Archive of Our Own

Work Text

Mitch doesn't have much of a plan when he jumps onto the boat. He just knows Ghost is there, so he needs to be. The nuclear bomb should probably factor in more than it does, actually. It’s an important afterthought, though; the first thing he needs to do is buy time.

Ghost tackles him on sight, down into the doorway belowdeck. Mitch returns the blows, but he isn’t here to fight. “You can’t stop me,” Ghost says in a moment where they’re catching their breath.

“I don’t want to,” Mitch says quickly.

Ghost’s thrown. His fists stay up, but he frowns. “Explain.”

They’re on a clock, Mitch is hyperaware. “Your grudge against Hurley is your business, man. If you want to blow up a shitload of people, that’s not my problem. But you don’t have to be a fucking idiot about it.”

After a second, Ghost narrows his eyes. “He teach you to talk your way out now?” he says, and lunges at him before he can answer.

They fight for a few more moments - Ghost’s clearly trained in the methods Mitch has been learning the past couple of months. He’s too good. Which makes him complacent. Mitch starts to get an idea for how to get the edge.

The boat hits a wave and they fall into the walls. Mitch is up first. “You hit your target and they’ll call you a terrorist. You know that. Hurley would love that.”

“Oh yeah? You know him pretty well? He’s got a new favorite, little brother?” His eyes went a little glassy when he heard Hurley’s name. He moves faster than fucking possible and pins Mitch on the ground with his hands at his neck. “Don’t let this get personal,” he snarls.

His grip is tight, but he doesn’t have Mitch’s legs pinned. It’s easy to buck him and flip their positions. And Ghost’s a Navy boy, so there’s a knife on his ankle for Mitch to pull and hold at his throat. “Bullshit,” Mitch says then. “Everything’s personal.”

Ghost’s taken aback. That gives Mitch another second to talk. “You want to die, I’ll kill you right now,” he says. “You want revenge? We need a way out of the next five minutes.”

The knife at Ghost’s neck is drawing blood, but that doesn’t seem to bother him. The missing part of his ear is still bleeding down his neck. “If you try to bring me in, I’ll put you down,” he says.

“Understood." Mitch lets the other man up. Keeps the knife, though. “Does this bomb have an off?”

“Does indeed, brother.”

“And what’s your target, some kind of a cruise ship?”

Ghost shakes his head, a strange proud smile on his face. “Navy fleet ten miles away.”

“Jesus Christ, they’re gonna blow us out of the water.” Mitch is thinking as quickly as he can, flipping Ghost’s knife in his hand a few times. “And Hurley can’t know you’re alive, or he’ll blow us up no matter what.”

Ghost pulls the duffle bag of bomb out of the doorway, towards them, and unzips it. After he hits a few buttons, it stops beeping. Then he starts to pull the components out. “Get out there,” he says. “They’ll want to save you if they think they can. Not gonna let you be another me.”

That’s barely a plan, but it’s more than Mitch has at the moment. He steps above deck and takes control of the boat. For a second, he smells salt and thinks of Ibiza. Then the radio buzzes. It’s Hurley. “Drop the bomb overboard, Rapp,” he yells, and Ghost shoves the duffle into view.

Mitch tosses it, and while everyone’s waiting for it to go off, he opens the throttle and books it for shore.

“Phone?” Ghost says when they’re on land.

It’s a trust-building gesture to hand it over, so Mitch does. It goes into the Mediterranean. “He’ll scour the globe for us,” Mitch says to himself.

“Won’t find us unless you lead him to us,” Ghost says cheerfully.

“You want to search me?” Mitch fires back.

“I do, yeah. But doing that in public might get us some unwanted attention,” Ghost says, raising his eyebrow at Mitch. There’s blood dripping down his neck. He shouldn’t be able to look so dashing. “When we get to the safe house, I’ll feel you up as much as you want, Rapp. Missing that girl from the beach? Or maybe that lovely lady who shot herself with my gun?”

Mitch clenches his jaw, and doesn’t rise to the bait. He’s better at that than he lead Hurley to believe. And then he thinks of one better. “Seems like you’re the one angling for a little company. Lonely out in the cold?”

Ghost barks out a laugh. “Bet they didn’t like you at Langley.”

“Hard sell, from what I heard. You too?”

The man shakes his head. “Far from.” Without warning, he reaches out and pulls Mitch sideways into an alley. Mitch hears a helicopter pass overhead and looks up; there’s a roof above them. “Hurley’s in that,” Ghost says, watching it go.

“How do you know.”

“I just know.” Ghost eyes him. “You have a gun?”

“No. Just your knife.”

That earns him a look - Ghost’s not impressed with his efforts at trust-building honesty. He walks off, and Mitch follows. They head down the main street, down a side street and then down another. He’s just starting to lose his bearings when Ghost stops, unlocks a door, and steps inside. He has to stoop to get in the door. Mitch hesitates, then follows there too.

It’s a two-room house, with white-washed walls and a dirt floor. There’s a fireplace, a tap, and not much else. The roof is corrugated tin. And piled everywhere are boxes, cases, and crates.

“These walls bulletproof?” Mitch asks

“Nope. This is for not getting caught, not defense. Spread ‘em.”

Despite the tentative understanding they’ve apparently reached, Mitch is anything but comfortable when the other man steps closer. The air between them feels charged. Not like he has a choice, though. Mitch raises his arms and lets himself be patted down. It goes quick anyways, he lost his jacket a while back.

Ghost kneels to check his legs. “Are you aware of any tracking devices on your person?” he asks.

“No.”

He feels Ghost prodding at his shoes and stands tensely still until Ghost stands back up. “Were you ever given medical care, or were unconscious at unusual times?” he asks, looking Mitch in the eyes.

“No. What, like a chip?”

“Maybe. They could start keeping you guys on the books, but guess not.” He runs a hand over his hair. “So you just got it into your mind to try and save my life, is that it?”

“No. I knew I didn’t want Hurley to be in control any more. I don’t know that guy for shit, but I don’t trust him. And you were always two steps ahead of him. I like to learn from the best,” Mitch says with a smirk.

“Charm offensive? I like that,” Ghost says with a wry twist to his mouth. “Well get cleaned up, soldier. Then we’ll pick up on chatter, see how the manhunt’s going.”

Mitch nods once, and accepts the new shirt and jacket he’s given. “You have a first-aid kit?” he asks, half expects to be scoffed at by the man who’s still bleeding from his torn fucking ear, but Ghost just points. So Mitch changes, and cleans out his cuts which have all torn open.

He’s in the middle of cursing a blue streak from alcohol getting in his eye when he sees Ghost with his shirt off, first out of the corner of his eye and then full-on. His back is covered in scars. Like it never really occurred to Mitch that a person could look so patched together.

And maybe Mitch was actually on to something before. It’s lonely out in the cold, even with single-minded determination to keep you company. And it’s been ten years of that, for Ghost.

“Hey,” Mitch says. When Ghost turns he sees the scarring is much worse on his chest. Those are torture scars, his brain tells him as he speaks, “You want me to take care of that?” He motions at his own ear.

Ghost gives him a blank sort of stare. “Okay,” he says finally. He sits on a plastic crate, seems unsure up to the moment Mitch touches a wipe to his neck and then he tenses. Mitch doesn’t stop.

“So, you got an actual name?” Mitch says as he works.

“Used to.” His neck works as he swallows.

“Can I have something to call you other than Ghost?” Mitch asks, getting a little sarcastic.

Ghost grins, doesn’t wince when the swab touches flesh. “Fair enough. Name was Ron. Ronnie Clark.”

“Well. Would’ve been nice to meet you,” Mitch says. “How the fuck do I bandage an ear?”

The ghost, Ronnie, laughs. “Y’don’t. Leave it, man, we’ve gotta get on surveillance.”

They hold each other’s gaze for a second, and Mitch has the gut feeling that Ronnie is waiting for Mitch to ask about his scars. “Okay,” Mitch says finally, and steps back.

Hurley is looking for them everywhere. Ron’s in on the private agency lines, listening in. No wonder he’s been ahead. And listening to Hurley bark orders, Mitch can see how obsession would be easy to fall into. “I want that bastard put down,” Hurley’s static voice growls, and Ronnie clenches his jaw.

“So they think I kidnapped you,” he says, muting the channel. “That means if we get caught, I’m putting a gun to your head, brother.”

Not clear if he means for Mitch’s safety or for his own, but it probably doesn’t matter much. “Sounds like we shouldn’t get caught,” Mitch quips.

“Sure does.” Ronnie crosses his arms. “Explain something to me, though. So you’ve been a double agent?”

Mitch shakes his head. “A pragmatist. Irene basically forced me to join, so I went with it. I’m not loyal to them.”

“Oh yeah? What are you loyal to, Rapp?”

“Not much,” Mitch says, stalling because he doesn’t know the answer. “Trying to enact… justice, I guess? Stopping people who hurt people.” It sounds stupid.

Ronnie has his sharp gaze fixed on Mitch, and it’s captivating. “Hurley hurts people,” Ronnie says.

“Yeah. I know. Maybe he needs to be stopped,” Mitch answers evenly.

Eventually, Ronnie looks away. “Well shit,” he says. “Maybe we’ve got some common ground.”

“Now you’re talking.”

“So you have a plan for my revenge? Since mine was apparently so fucking stupid,” Ron adds, a bit of false patience in his voice. “Enlighten me.”

“I don’t have one,” Mitch admits. “I had no idea if you’d listen.” He sits on one of the many cases. Can’t remember the last time he sat down. “We could probably hurt him more killing one person than trying to take out four thousand.”

“Twelve thousand.” That seems to be a joke, or what passes for one when you’re a crazy assassin. “But I take your point. Alright, egghead. Who. Irene?”

Mitch likes Irene. “I don’t know. Would that cripple him enough?”

