a place like that had felt too good to be true.
“You liked my mermaid,” he says.
“I liked your everything.”
Harry hides his face in his arm again. It isn’t fair, he thinks, with a fierceness that startles him. It isn’t fair of Niall to say things like that, not if he doesn’t mean them. If it’s all just been to take Harry in.
“You can’t hide from the firm,” he blurts out, to cover his confusion. “Even if – even if you take me out, Simon’s people will find you. They’ll kill you.”
He can see it with a violent clarity. A hole through Niall’s forehead, brains splattered all over a wall somewhere, all the laughing light gone forever from his eyes.
“Hey now,” Niall says, his voice gentle. “Harry, look at me.”
Harry sets his jaw, staring pointedly up at the ceiling. His stupid allergies must be acting up again. They feel even worse when Niall cups his face in his hand and tilts it gently towards him, thumbing over his cheekbone.
“Don’t you worry about me,” he says. “Or about Simon or anything like that. I can look after myself. Been doing it for years.”
“I’m not worried,” Harry sniffs. “Just don’t think it’s fair, somebody else getting that money. I’m the one who’s had to put up with you and your smelly socks for ages. I’m the one who’s had to pretend like I actually care about golf.”
“Mm,” Niall says, a hint of a smile in his eyes. “Must’ve been torture for you.”
“You have no idea,” Harry says, though he knows they can both hear the lie. It’s been the best four years of his life, the happiest and the lightest. Maybe he should’ve known it could never last.
Niall kisses him again. It’s gentler this time, so familiar it hurts. When he tilts up his hips, seeking friction, the toy shifts inside him, sends a spark racing up his spine.
“Harry,” Niall says. “I – ”
Harry can’t bear it. He twists away.
“Just,” he says. “Just – would you just fuck me already.”
“We can’t, babe,” Niall says. “There isn’t time.”
Harry feels close to tears. “Fingers,” he says.
Niall sighs. “All right,” he says. “Can you get them wet for me?”
He lifts a hand to Harry’s mouth, slipping two fingers inside.
Harry takes his time with it, swirls his tongue around them, moans like he’s never been given anything so delicious in his life.
If he’s good enough maybe he can convince Niall to use his mouth after, let Harry taste him at least. If he’s perfect maybe Niall will remember it forever, the way they used to be. How good they were together.
“God, Harry,” Niall says, staring down at him. “Here, just – ”
He tugs the panties the rest of the way off, dropping them somewhere on the landing behind him. Then he urges one of Harry’s knees up towards his chest and eases the plug out of him with a wet pop, slick fingers pressing inside before Harry can start to whine.
“That’s lovely, Haz, that’s perfect.”
Niall curls his fingers inside him, searching for that spot, and exhales sharply when Harry clenches down around him. It won’t last long. Harry can feel his orgasm building already, imminent, inevitable, as Niall talks to him in that calm, quiet voice. “Come on, petal, know you’re close,” he says. “Going to make a mess all over your tummy for me, aren’t you? Going to let me see you come?”
He still isn’t touching Harry where he wants to be touched. “Please,” he begs, almost a sob, rocking his hips. “Please, Niall.”
“Shh, I know.” Niall slides down his body, looking up at Harry. He nuzzles his face against the side of Harry's dick, mouthing at the head, and just like that Harry’s coming, a pained gasp torn from his lips, cock jerking hard against his stomach. Niall draws back to watch, fingering him through it, fingers rubbing over his prostate as he milks Harry dry. “There, pet, that feels nice,” he’s murmuring, nonsense words, silly nothings: messy, lovely, sweet.
Harry takes a long, shuddering breath, then another, turning his face into his arm as Niall’s fingers slip free. He closes his eyes when Niall goes downstairs to the kitchen, returning with a damp flannel he uses to gently wipe down Harry’s stomach and thighs.
He wants to be brave, he really does. But the moment Niall’s fingers begin to work at the ties binding his wrists, something collapses inside of him. A wave of grief, terrible and dark, sweeps over him, and he can’t hold back a whimper.
It’s over. All of it, over. He’s not going to kill Niall, he realizes that now. He’s not even going to try. And that means he’ll have to let Niall do whatever he wants with him: take him away, lock him up, stop loving him.
“Haz,” Niall says, looking concerned. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing,” Harry says, and bursts into tears.
*
Niall seems horrified by this development.
He’s got Harry half in his lap, naked except for his t-shirt, sobbing against his chest, and instead of arresting him he just keeps petting ineffectually at Harry’s hair, making the kind of soothing noises that might calm a small kitten but certainly not a heartbroken assassin, age twenty-something, who’s about to spend the rest of his life in prison without access to conjugal visits or organically sourced foods.
Harry doesn’t even understand why he’s bothering. Surely aftercare isn’t part of the usual MI6 protocol.