Ronnie’s onto him, he thinks, but he doesn’t say anything. “No family,” Ron says. “All he’s got is that camp. You soldiers.”

“His reputation,” Mitch suggests after a moment, and Ronnie nods. “Well, we’ve got a head start on ruining that. He does this shit because of like, patriotism. Right?”

“That’s how he sold it to me,” Ronnie drawls.

“Well, we can target that.”

“Expose that America First bullshit for what it is? Treat the USA like we treat everyone else?” Ronnie’s getting excited, eyes taking on that frenetic haze again. This time, though, it’s weaponized.

“First we’ve gotta get out of Rome,” Mitch says. “You probably have an ID source.”

“I do indeed.” Ron leans back against the wall, runs his hand over his hair again. “He’s in Paris. We can take the train.”

“They let nuclear weapons on international trains?” Mitch says dubiously.

“If you ask real nice,” Ron says with a lazy smile. “Don’t worry about it. Unless you’re angling for me not to use this bomb.”

That sounds like a test. Mitch doesn’t care. “I mean, it does seem like personal nuclear warfare is kind of a line you can’t uncross. Y’know?”

Ronnie’s answer is a test right back, and he passes with flying colors. He looks away, face tired all of a sudden. “I don’t have to explain myself to you. Had my reasons. And I’m not giving up that contingency plan just yet, if that’s alright with you.”

The question’s sarcastic, but Mitch answers anyways. “Sure.”

“We’ll split when the coast is clear tomorrow. But for now, y’hungry?”

“Yeah,” Mitch discovers. “Starving.”

Ronnie tosses him three different power bars and a water bottle. “That’ll tide ya over until dark,” he says.

Mitch never had a brother, but something about right now reminds him of it anyways. There’s camaraderie in eating together in a bare room after kicking each other’s asses. It’s kinda like college, in a way.

“Looked into you,” Ronnie says after a while of silence. “When they hired you. You look like a lot more trouble on paper.”

“I’m a lot more trouble when I’m being told what to do,” Mitch shrugs. “Or when I’m dealing with assholes. Don’t have to be a dick about being a secret agent.”

Ronnie snorts with his mouth full. “Jesus, Hurley must’ve hated you.” Mitch nods with a smile. “Not an ideal candidate. That means they’re desperate. Nice.”

“What, Orion?”

He nods. “After Aleppo, they stopped passing people on from bootcamp. How many trained with you?”

“Less than a dozen. And you killed one in Istanbul.”

“He was Orion? Figured he was a Seal or something, from how shitty of a job he did blending in. Shit.” Ronnie takes another bite, washes it down with a swig from his bottle. “Was he new?”

“Oldest one there,” Mitch shakes his head.

That delights him. Ronnie actually laughs, looking younger for a second. “Fucking fantastic,” he says, and Mitch finds himself smiling too. At the situation, and how comfortable he feels in this crazy situation. There’s a fucking bomb in the room, and yet Mitch feels like he can breathe for the first time in a couple months.

They get dinner from a family-run place down the street, paying cash and eating on the way home cuz they can’t wait. Feels comfortable, and too nice. So he does what he knows best, and tries to fuck it up. Just to see if he can.

“So you’re just gonna believe me?” he says while Ronnie’s unlocking the door. “That’s it, no test or interrogation or anything.”

Ronnie glances over at him, supremely unconcerned. “Yeah. Basically.”

Mitch follows him in. “That’s pretty naive.”

“Guess it is.” Ronnie shuts the door behind them, but he doesn’t seem worried at all. Which makes Mitch ready for a fight. He tries again.

“So you’re just taking it on faith I’m not with Hurley? Thought you’d be smarter than that.”

All that earns him is mild irritation. “I know you’re not working with Hurley because you can’t lie for shit,” Ronnie says, patiently annoyed. “And this would be an even stupider thing to do if you were. Trying to get me to doubt you.” He points at Mitch. “You’re lucky I know your M.O.”

“What the hell’s that supposed to mean?” Mitch fires back.

“Means you send shit south on purpose, cuz that way nobody’s leaving you ‘cept on your terms. Did it at your fancy boarding school, in college. Probably woulda done it to that girl you wanted to marry. But it ain’t gonna work like that with me.” And with that, he turns his back on Mitch and heads into the other room.

It’s an opening. Mitch could attack him, but Ronnie did it deliberately so he’d be ready. And he was kinda right. So Mitch sniffs hard, clears his throat, and follows him.

“How do you know that?” he asks, kind of harshly. He pauses in the doorway, wary of a trap. “Is that in a file somewhere?”

“Part of it.” Ron’s put the food down and is digging around in a box. “I also have Hurley’s phone tapped, heard his opinion. Irene’s. Made my own. Gave us some profiling training back in the day.” He finds what he’s been looking for; folding chairs. “Here, dude.” He hands Mitch one and kind of crowds him back into the main room. “Now look. We’ve got food, beers, entertainment.” He motions at the laptop with all the tapped surveillance channels. “Can you chill?”

“Chill,” Mitch repeats.

“Yeah. If you’re backing out, we’ll negotiate a split. Otherwise, sit down. Enjoy not being on the run for once. It won’t be long,” he adds.

He’s lonely, he’s just desperately totally alone. It’s obvious. And that’s not off-putting or weird because Mitch likes him. Guy’s lost it, just a little bit, but he’s solid. Strangely more trustworthy than Hurley.

Mitch cracks open one of his beers and has a sip.

“That’s more like it,” Ronnie says, leaning back with his feet up on a box, tips his head back too. “God.”

“Long day,” Mitch says dryly.

“You have no idea,” Ron mumbles. “Near death never gets less near.”

Mitch frowns. “Yeah, but like. We signed up for it.”

“See how you feel about that in ten years, brother.” Ronnie takes off his shoes, letting them drop to the ground. “When you aren’t then agency favorite, when you’ve been out in the cold for a while.”

“Damn.”

“Yeah. If any part of you wants that life, it’s gonna be too late in about twelve hours.”

Mitch looks up to see Ronnie giving him a hard-edged look. “Sounds like you’re trying to make me leave,” Mitch says. Like, while they’re being honest. And not just to ingratiate himself further.

“Maybe I do,” Ronnie says. “Maybe I’ve started to like you.” His face in unreadable. “This feud isn’t your concern, it’s between me and Hurley.”

That’s a fact, incontrovertable. It’s also unfamiliar territory for exactly that reason. Mitch can’t tell what the play is, what either of their angles are. So he finds himself using the truth back.

“It isn’t,” he says. “But maybe I’ve started to like you too. Maybe I’m choosing a side, the side that’s…”

“What, more just?” Ronnie’s mocking him.

“I saw your chest, dude.” The moment he says it, Mitch thinks he’s maybe gone too far. So he goes further. “Hating him, it makes a lot of sense. Especially if he was like a father to you.”

Ronnie just eats for a minute, looking placid and bland. Mitch copies him, with wary glances across the room every couple seconds. “You’re pandering to me,” he finally says. His voice sounds a little odd.

“No. No, man, I’m not. I’m serious. And hey - I help you with that, and I figure you can teach me a few tricks. Help me get what I want,” Mitch shrugs. “Mutually beneficial.”

“Sounds good to me.”

Their situation is only getting more explicit, so Mitch doesn’t know why the dynamic between them is feeling increasingly unknowable. Either way. Mitch toes his shoes off, and his socks. Feels like he’s been wearing these shoes for years. “Fuck,” he says under his breath.

“Hell yeah,” Ronnie says, watching him. “Get comfy. Settle in.”

“Can I ask you a couple things?” Mitch says, kind of a challenge. “Is that alright?”

“Sure. Whatever makes you feel at ease.” The dry sarcasm is getting easier to pick up on. Ronnie turns on a bare lightbulb. “Go.”

That’s a fucking surprise. It must show on Mitch’s face, because Ronnie snorts. “Oh, would you prefer I have some kind of secret ambiguous past?” he mocks. “Sorry to disappoint.”

“Okay. But what about, like. Aren’t you worried you’ll let something slip?”

Ronnie raises his bottle to him. “Sure, yeah. That’s the fear they teach you, isn’t it. That telling anybody anything will somehow mean your untimely demise.”

“It could.”

“Yeah, if you’re fucking stupid and make your password your mom’s birthday or something.” Mitch is surprised into a laugh. “Yeah,” Ronnie smiles. “Amateur shit. I don’t have to worry about that.”

“Alright. Where’s the accent from?”

“Texas,” Ronnie answers easily. “By way of just about everywhere. You,” he takes a thoughtful sip. “You sound like an East Coast boy. Connecticut?”

“Rhode Island.”

“Still got a few tricks left. That and I read your file,” he adds after a beat with a grin. “All-American I believe?”

“Yep. Soccer.”

“Cool. Very private school of you.”

“As opposed to what? Like, football?”

Ronnie nods. “Played a little ball, yeah.”

“But you ended up in the Navy?”

“Yep. Recruited from basic and the rest is history.” Then Ronnie tips his head towards the laptop and listens intently. “Shit.”

“What?”

“Firestorm between Italian military and American intelligence. Not happy a bomb almost went off and instead went missing.”

“Should we be worried?” Mitch says after a moment.

“Nah.” Ronnie relaxes again. “It’s in a lined cask, no signature.”

The silence between them stretches lazily, easily. Like they’re old friends. It’s so calm, Mitch could almost doze off. It’s anticlimactic, for sure.

“What was your number?” Ronnie asks out of nowhere.

“What?”

“Your jersey number.”

“Twenty-four.”

“I was threes. Thirty-three.” Then Ronnie adds louder, “Names aren’t always a good idea. So.”

“What, because people know your name?”

“Well, no. But as of right now, there’s only three people besides me who know I’m supposed to be dead. And exactly nobody knows you’re working with me, so. Names aren’t safe.”

“Point taken.”

Ronnie knocks back the dregs of his beer. “You could try not coming against me on issues of common Goddamn sense,” he says, a smile growing in his voice which he’s trying to cover with a stronger drawl. “How about giving that a shot.”

“I could.” Mitch is fighting a smile himself.

“I’d appreciate it. Yeah.” Ronnie regards him. “There’s that problem with authority, I guess.”
  
There’s only one bed. “You gonna refuse to sleep?” Ronnie says when it’s late and they’re tired. “Gonna insist on keeping watch?”

“Maybe," Mitch says after a second.  “You gonna sleep?”

“Yeah, dude. I am. Not about to start hallucinating on top of everything else.” He gets to his feet, then balances on one leg at a time to peel off his socks. “Now look. You try any shit, I’m gonna have to stop you.”

“Okay.” Mitch actually doesn’t intend to. But he doesn’t want to be suspicious. “Does anyone know about this place?”

“Nope.” Ronnie pauses next to him, looks down at him in a way that makes him feel seen and scrutinized. “I’ll switch with you in four hours,” he offers.

“Nah.” He doesn’t intend to sleep for very long. But also, something about him doesn’t like the idea of taking the bed. So when Ronnie gets up in four hours, as promised, Mitch pretends to be asleep. And after a second, the other guy goes back to bed.
  
"Can I ask you a question?" Mitch says as they settle into their pair of seats on the train. He’s by the window.

"Sure." Ronnie leans back in his seat, getting comfortable. He folds his hands over his stomach, elbows on the arm rests.

"Number one mistake Hurley taught you."

That piques his interest. He squints out the window thoughtfully. "Well. Honestly?" Mitch nods. "You've gotta let yourself be bored, man. Doesn't matter how ready you are, if somebody on this train thinks you're acting sketchy, and they tell the constable, you're done for. Gotta relax."

"He doesn't have to take trains anywhere, though," Mitch points out.

"That doesn't matter either. Waiting is half of what we do. I noticed you outside the restaurant in Istanbul, just like I noticed the other guy. No good at loitering, you look too alert." He's taking his own advice, evidently. He looks half asleep. "Gotta get zen, brother. Know what your moves are so well, you can check out and still do 'em."

It sounds like bullshit. But he's talking to a ghost that the government thought was dead for nearly a decade. Ronnie probably has a point.

"You noticed me?" Mitch says eventually.

"Course I did, 24." Seems like he's going to stop there, but then he continues. "You were doing better than the other guy. Wearing sneakers, normal clothes. But you were looking at the crowd too hard for somebody with a hot girl right next to you."

"That's kinda sexist."

"Whatever. It's true. Yawn," he adds in a slightly sharper tone, so Mitch obeys. As he yawns, a man passes them, walking down the center aisle. Ronnie leans to watch him go. "He's looking for somebody," he says.

"And I yawned because?"

"Because you don't yawn if you're on edge. So he didn't see anything to worry about."

Mitch just looks at him for a bit. For so long, actually, that Ronnie gets suspicious. “What,” he says flatly. “You have something to say?”

“No.”

“Then stop staring.” He looks away, past Mitch out the window. His eyes are olive in the light.

He could probably say more than that, but he doesn’t. Mitch could say more than that too. Seems like neither of them really know how to have a partner. Mitch figures he could probably start by not paying such close attention to him. If Ronnie wanted to turn on him he probably could’ve done it about a thousand times.

“You’re pretty good, 33,” he finally says.

“Yeah,” Ronnie scoffs. He thinks it’s a joke. “Relax, alright?” he says. “Take a nap. Sleep while you can.”

Mitch doesn’t sleep out on missions. That’s what he means to say. But on one side’s the window, and the other is Ronnie. His sleeve is rolled up, Mitch can see some of his scars. Nobody’s getting through him. So he falls asleep lightly, on accident. The ride is gonna be long, and sleep won’t be a guarantee for maybe years, now that he’s run out on American intelligence, so. He sleeps, whether or not he can rationalize it.

He wakes up when Ronnie wraps his hand around his arm. “What,” Mitch says instantly, straightening in his seat.

“Food?”

“Sure.”

“What, like a sandwich or something?”

Mitch blinks. He’s coming to terms with the fact that Ronnie’s going to pick up food for him and is asking him what he wants. “Uh,” he says. “Yeah, whatever.”

Ronnie’s gone for sixteen minutes, which is enough time for Mitch to seriously consider the possibility that he might be poisoned and then decide that’s probably ridiculous. Definitely not something he should act on. Though if he tastes anything weird he could stop eating it. On the other hand, the embarrassment of being wrong might possibly kill him.

It ends up not being an issue, because the lunches are in sealed clear plastic boxes. Tamper proof. “Thanks,” Mitch says.

“Yep.” Ronnie plops back down in his seat. “Trains are something America hasn’t caught onto yet, and that’s just stupid.”

Mitch isn’t sure what to do with that conversational tidbit. He eats instead, and then he falls asleep again. It’s like four in the morning, he reasons with himself. And next to him, Ronnie naps too, waking at every person walking past.

They’re both sleepy, getting off the train. Mitch cracks his neck. Ronnie rolls his shoulders a couple times. “North exit,” Ronnie says. “We’re gonna take the underground.”

“Okay.” Mitch knows what’s happening, but he still feels a little flattered by being brought into the plans. It’s just nice. Manipulation or no.

“Ever been here?” Ronnie asks as they’re navigating the station.

“Nope.”

“You’ll love it. Easy to lose people on these streets.”

Easy for Ronnie to lose him, if he were so inclined. Mitch doesn’t know if that’s his own interpretation or deliberate. “What’s the presence of the other side around here?” Mitch asks.

“Pretty substantial, in certain parts. Stay away from the Louvre. You speak French?”

“Yeah.”

“Cool, I don’t much. Oh but first.” Ronnie takes them on a detour, to buy some burners. Mitch gets one, he gets the other. “In case we get separated.”

“Do we need meeting points?”

“No, dude,” Ronnie says, giving him an annoyed look. “Just so if one of us gets caught the other is at a predetermined place? No way. Just call me.”

Mitch is startled into smiling. “Well alright then.”

“Is this another moment where you say I really know my shit?”

“Might’ve been. If you hadn’t ruined it.”

“Uh huh. I’ll keep that in mind.”

The trains are actually decently empty, which makes the ride boring. They get to their hostel, and in the room. Bunk beds, which feels a little like boot camp all over again.

Ronnie tosses his bags on his bed and sits next to them. “Gotta get you some clothes,” he says. “And arm up. You good?”

“Can we get something to eat?” Mitch suggests.

“Sure.”

Ronnie gets up to leave, but Mitch stops him. “Should we lock any of this up first?” he suggests.

All he gets is a warm kind of smile. “Bomb’s not here, 24. Nothing of value. I’ve got a stash for that shit. Let’s go.”

Katrina always wanted to go to Paris. Mitch has been trying not to think about it since they stepped off the train, but they keep passing little cafes with tables outside, and it seems like it’s all couples here. So the walk’s a little tough.

“How long’s it been?” Ronnie asks while they’re walking. “Since Ibiza.”

“About two years.” He’s ready to get bitched out again, for having attachments and everything, but Ronnie doesn’t say anything. He takes them to a little hole in the wall with hardly any couples. Just old people. They sit in the corner.

“Translate for us,” Ronnie says. “Order me some eggs and bread.” He’s looking over the menu, and then he points at one. “This one. Swiss omelette. Okay?”

“Okay,” Mitch nods. “So you do speak French?”

“Read it,” Ronnie says. “Didn’t get around to pronunciation, and speaking French with a southern accent is worse than not talking at all.”

He has a point. When the waitress comes over, Mitch orders for both of them. He orders them wine, too. Because they’re in France, so like. Of course they get wine.

“Fancy,” Ronnie says after taking a sip. “Wow. Big wine guy?”

Mitch raises his eyebrows. “Good cover,” he says with a smile.

“Sure. At eleven in the morning, totally. Nobody suspects the wine guy.” Ronnie’s teasing him. Like they’re friends, and not loose allies at best. “You’re cool?” he asks then.

“Yeah?”

“No, like. You cool with this.” He motions at their general surroundings. “Cuz if you stay so tense we’ll get made.”

Mitch opens his mouth to say he’s not tense and his jaw cracks. Ronnie laughs, and Mitch chuckles too. “It’ll be fine,” he eventually says.

“It’s not though. You object to cobblestones? Or wrought iron?”

“No,” Mitch says, smiling despite himself. “It’s fine.”

“Is it? Cuz I feel like you don’t trust me,” Ronnie says mildly into his glass of wine.

Outside one of the windows, a bike passing makes them both perk up for a second. “Should I trust you?” Mitch says. “You’re not exactly… sane, by some accounts. And no matter what, you’re the best trained operative I’ve ever seen. So.”

“Sane,” Ronnie repeats. “What, he told you I’ve gone all section eight? Off the rails, that’s why I came after him?”

“Something like that.”

“Yeah. No. I prepared for years, for that. The only reason it went so bad was because you were there. Otherwise, I’d have Hurley, I’d blow the bomb up in his name, game over.” He has another sip. “I seem crazy to you?”

“Nobody ever seems crazy,” Mitch counters.

“Yeah, you would know, I guess. Thought you’d take out a terrorist cell on your own, right?”

“I was desperate,” Mitch says, and that makes Ronnie’s point for him better than he ever could. And Ronnie knows it. He doesn’t say anything else, so Mitch eventually does. “Okay. So let’s say you’re not crazy.”

Ronnie snorts. “Please. Let’s.”

“You could turn on me at any moment,” Mitch says, trying not to sound like he’s thought about this too much - though he also doesn’t want to seem like he hasn’t thought about it enough. “Right?”

“In theory. Perhaps. But why would I do that?”