“Oh god, Haz,” Niall’s saying, a bit helplessly. “Don’t – please don’t cry, Haz, it’s all right, it’s going to be okay. Come on, we’ll – um, we’ll pack a bag, yeah? We can put all your favorite tops in it, and your soaps and everything, so you’ll have everything you need.”
This only makes Harry cry harder. He’s ninety-five percent sure you have to wear uniforms in prison, and he doesn’t want to bring his nice soaps somewhere where they might get stolen.
Niall’s phone buzzes in his pocket. He fishes it free, shifting Harry slightly, and answers it.
“Horan,” he says, in a clipped, professional tone, and then relaxes immediately. “Oh, thank god. No, I – listen, are you almost here?”
There’s something familiar about the voice on the other end. Harry stills, mid-sob.
“I need you here now,” Niall hisses, and listens. Then, startled, “Haz, what – ”
Harry jerks away from him, knocking the phone out of his hand as he scrambles to his feet. “Who is that?” he demands, voice still thick from crying. “Who’s that on the phone?”
“Just let me explain, Harry,” Niall says.
“I can’t hear you,” says the person on the other end. “Horan, I repeat, do you have him?” The voice is faint, but there’s no mistaking that Bradford accent.
Harry staggers backwards, colliding with the wall of the landing.
Zayn knows about Niall, of course. He manages the surveillance setup for their house, and anyway Harry brags about Niall’s accounting exploits to anyone who’ll stand still long enough, so it’d be pretty hard for his coworkers not to have some idea who Harry’s fiancé is.
But Niall? Niall’s never met Zayn. Not once. Never heard of him either, at least not from Harry’s lips. The only one of Harry’s coworkers Niall’s ever been allowed to meet is Barbara from the bakery. They exchange pies at Christmas.
A sudden and horrible realization dawns.
This time when he swings at Niall, the punch lands. Niall stumbles back, clutching his face, his eyes wide with shock.
“Agh,” he says. “Jesus, Harry, what – ”
“You’re in cahoots,” Harry shouts. It’s one of their Words-of-the-Day, but there’s no time to properly appreciate it. “You’re all in cahoots, you and Zayn and – oh my god, was this some kind of test? Did Simon send you?”
“What – no, Harry, that’s not – ”
“Fuck,” Harry swears. His back collides with the wall of the landing. “Have you – you’ve got a wire on or something? Is he listening now?”
His face is burning. He can’t believe how completely he’d been taken in, even when he still thought Niall was his enemy. God, he’d – he’d begged Niall to fuck him, and all along Niall was just doing his job, far more effectively than Harry’s ever done his, and probably laughing the whole time about how easy Harry was for it.
If this was a test, he’s just failed spectacularly. Simon’s going to kill him. Simon is actually, one hundred per cent, going to have him killed for this, painfully, and Niall’s going to be the one to bring him in.
What’s waiting for him back at headquarters is about a thousand times worse than anything MI6 can do to him.
He dives for the stairs. The gun. If he can get to it, he can hold Niall off – Zayn too, when he gets here. Give himself a fighting chance, at least.
“Harry, stop!”
He makes it to the bottom of the steps before Niall tackles him again, sending them both sprawling out across the floor. The man’s skills are clearly being wasted on golf, Harry thinks grimly as he crawls towards the coatrack, Niall clinging to his leg. He’s reaching out his hand, fingers almost brushing the metal barrel, when he feels a quick, painful jab in the back of his thigh.
He twists around. There’s a syringe sticking out of the back of his bare leg, just above his knee. “No,” he says, horrified, arching back to yank it free. “No, oh god, no, no – ”
“I’m sorry,” Niall’s babbling. “I’m so sorry, Harry, you wouldn’t stop, I just didn’t want you to get hurt.”
Harry tries to push himself up but can’t. He slumps to the floor, boneless. The sedative is one he’s used many times before, a special fast-acting compound engineered in Simon’s private lab. In thirty seconds, a minute maybe, he’ll be unconscious.
Then he’ll wake up in the firm’s headquarters. Harry’s never seen the interrogation rooms himself, but he’s heard the stories. They all have.
Hands roll him onto his back. Harry feels a sudden, painful surge of hope. Maybe Niall will have mercy on him. Maybe when he looks at his face he’ll think about all the good times they’ve had and decide to kill Harry right here instead of dragging him back to be tortured.
The edges of his vision are going dark. Niall’s touching his face now, holding it. His mouth is moving, but someone’s switched off the sound.
It’s a nice mouth, Harry thinks dazedly, even if it's never once told him the truth. He's glad he’d gotten to kiss it, for a little while at least. He wishes it had been for longer.
"I love you," Niall’s mouth seems to be saying. But that isn’t right, Harry knows. It's only in his head. Only what he wants to be true.
He’s tired, suddenly. More tired than he’s ever been, weary right down to his bones. How nice it’ll be, Harry thinks, his eyes drifting shut. How nice it’ll be just to sleep.