“Get back at Hurley, somehow? Or like, I endanger you.”

“Oh, is that what you plan to do? Knock me off the moment I’m a liability? Could say the same to you. You could be some kinda glory-seeker.  Anything’s possible, right?”

“Right,” Mitch says, feeling very much led into a trap.

“Well. Then all we’ve got is trust.” After a second, he adds, “Look, you want me to say it?”

“Yeah,” he says without knowing what he’s agreeing to.

Ronnie looks him in the eyes and says, “I don’t plan on killing you, 24. Unless you give me a reason to. I fully intend for you to make it out of this interaction alive. I’m gonna teach you any tricks I know, and after we do my thing, the future is up for debate. Alright?”

“Okay,” Mitch says, and then the food comes. “I’m not working for anybody but me,” he adds when they’re alone again. “And I want to help you.”

“But you won’t say you won’t kill me.”

“I don’t know if I even could, dude,” Mitch says indignantly, which makes Ronnie laugh and the entire situation unclenches. “But I won’t,” he says after his first bite.

“I know,” Ronnie says without looking up. “But thanks.”
  
They come on a plan on accident, throwing ideas around in their room after the lights are out. Mitch is sitting up and Ronnie’s lying down, and they’re just talking, shooting the shit. And then Mitch hits on an idea.

“Hey,” he says.

“Go.”

“Who knows his name?”

“Hurley?”

“Yeah.”

“Like nobody anymore. Well, intelligence people, I guess.”

Mitch chews on his lip. “What if we put his name back out there.”

“How?"

“I dunno, but. What if we implicate him? Take out targets, whatever, and say like, ‘courtesy of Hurley’. That goes after his reputation. Brings him into public eye. And in hot water.”

“What, like a calling card?”

“Kinda serial killer-y,” Mitch says. “But yeah.”

“So its like, six for the price of one. Embarrass him, accomplish your justice thing, endanger his job, put him in the public eye, possibly end Orion.”

“Only five,” Mitch says when the pause has been going on for a bit.

“Shut up,” Ronnie answers instantly. “I couldn’t think of another one. Alright? You come up with something.”

“Revenge,” Mitch says, surprised that wasn’t on the list to begin with.

“Yeah. So there’s your six. I’m all for it,” he adds after a second. “Great idea. Not a complicated nightmare to pull off, either.”

Mitch wishes the room were just a little bit brighter. The window has good placement, though. A view of the entrance to the hostel. “Are you insulting your own plan?” he asks of the darkness.

“Kinda.” There’s a smile in his voice. “Was a little… much.”

“Well, you said it.”

After a long silence, Ronnie says, “A lot seems like a good idea when you haven’t talked to anybody for six years.”

Mitch can’t think of any way to break this sudden fog of intimacy, other than basically dropping a bucket of cold water on it. “Nobody?” he says. “Not like, a cashier.”

“You having a good time?” Ronnie demands. “At my expense?”

“I am,” Mitch grins. “Yeah.”

“Alright.” The smile’s back in Ronnie’s voice too. “Well, don’t say I never did nothin’ for you.”

“I won’t, man.” In fact, Mitch has spent barely more than forty-eight hours with this guy, and he thinks he can already call a major influence on his life to come. But that’s probably a little too much honesty for their third night together.
  
They split up for a couple hours. It could be a test, to see if Mitch will take the opportunity to call Hurley or something. He also believes Ronnie that he genuinely wants to go to his safe house on his own. So he heads out with a thousand pounds and buys a new wardrobe from the plainest places he can find.

Ronnie calls while he’s on the train. “Hey,” Mitch answers. Briefly he considers speaking in French, but he thinks that would probably be more forced, especially if someone heard Ronnie on the other side speaking English.

“You heading back?”

“Yeah. You?”

“I’m good. Had my own shopping spree. We’ll trade some bags.”

Mitch smiles. “Okay.”

“Seen anything today?”

“No, I don’t think so.”

“Trust your gut. See ya.”

“Yeah, bye.”

There’s a girl on the phone next to him and he hears her complain about him. Some American talking to his boyfriend, she says, and Mitch stops listening after that.
  
Mitch gets winged by a bullet on their first hit, and he feels like a real fucking idiot about it. Of course they went for a Pentagon official in public, and of course it went wrong. Motherfucker.

A bodyguard hit his shoulder on accident, and now he’s stuck trying to walk away semi-normally. He can’t think of anywhere to go, or what to do beyond continuing to walk away.

His phone rings, and he picks it up on instinct. “Don’t beat yourself up over this,” Ronnie says immediately. “Anyone would’ve gotten caught by that.”

“I’m such a fucking idiot,” Mitch says tightly. It’s starting to hurt. He’s glad his shirt’s dark, so the blood won’t show.

“Where are you.”

“Two streets south heading west.”

“I’m coming.”

“Wait,” Mitch says. “Did we?”

“Yeah. Sure did. Left the card too.”

“Good.”

“Bye.” And he hangs up.

Mitch keeps walking. Thank fuck for America; nobody looks at one dude looking miserable as he walks. Everyone’s avoiding his eyes. And then he sees Ronnie, who isn’t.

His first concern is stealth. Ronnie puts a beanie on Mitch’s head for him, pulls a coat on him without breaking stride. “Did it make it out?” he asks

“Nope.”

Ronnie’s arm over his shoulders is an anchor as they move, and Mitch follows him without thought. They head into a building, up a flight of stairs and Mitch says, “Are we breaking in somewhere?”

“Don’t talk, you’re slurring your words,” Ronnie says. “But no. I have contingency plans, 24. I’m not stupid.” He fumbles with some keys for a second, and then he helps Mitch into a room. “You can’t yell,” he says. “I’ve gotta dig this out.”

“Yep.” Mitch grits his teeth in advance.

“Shirt off,” Ronnie says. He sits Mitch on something, and when Mitch can’t he takes it off for him. “Total dumb luck,” he says under his breath.

“Still hurts.”

“Duh. Now shut up, understand?”

“Yes.”

Mitch doesn’t make a sound, and Ronnie digs the bullet out of his chest. Then he tapes it all up, puts a shirt back on him, and takes Mitch over to a bed. “No,” Mitch says. “I don’t want to lie down.”

“Okay, soldier. Whatever you want. But sit in bed. And take these.” He gives him pills and water, so Mitch swallows them. “It’s fine,” Ronnie says then. “We’d have to lay low anyways. They don’t expect anybody to stay in place.”

“Trying to make me feel better, 33?” Mitch says with effort.

Ronnie sits next to him on the bed. “They like your right shoulder, don’t they.”

“Fucking… evidently.” Mitch shuts his eyes. “Are you sure we’re good to be here? Like we don’t need to move.”

“We were gonna get off the street instantly anyway,” Ronnie says. And that’s when Mitch discovers he knows when Ronnie’s lying, because he’s definitely lying right now. “I’ve got food here, too. We’ll leave tomorrow when it’s dark.”

He’s endangered them. They’re in a safe house six blocks from the crime and Ronnie’s staying with him instead of getting the hell out of dodge. “You can leave,” he says.

“I can’t now,” Ronnie says. “Though I appreciate the concern.” He sounds very dry. Too dry for someone who’s been put in danger.

“You didn’t have to stick with me, I mean,” Mitch adds after a second. It’s hard to speak through the haze in his head. “That wasn’t the deal.”

“Maybe not in your head.” He sounds close. “But I never wanted to be Hurley. I’m not leaving anybody behind.”

“You're not Hurley if you take care of yourself.”

“Hey Mitch, take the fucking hint,” Ronnie says, cutting him off. “We’re in this together. I’m not going anywhere, okay. So shut up.”

His shoulder aches sharply, so hard he almost can’t breathe. “I’m okay,” he says. “In this together is not a necessarily literal statement.”

“You trying to get rid of me? Cuz if you are, you’re in shock, so I won’t take any of this personal.” Ronnie opens a water bottle and has a drink, then he passes it to Mitch. And Mitch hasn’t worried about poison for long but it’s comforting anyways. “Drink.”

“I’m drinking.”

“You’re talking back.”

“Am not.” Mitch takes a sip, and then finishes the bottle because he’s thirsty. “So you get tortured for a second and nobody comes to pick you up and now you’re glued to my side?” he says. “Really?”

Ronnie’s quiet for a second, and Mitch doesn’t think to wonder why until he’s talking. “Yep,” he says. “Just a second. And you’ll thank me when you’re back yourself.”

“I’m myself now and I’ll thank you,” Mitch says. His eyes feel foggy even after he opens them, but he looks Ronnie in the eyes and says, “Glad you’re here. I want to see the end of this.”

“It only ends one way,” Ronnie says.

“What do you mean?”

“Nothin’. Shut up and bask in the victory. We got him.”

Mitch lets that sink in. They got him. “One down. However many to go.”

“Eloquently put.”

“You’re feeling awfully smug,” Mitch grumbles.

“Sure am.”

Maybe he gets to be. They’re getting revenge on the man who left him for dead, and it’s going well. Feels pretty good. Or it would, if Mitch didn’t have a bullet hole in his shoulder.
  
The only nice part of rehab is getting full use of his arm again. It still aches, though, and Ronnie decides that’s not how it’s supposed to be. So Mitch is sitting here with his shirt off, basically being felt up by his partner.

“Buy me dinner first,” he eventually says.

Ronnie smirks at him for a second. “Tell me if this hurts.” He pokes at the scar, and Mitch winces.

“Yeah, fuck,” he complains.

“Shut up.” Ronnie prods at him some more, moving his arm all kinds of ways and taking note of what makes him flinch. Mitch means to be doing that too, helping diagnose himself, but he ends up finding himself distracted by Ronnie’s hands on him. “You’re too tense,” Ronnie says. “Can you stretch it out?”

“I’ve been trying.” Mitch pulls his arm back, kind of circles his shoulder in its socket. “It’s only been a month.”

“I guess. Can you hit with it?”

“Yeah.”

“Shoot straight?”

“Ish. Enough.” Mitch looks at Ronnie, at the close attention he’s paying to the new pink scar. The air hangs tense between them for a moment, and then Mitch pulls away. “I’m fine, we can continue.”

Ronnie’s not pleased, but he doesn’t argue. “Who?”

They have nicknames to avoid calling their targets by name. “War buddy,” Mitch says. “Okay?”

“Sounds good.” Ronnie looks him in the eye then, a moment of unwavering eye contact. Then he presses his palm over the scar, and holds Mitch’s shoulder for a few seconds too long to be shrugged off. “We’re rehearsing this one better,” he says.

“Okay.”

“Put your shirt on.”

Mitch gives him a look, and the other guy smiles. He doesn’t feel the soreness as much after that.
  
Seven targets. Each one with a card dropped on their chest. Courtesy of Stan Hurley. In some cases, a few civilians got a look at it, so articles are coming out speculating on who exactly Hurley is. The chatter they pick up is increasingly frenzied, and Ronnie looks a little more settled with every passing day.

“What’s the endgame, here?” Ronnie asks, when they’re up late after another night of planning the next hit. He’s leaning back in his chair, bouncing a leg.

“What do you mean?”

“We get him fired, right. Or kill him one day, whatever. Then what?”

Mitch wishes he could say this also wasn’t on his mind. Instead he has to figure out what to say. “I don’t know. What do you think?” he says instead, batting it back to Ronnie.

“We used to say we’d split up.”

They did used to. Before they’d spent a year together, almost every second.  When they didn’t know they’d trust each other more than Mitch can remember trusting anyone ever before.

“Yeah,” Mitch answers. “We did.”

“How I end up with the one fucker more close-mouthed than me?” Ronnie asks of no one in particular. “What do you think about it, dumbass.”

“I think we’ve been getting a lot done together,” Mitch says. “Might be a mistake to split just for the sake of splitting up.”

Ronnie raises his eyebrows, and tips his chair back a little bit. “Might be,” he agrees. “Is that the closest I’m getting from you?”

“Might be,” Mitch repeats, a smile growing on his face. “Yeah. You want more? Want me to say I’m not leaving you as much as you aren’t leaving me?”

“That’d be nice,” Ronnie says, sounding patient. “Yeah. For starters.”

“Sorry,” Mitch says. “Not that kinda guy.” That gets a beer can thrown at his head, and Mitch catches it and throws it back. “Really though,” he says. “Do you want, like. You’d want to do my thing?”

“Don’t have anything else to do when mine’s done,” Ronnie shrugs. “And the mercenary thing gets old pretty quick. Besides. Gotten used to seeing you around.”

That’s about as close as it gets to anything sincere, usually. But it seems like this isn’t usual. Mitch weighs his next words for as many seconds as he thinks he can get away with. “Well, I don’t like working alone,” he says. “And I don’t like working with anybody else. So. Seems like maybe we should stick together.”

“Well alright, 24. You got it,” Ronnie says. And he’s hiding a smile for the rest of the night.
  
They don’t talk much about their pasts, outside of shooting the shit kind of vagaries. Mitch knows a little about Ronnie’s childhood, his parents leaving and the small town he grew up in. He knows a little about his time in the military, and some facts about his time in Orion. But there are a few things off-limits for unspoken reasons, and Mitch gets tired of that.

“Hey,” he says. They’re getting ready for bed, both shirtless, and Ronnie’s scars haven’t gotten less shocking with time.

“What, Mitch.”

“Well don’t sound so annoyed,” Mitch says, momentarily sidetracked by his tone. “God.”

Ronnie gives him a look. “I’m just tired, dude,” he says. “What is it.”

“You don’t talk about Aleppo.”

That effectively bombs the atmosphere to shit. Ronnie’s staring at him for a while before he can answer, and Mitch can’t quite look back. “Well,” he says. “You want me to?”

“Kind of. I want to know something. I mean we’re getting near the end, I want to know what I’m dealing with. Between you two. Sound alright to you?” Mitch picks a shirt from their luggage and pulls it on.

The only thing that gives Ronnie away is the amount of time it takes him to answer. “What do you want to know?” he says. “I’m an open book.”

Mitch sits down in bed and looks at his partner. “How long were you there?” he says. For starters.

“In the end, three weeks. Before they called a drone strike on the whole compound and thought they killed me.”

“Why didn’t they do that sooner?”

“Waiting to get my exact location, best I can figure,” Ronnie says, pulling on a cutoff T-shirt. He does pull ups whenever he can to make his arms look like that, Mitch knows it but still finds him kind of mythical. Like a statue or something. “To make sure they’d take me out.”

“Weren’t they worried you might break?”

“No,” Ronnie frowns. “They didn't train you in counter interrogation tactics?”

“No, they gave us cyanide.” Another change after Ronnie’s mishap, it seems. They both register it without mentioning it.

Ronnie shrugs eventually. “Well. No, they weren’t worried.”

“What did they want to know?”

He shrugs. “Who I worked for, what the job was, who we’re going after next. Names of my coworkers, anything.”

“Kept asking for weeks?”

“Just about the gist.” Ronnie’s impatient. “What’s your point, 24.”

His point is that Ronnie didn’t tell them, so part of him probably thought that Hurley would be back for him somehow. Three weeks must’ve felt longer, and he spent all that time waiting for a rescue that never happened  and getting almost killed instead.

“Nothing,” Mitch says. “No point. But can you imagine if I was there?”

“You’d fold in an hour,” Ronnie says.

“I wouldn’t get caught,” he counters. “But I’d be coming after your dumb ass in about two seconds. I can already tell.”

Ronnie nods a little bit, looking nowhere in particular. Then, with the air of having done it a thousand times, he sits next to Mitch on his bed. “You would not,” he says dismissively.

“I would!” Mitch defends. “If we’d been through training together, you’re telling me we wouldn’t be friends?”

“That’s a fair point.”

“I know it is. I wasn’t even on your side and I talked you out of blowing up a bomb and then followed you across Europe. Imagine if we were on the same side from the jump.”

Ronnie nods again, looks over at him. “A real nightmare,” he says. “We woulda raised hell.”

“Yeah. And there’s just about no way I would’ve let him leave you behind.”  It sounds real cheesy out loud. Mitch regrets it kind of immediately.

“Just cuz you’re sweet on me,” Ronnie answers, leaning closer. “I know it. I’ve been reading all the signs.” He’s smiling when Mitch smacks him in the face with a pillow, and he continues, “Don’t be ashamed, I know I’m hot.”

He is, is kind of the worst part. Mitch can take the hint though, that Ronnie doesn’t want to talk about it anymore, so he says, “Sure. Yeah, you found me out.”

“Knew it.”

“Though,” Mitch says after a second. “If we’re going there, we’re gonna have to acknowledge that it’s a mutual thing.”

“Mutual,” Ronnie repeats. “Sure. Naturally. Average, dark, and alright. What’s there not to love.”

Mitch smiles too, and tips his head back against the wall. “I have many virtues,” he says in a tone of faux thoughtfulness. “Hard to pick the best ones, probably.”

“Gotta do something about that ego. It’s getting out of control.”

“Learned it from you, 33.”

Ronnie’s quiet after that, sitting and looking pensively at nothing. His arm’s touching Mitch’s, and Mitch can’t tell how intentional it is. Eventually Ronnie gets up for his own bed, turns off the lights and everything. “Thank you,” he says after a second in the dark.

“For what?”

Ronnie cuts him off. “Stop. You know.”

“You’re welcome,” Mitch says because he can’t think of anything better to say. “Sorry.”

“Shut up, Mitch.”

They have days of normalcy for a bit after that, of grocery shopping and planning on encrypted laptops. Sitting next to each other and working out next to each other and spending every second together. It’s necessity, they don’t have anybody else left. But it’s a little more than that too. And sometimes Mitch hears Ronnie’s words from that late night, in his head. What’s there not to love?
  
They go after Hurley last, because they have to. Because like Ronnie said, this only ever ended one way.

Mitch can’t describe how he feels here. Like he’s not really doing it but also like he’s done this before, exactly like this.

They have no choice but to come for him at his compound, because he holes up there when it’s obvious who’s after him. They hear his angry phone calls, and the angrier ones he thinks aren’t tapped.

Orion’s been shut down for months, so Hurley has some standard-issue goons guarding his land. Those go down without a problem. They have time to regroup, before taking on the house. And still, after that, it goes the most wrong it’s possible to go.

The universe likes its irony, seems like. No other reason for Hurley to make such a priority of getting to Ronnie alive. They stalk him through the house, get some shots off on both sides. Hurley clips Mitch’s ear, his thigh, and then rounds a corner and fires another shot. Mitch hears the sound that’s Ronnie not letting himself cry out.

“You son of a bitch,” Hurley says. Sounds faint, at the end of a long ringing tunnel. “Thought you were real smart, didn’t you.”

Mitch is making his way to them as quick as he can. He hears Ronnie’s reply just barely. “Seems like we were, doesn’t it.” He laughs, and then he groans.

“I was gonna give you a quick death in Rome. Now? No way. It’s too good for you,” Hurley’s growling when Mitch limps into the room. He has a gun left, a clip mostly full, and he points it at Hurley’s head.

“Drop the knife,” Mitch says.

“I don’t think I will,” Hurley answers.

“What if I say please?” Mitch says after a second, because his shitty sense of humor never leaves him alone.

Hurley snorts. “I see you’ve learned a lot.”

“I know how to kill you.”

“Sounds alright to me,” the man says, and turns his back.

Before now Mitch never considered that Hurley might want revenge more than he wants to live, even though that was kind of the entire point of this. He puts six bullets in the man’s head, and it’s still not fast enough to keep Hurley from getting his knife in the base of Ronnie’s throat.

Mitch is moving faster than he can quite understand. “Motherfucker,” he thinks he says, but he’s not talking. He’s grabbing whatever’s in reach, some kind of blanket thing, and trying to see how deep in the knife is. Ronnie has his hand clamped over his neck, the blade between two fingers, and there’s a lot of blood, but not enough for a severed carotid. Nicked maybe. A small saving grace.

“I’m taking the knife out,” he says. Ronnie nods, barely, and holds still. He bleeds a lot more after that, seeping through his shirt and the carpet underneath him. Soaks through the blanket Mitch presses over it, too, dark and wet under his fingers. “Hold it,” he says, and Ronnie does.

They brought a med kit in Mitch’s backpack; he spends precious seconds pulling off his backpack and getting the shit he needs. He definitely doesn’t keep glancing at Ronnie’s face, to see how he’s doing. “I’m going to count to three,” he says. “Okay? And on three, I’m going to switch out gauze. You’ll need to move your hand.”

“On three or after three?” Ronnie rasps.

“On three, asshole.” Mitch’s heart is so tight in his chest he might not be able to breathe much longer. He quadruples up gauze, holds it over Ronnie’s hands and then counts. “One… two… three.” And then they switch, Mitch pressing down hard and Ronnie pressing his hand over Mitch’s. Everything’s sticky with blood, the air between them hot and metallic in Mitch’s mouth. He doesn’t remember when he started panting, but he doesn’t feel like he’s getting enough air.

The gauze is soaked through quick, but not as quick as before. When it’s squishy and deep red under Mitch’s fingers, he switches it out for a new thicker one. He dares to think for a second that Ronnie’s bleeding slower.

“I want to sit up,” Ronnie says with effort. “Help me up.”

So Mitch pulls him over to the nearest wall and helps him sit up against it. “Do you,” Mitch begins and stops.

“What, Mitch.”

“I didn’t mean to kill him, I know you wanted to.”

“That is like.” Ronnie takes a labored breath. “The last thing on my mind right now. It was mostly gravity. He was dead too quick to aim.”

“Still put a knife in your neck.”

“Yeah, well. Survived worse,” Ronnie says. He has survived worse. He will probably survive this.

“Feel cold?”

“No,” Ronnie says. “I don’t. I feel gross, though. I want a shower, you think we’ve got time for that?”

“I think I’m not letting you anywhere near a shower until I know you’re not going to lose your entire blood volume in six minutes.”

“Eight, at least. Probably enough time for me to get all this grime off,” Ronnie answers, and Mitch leans forward without really meaning to, presses their disgustingly sweaty foreheads together.

“You are,” Mitch says, with his eyes closed just a few inches from him, “the stupidest son of a bitch I’ve ever known. And that’s saying something.”

“Yeah, competition’s probably fierce,” Ronnie says. “Since you know yourself. And you tried saying please to him.”

The him lying on ground, blood and chunks seeping over the floor. “I thought it was funny,” Mitch huffs, and pulls away. His hair sticks to Ronnie’s forehead. “Just that problem with authority rearing its head again, I guess.”

“Had no idea it was that bad.” He swallows hard. “Gimme a gun, I’ll cover the doors. You see what we can take.”

Mitch frowns. “No. I’m not leaving you.”

“You’re not leaving me, you’re getting us more guns and shit. Go, dude.” Ronnie weakly tries to reach for one of the guns, so Mitch hands it to him and watches him check the safety and clip.

“Okay. Ten minutes.”

“Okay.”

Mitch clears the house of valuables - cash, weapons, and information. He fills a backpack, and changes into some of Hurley’s clothes. And when he’s done with all that, he brings Ronnie new clothes too. “You think you can manage changing?” he asks.

“Let’s find out.”

The answer is yes, but slowly and painfully. Ronnie got a bullet to the lower leg, bone totally broken. Mitch splints that with some duct tape and wooden spoons, and doesn’t think about how hard it is to get his pants on over the splint.

“He still was trying to save you,” Ronnie says, while they’re taking a second to breathe before trying to stand. “Even still.”

“No idea why. He’s known I’m with you for months.”

Ronnie doesn’t answer that. He keeps a gun in his bloody hand and follows Mitch out the door with a limp.“You know how to hotwire a car?” Ronnie gestures at Hurley’s SUV with his gun.

“Even better. Keys in the pocket. I’m assuming I’m driving.”

Ronnie doesn’t respond to that either. Probably has a lot to do with blood loss. But in any event, Mitch gets both of them in the car. “There’s plates under your seat,” Ronnie says. “Change ‘em.”

Mitch frowns and reaches under the seat, but he doesn’t doubt for a second that he’ll find exactly that. “How the hell do you know that? That’s just creepy,” he complains.

“The guy basically raised me,” Ronnie says, hands over his eyes. “Those won’t be registered, we’ll be fine.”

“Is there a screwdriver in here?”

Ronnie opens the glovebox and pulls a one out. “Ask and ye shall receive, 24,” he sighs. So Mitch switches the plates out, and they get going.

He notices Ronnie flexing his fingers out on the road, and asks, “Broken?”

“Prolly. It can wait.”

“Didn’t one of the guys clip you in the woods?”

“Oh. Yeah, I forgot. Wish you were my blood type.”

“We’ve got extra bags at the safe house. You cold?”

Ronnie glances over at him. “I’ll be fine,” he hedges, and empties a water bottle in about thirty seconds. He has granola bars too, and he finishes them before they’re off the dirt road, and then he leans back and rests. Not sleep, just rest. Watching everything pass.

“So it’s over,” he finally says.

“Yeah,” Mitch says.

“Went pretty well, all things considered.”

Mitch fights his initial instinct to demand what the hell he means and just tightens his hands on the wheel subtly. “Okay.”

“Oh, you don’t agree.”

Of course it’s obvious to him. “Not exactly.”

Ronnie shakes his head, snorts but it sounds more like a sigh. “Alright. Well, putting that aside. What’s next?”

It takes a second for Mitch to put together some kind of answer. “You want to do that now? Like, immediately now?”

“I like to have a plan.”

He does. They both do. “Okay,” Mitch says. “Fine. You want a plan.”

“Yeah.”

“The plan is that we’re gonna stay together. Do the same stuff with different people, right?”

“Right…” There’s something else on his mind. They get on the highway before he spits it out. “Sure you don’t want to bring in another partner? Mix it up, see other people for a while?”

Something about that pings in Mitch’s instincts. “Not unless you do,” he answers. “And not until I know you’re out of the woods.”

“You aren’t sick of me yet, huh.”

“Not by a long shot.” Ronnie’s looking grayish, there in the passenger seat. Mitch is getting more worried. “You sure this isn’t some kind of emergency situation?”

“Y’know, I wish there was tape of me getting out the Middle East that first time. You’d shut up real fast. I’m fine.”

Mitch sighs there in the driver’s seat. “Fun trump card for you to use. Yeah. That never gets old. You don’t hear me hanging every injury I’ve ever had over your head, dude.”

“I don’t keep asking you if you’re fuckin’ cold.”

“Okay. Well, I’m gonna chalk this up to blood loss because otherwise I’m not sure why exactly you’re being an asshole.”

Ronnie’s quiet for a bit then. “Yeah,” he finally says. “Good point. Alright.”

“We’re less than twenty minutes out from the stash,” Mitch says, glancing over at him and then back at the road.

“Yep.”

And they’re quiet for a while after that.

Mitch is still kinda irritated, but he helps Ronnie out of the car and into their safe house. He can’t tell if he’s more annoyed that Ronnie might be dying or that he’s being pissy about it. It’s a toss-up at the moment.

For all his big talk, Ronnie’s still pretty banged up. Bruised from the hand to hand stuff, and the leg, and his neck and a couple of his ribs. It’s not good. Looking at him sitting there on their medical table, Mitch has the thought that he doesn’t know if he can fix this. He’s not a field medic.

“That good, huh,” Ronnie says.

“Yep.”

“Prolly should start with an IV,” he says after a second, when Mitch doesn’t move. “And some more water. I’ll walk you through it, 24. We’ll be fine.”

Mitch privately and emphatically does not agree that things will be fine, but he doesn’t want to piss Ronnie off again so he doesn’t say that. He does it, figures out how to get an IV in one of his arms and a transfusion in the other and approaches the next problems one at a time. The broken leg gets a proper setting, splint, and cast. The cut on his neck gets a new bandage; it’s almost scabbed over, finally.

“Are you done giving me that brink of death look?” Ronnie’s eyes are closed, but the look he’d be giving Mitch in return is obvious enough.

“Hold on. Are you actually mad at me for being worried about you dying?” Mitch says, because he can’t not say it any more. Even if Ronnie’s kind of on the brink of death still.

“No. I’m not mad at you for being worried about me dying,” Ronnie says, enunciating carefully.

That’s classic lying, though, repeating his words back, and it’s obvious. “Okay…” Mitch says slowly.

“It made you stupid, though,” Ronnie says. “With Hurley. If we’re being honest. You turned dumb the second he had me. That’s bad.”

The energy between them is electric though they’re not even looking at each other. Mitch finds himself standing here kind of awkwardly, unsure what to do with his hands. He interlocks them with each other, and says, “So… I care, too much, about you.” Feels like he’s going to puke, probably, and start running and never look back. He could, Ronnie wouldn’t be able to follow him.

And Ronnie opens his eyes for this, to say “Yeah, basically.”

“Cool,” Mitch says after a second. “Move your leg.”

It’s not cool. It’s obviously not cool but Mitch can’t think enough to come up with a word for how he feels. He cleans off Ronnie’s leg and bandages it, switches his transfusion bag out for a fresh one, and then he heads outside onto the covered porch.

His hands are shaking, and his breath is coming short. It takes a little while to realize that he feels like he might cry. Been a while. He breathes through it, chewing on his lip, and tries to think about their next steps. What next steps could possibly be, if they split up and he’s doing this on his own. He’ll need cash, he’ll probably have to do a couple hits for that.

He sits there for almost an hour. When he heads back inside, Ronnie’s asleep on the table. He looks a little better, more flesh colored. Mitch looks at him, at his lips and nose and the goose egg growing on his temple. Ronnie thinks Mitch cares too much about him, and here Mitch was, thinking that was their whole deal.

There’s enough to do for the moment. He checks on their surveillance channels to make sure they weren’t made at some point, double checks their go bags and supplies and then heads outside for a second to wipe down the car, get the blood off the fake leather.

When he’s inside, Ronnie wakes up. Mitch definitely isn’t watching him sit up, pick the IV needles out of his arms, because he doesn’t want to be told he’s too close again. “I need to piss,” Ronnie says.

“Okay.”

“Care to help?”

Mitch grits his teeth at the wordplay but goes over to help him anyways. But now he’s second guessing everything he does around Ronnie, if he’s holding him too close or if acting differently won’t give him away worse than anything else.

Ronnie pees leaning against the wall to stay upright, and after he zips his pants back up he just looks over at Mitch. “So you’re mad now?”

“Come on, I’ve got other stuff to do.”

That barely works; Ronnie frowns but lets himself be taken back to lie down again. “Was anything that I said wrong?” he says after he’s seated.

“Probably not.” Mitch is aware he sounds short. He doesn’t care much.

“Okay.”

“Okay,” he repeats back, and now he’s pissed again.

“I don’t know what you want from me, Rapp,” Ronnie says, and takes a very casual sip of water.

“Bullshit,” Mitch snaps. “Bullshit you don’t.”

Ronnie doesn’t snap back, he’s in too much pain and his eyes go glazed when he moves the wrong way. But he’s not happy either. “Well what do you want? You want me to settle for you doing a bad job?”

“I didn't do a bad job, though. And you’ve pulled some really stupid shit for me too, Ronnie. Or do you not remember that shit, you just remember mine.”

That gets him. Ronnie stops arguing and grits his teeth.

“You’re being a fucking hypocrite, and you’re putting all this shit on me that’s not just on me. I was trying to save your fucking life, dude, I’m sorry if I did that the wrong way for you, but I did it and you’re here.” Mitch feels light-headed and hot, and more than anything he wants to run.

“That's the thing, though,” Ronnie says. “You won’t be able to save my life again if you’re too busy freaking out cuz you’re worried about me or whatever.”

“You’re telling me you weren’t worried for my life when I got shot? Or are you just too fucking chickenshit to admit it. Are you too scared to like, actually care about someone?”

“Caring gets you killed,” Ronnie says.

“It hasn’t yet.”

Ronnie is annoyed that that’s technically true; he wants to argue. Mitch just gets there first. “Pretend it’s my problem all you want,” he says. “We’ve got something good. And you’re the only one who’s scared of it.”

“I don’t know what we’ve got,” Ronnie says warily.

“That’s the worst excuse in like, the world.” Mitch’s jaw aches from clenching his teeth so hard. “But y’know what, if you’re so fucking independent or whatever, I can go. Don’t do me any goddamn favors. I’ll be out of here in eight minutes.”

“You’re not serious.”

Mitch raises his eyebrows. “Watch how serious I am,” he says, and starts packing because fuck it, honestly.

“Tell me what you want me to say,” Ronnie says after a minute of watching him. “Alright, Rapp, I get that you’re serious. Don’t do this.”

“I’m not doing anything.” He’s packing quickly, that’s what he’s doing, because every second he spends with Ronnie makes him feel like he’s burning alive.

Ronnie just watches him. “You’re majorly overreacting, dude,” he says.

“Am I?” Mitch says. “Are you sure you don’t just care too much about this whole thing?” It tastes acidic, to spit these words out but he can’t help himself. He throws a shirt in the bag and then just stands there with his hands on the table, looking down.

“You said I’m not wrong.”

Mitch gives him the most patient, furious look he’s ever mustered in his entire life. “Tell me I’m overreacting again,” he says.

“You are.”

Mitch whips a clip of ammo at Ronnie’s head, and feels absolutely no regret when it makes glancing contact. “I’m fucking not,” he says.

“Don’t get emotional about this.”

“Don’t turn this into that macho bullshit,” Mitch snaps. “You’re just a coward. Who doesn’t want to admit that we…”

“What,” Ronnie says flatly when Mitch is struggling for words. “What, Mitch. What are we.”

Mitch opens his mouth for a second, but the description doesn’t come any easier. He can’t find one. “Something. I don’t know. Whatever,” he says. “We’re never gonna find out, I guess.”

“You’re not really gonna leave, though,” Ronnie says.

“Okay.” Mitch zips his bag shut. “Drink plenty of water.”

“It’s dangerous out there.”

“I’ll take my chances.” Easier to get shot in the head than this anyhow.

When it’s clear that Mitch is actually heading for the door, Ronnie gets up. “Mitch,” he says. “Hey. Hold up.”

“What, you gonna tell me I’m too fucking emotional again?”

“No,” Ronnie says when he’s caught up to him, his face tight with pain. “I’m gonna tell you not to leave because I love you, dumbass.”

Mitch is kind of pissed that that makes his knees go so weak. Stops him in his tracks, though, which was probably the point. “What?”

“You heard me.”

He turns around to look at Ronnie. “Kind of a three sixty.”

“Yeah. Kinda,” Ronnie answers. “Kinda like I don’t want you to go.”

“That shit about emotions, though.” Mitch isn’t willing to let anything go.

“That’s me, not wanting to talk about it,” Ronnie says. “If I had to put a label to it.”

“You not wanting to…” Mitch trails off weakly, in a breathless kind of disbelief. He drops his bag on the ground, and runs a hand through his hair. “I’m… at a loss.”

Ronnie is exhausted and still a little pale and he definitely shouldn’t be standing, but he stands and he looks Mitch in the eye and says, “I don’t know what we like, are either,” he says. “But I don’t want to talk about it. I’m not good at it, and I’m not going to get distracted by it.”

“You already have, though.”

“I mean worse than that.”

That’s weak, but Mitch isn't as pissed about that as he was a minute ago. “We have to talk about it eventually,” he says. “And you can’t just deny it exists. Okay?”

Ronnie nods once. “Okay.”

“Go sit down,” Mitch says. “Stupid. You shouldn’t be up.”

That earns him a frustrated look from the guy who apparently loves him. No clarification on how he means that exactly, and he probably wouldn't answer if Mitch asked. But Ronnie goes to sit down, at least, and when Mitch goes to help him he puts his arm around him. “Hey,” he says. “Dude. I meant it. So.”

“Alright.”

“That’s all I get? Not exactly what I was expecting.”

Mitch shrugs. “You’re the one who didn’t want to talk about it.”

“Touché. I guess.” Ronnie lies back down, and his back cracks when he does. “And I guess I’d rather die doing some shit with you than doing shit on my own.”

“Wow,” Mitch says. “That was almost talking about it.”

“Felt dangerous,” Ronnie agrees. “Didn’t like it.”
  
Later that night, Mitch helps Ronnie back into the bedroom. “Are you gonna let me shower before this, though?” Ronnie asks dryly. “Or am I just gonna get blood all over this bed.”

“Uh.” Mitch glances at Ronnie’s neck; the bandage is relatively clean. “You’ll have to keep the cast out.”

“I know.”

“Are you gonna need help?” Mitch prompts after a second.

“Yeah, probably.”

It’s an overall frustrating experience, trying to talk to a guy who’s told you he loves you just a few hours ago. Mitch doesn’t have any experience with it, but so far he wouldn’t repeat it.

He helps Ronnie shower, at any rate. It helps neither of them if Ronnie falls and breaks a different bone too. He stands impatiently, looking the opposite direction of the the shower at every possible second.

“Towel?” Ronnie says at the end, and Mitch hands him one without looking. “Y’gonna help me stand?” Ronnie adds, and Mitch offers him an arm. Ronnie leans heavily on him, wet and warm, and Mitch steels himself. “You aren’t gonna get weird on me, Rapp,” Ronnie says. “You were the one insisting we talk about how we feel.”

“Yeah, well. You’ve really gone for it.”

“Yep.” Ronnie shrugs. He leans heavily on Mitch’s shoulder to get his basketball shorts on, and then he tosses his towel over the shower curtain rod. “Bed?”

“Okay.”

“You’re all argued out now?” Ronnie says while they’re struggling in the hall. “Now you’re just gonna go to bed?”

“Yeah, basically.” Mitch is finding it increasingly difficult to not notice how muscled and damp Ronnie is. “You’ve fucking exhausted me,” he adds.

“Sorry.”

They get to Ronnie’s bed, and after he’s sitting Mitch sits down next to him with fresh medical supplies. “We’re gonna run out of gauze, man,” Ronnie sighs, but he lets him peel off the neck bandage and replace it.

Mitch finds himself kind of gritting his teeth as he tends to him. Like he acts fine and normal, but he can hardly describe what’s happening in his brain even to himself.

“So you’re not going to say it back,” Ronnie finally says.

“I don’t know,” Mitch says, sounding a little too defensive even to his own ears. “You kinda sprung it on me.”

There’s a beat of silence, the two of them breathing in the scent of medical supplies. “Still,” Ronnie says. “I think I’m hurt.”

“You think I’m the one who owes you something?” Mitch says. “Really?”

There’s another silence, and Mitch finishes bandaging him up. “Alright,” Ronnie says after Mitch leans back. “So I owe you a little bit. You want me to do something about that?”

“I’m not gonna twist your arm about it.” Mitch pulls his bed over closer and explains, “Just in case you start dying in the night.”

“Oh yeah? That’s why?”

“Yep.” Mitch refuses to entertain any other innuendo shit. He’s tired, and they both almost died. “I’m showering,” he says, getting up. Ronnie shrugs, which is kind of worse than not saying anything. So, whatever. Mitch showers, and discovers that he’s hurt too. He kinda forgot. Now he remembers, and it stings.

“You weren’t limping on your way out of here,” Ronnie says when he comes back.

“Nope.”

“Did something happen?”

“Nope. Forgot he shot me too.” Mitch sits down on his own bed, with new first aid supplies.

“You want help?” Ronnie says.

“I’d ask.” It’s a through-and-through in his thigh, so he just patches up the entry and exit wounds after cleaning them out. He takes a bunch of pills too, and then tosses the bottle down on the ground. “Can I turn the light off?”

“Security all set up?”

“Yeah, dude.”

“Then go for it.”

He can feel Ronnie’s eyes on him, and he ignores them. Turns off the light, and gets in bed, and listens to the vague sounds of the house.

“Mitch?”

“I need to sleep, I’m tired.”

“Okay.”

Mitch’s curiosity gets the better of him. “What,” he says after a second.

“I’m sorry.”

“You’re sorry? For what.”

“For almost making you leave, man. Come on.”

“Okay,” Mitch says. “It’s fine.”

“You’re just saying that to get to sleep.”

“Yeah. We can talk later, okay?”

“Yeah, whatever.”

They sound a little tense with each other, but after a moment Mitch feels a hand on his arm, Ronnie reaching over. “Dude," he says. “We can talk, like, whenever you want.”

“Okay.”

“That's what you want, right?”

“Yeah, I… yeah. It’s just, like. Whiplash. You changed your mind fucking instantly.”

Ronnie’s silent for a moment. “Yeah,” he finally says. “Seems like I’ve done that before, with you. I do it for you a lot.”

“Right. You’re intense.”

“So are you. Product of the process.” Ronnie’s hand is still on him. Mitch is shook and trying not to be. “Almost killed myself,” he says. “Before you recruited me, for this whole thing.”

“I know,” Mitch says, shutting his eyes. “I was there.”

“Before that. That was plan C.”

Mitch doesn’t know how to respond. “What was plan A?” he asks.

“Me taking a brick of C4 and parachuting onto Hurley’s house. Setting it off when he’s close enough.”

“That sounds suicidal.”

Ronnie takes his hand away, stays silent for a while. “Yeah,” he says. “I guess, yeah.”

Mitch can’t decide if it feels like Ronnie wants to talk about it or doesn’t want to, and more importantly he’s not sure how he feels either. “Why didn’t you?” he asks.

“Because I thought I couldn’t do it.”

That sparks another awkward silence, one that hangs thick in the air between them. “And plan B?” Mitch finally says.

“Kinda vaguely the idea of taking on the whole Orion program.”

“Pretty clear why you ditched that one.”

“Yeah. I know. Not my best.” There’s a bit of a smile in his voice. “So. Are you interested in asking me more fucking questions about my plans?”

“I guess not.”

“Okay. Well. My point was. Intense.”

Mitch thinks about calling him out on that being a weird and probably not all too accurate line to draw between like, intensity and suicidal behavior. That doesn’t make sense. But that’s not the most important thing to address right now, he thinks. “Right,” he says. “Well.”

“G’night.”

So they’re just going to sleep after this? “Okay,” Mitch says. “Good night.” And although he’s exhausted, he’s up for a while thinking of questions he’ll never ask. If Ronnie still wants to die, for one. If anything’s changed, and what it could be.
  
They’re there for a few days while they recover; nothing is as memorable as the big bruise on Mitch’s face, so they have to wait for it to yellow. Which gives them a lot of time to talk, but they don’t exactly take advantage of it at first. There’s a lot of awkwardly metaphorical tip-toeing around each other, as Ronnie rests in various seated positions and Mitch avoids doing the same thing.

On the third day, while Mitch is toasting a bagel and making coffee, Ronnie limps over to the kitchen table. “Hey,” he says.

“What?”

“We need to talk, y’know.”

“I’m aware.”

“So let’s do it, then. Like now.”

Mitch looks over at him in mild disbelief and indignation, which Ronnie was definitely waiting for because he’s grinning. “C’mon, 24,” he says. “Or are you not ready.”

“I could be. Sure. If you are, and not just trying to get me off-guard.”

“C’mon, man, would I do that to you?”

It’s unspeakably obnoxious that Mitch knows the answer is no. “Look,” he says. “If we look at our track records, I think I’ve got more to worry about.” And he turns back to get the toasted bagel and toast another.

“See, I don’t know what you’re saying there, dude. When have I ever not been straight with you?” Ronnie says.

“I don’t know,” Mitch says, annoyed, and gets out the butter. “You could have and I wouldn’t know, so.”

“You really think I’ve lied to you at some point,” Ronnie says. Mitch can feel his eyes on his back. “Really.”

Mitch turns to glare. “Seriously, what would you want me to say. I wouldn’t be good at what we do if I said no.”

That’s true and they both know it, but it seems like Ronnie was hoping to hear it anyways. Before he has to say anything, though, Mitch holds out half the bagel to him. Ronnie takes it with a crooked smile. “Alright,” he says, so that seems to be enough. “Well, I meant it.”

“What?”

“What I said the other night.”

Mitch raises his eyebrows at him. “Okay.”

Ronnie raises his eyebrows back. “You have any thoughts?” he asks, and takes a big bite. Power move.

“Uh. Like what?” Ronnie gives him a look. “I mean. I’m glad you finally said something. I’m kinda pissed it took me leaving for you to stop fucking around.”

“Yeah,” Ronnie nods. “I get that.”

From the limited number of relationships Mitch had in his former life, he can’t remember anything going exactly so easily. Well, he didn’t talk like this with his friends, and Ronnie isn’t his girlfriend but that’s the best reference point he’s got. Honesty like this was not what he usually did. But to match Ronnie, he tries it, feeling like it’s that tiny safe house in Rome all over again.

“Thanks. I think I feel the same way,” he answers quickly, engrossed in buttering the second bagel. “I don’t know what I’d be doing without you. I don’t want to do anything without you. So.”

“Hey.” Ronnie waits for Mitch to look at him. “Me too. Absolutely.”

“Okay.”

“Okay. So. Last time I’m gonna ask. You gonna say it back or what?”

Mitch takes a bite while Ronnie’s talking to stall, and it works. He gets a few seconds to think and he needs them. “Okay,” he says. “Look. I don’t know what you mean by that. So I don’t exactly know what to say.” He adds quickly, “And we don’t have to do this.”

“I think we kinda do.”

“No.” Mitch shakes his head. There’s a bit of a smile pulling at his mouth. “We could keep it vague. Dance around it for a while.”

“We did that for like, a night and you almost walked out on me,” Ronnie says. “And I wasn’t loving it either, to tell the truth. So somehow I get the feeling that won’t work. Okay?”

It’s a really good point. “Okay.”

“I’m ready for you to call me crazy again,” Ronnie says. “Or tell me I don’t know what I’m talking about. But I love you, man.”

Mitch’s first instinct is to ask if that means Ronnie’s gay, but he thinks he’d be embarrassed by that if he said it. Instead, he tries to think about it, actually process what he just heard. Even if it is for the second time. “Like, in love?” he finally says.

“Maybe. I don’t know. Not exactly like there’s a lot of room for emotional growth in our line of work,” Ronnie says dryly. “I don’t think I’m like, gay. But I’m pretty sure you’re it for me.”

Mitch kind of sighs, hands him half of the second finished bagel and answers. “You’re not crazy. I’m just still figuring it out.”

“Okay…”

He’s waiting to hear it back. It’s just Mitch thinks about saying it and his heart seizes up in his chest, throat tightens up. “I just…” he begins, and stops.

“You just can’t say it,” Ronnie says, his tone indecipherable. “After the big deal you made about it.”

“Yeah, I’m aware, dude. This isn’t… me, you know this isn’t me.” He’s frustrated by the heat behind his eyes.

“Is this something to do with your fiancé being shot to death right after you proposed?” Ronnie asks after a second.

Mitch can’t decide if he’s pissed or relieved. “Your guess is as good as mine,” he snaps, so maybe more pissed.

“Alright. I’d threaten to walk out if I could walk more than a couple dozen feet,” Ronnie says with a grin.

“Don’t,” Mitch sighs, already annoyed by the joke. “Are you actually mad?”

“A little. I think I can get over it.” He leans back in his chair, eyes on Mitch. “You’re not fucking with me?”

“No.”

“Okay. Well you can tap out of all this whenever, if you need to.”

Mitch nods, not sure how to acknowledge this. “Can you really not walk, though? Because we’re kind of fucked.”

“I can walk if I have to walk. We packed?”

“Yes. Rolling out in a few hours.”
  
Ronnie’s grumpy in the car. Possibly the strain of walking; he’s popped like six pills after the short walk to the car. “Still say we should’ve gone to Mexico,” he says.

“Longer drive, harder border, more dangerous, worse medical care,” Mitch begins to list.

“I know,” Ronnie cuts him off. “Still.”

Mitch struggles not to roll his eyes. “Okay. Noted.”

“Don’t pull that bullshit patronizing shit on me,” Ronnie complains. “I know all your tones.”

Mitch does roll his eyes. “Dude.”

“I know,” Ronnie mumbles.

“We’ll be there soon,” Mitch says.

“Yeah, yeah. And then what, 24? What’s up next for us, since you’re calling the shots now.”

“We’re going to Canada.”

“I know, genius. Big picture.”

“After we escape the international shit storm that’s coming.”

“Yeah. After that.”

There’s far from a guarantee that they’ll get there, but that’d be a buzzkill to bring up right now. “I dunno. Somewhere with no extradition, for starters,” Mitch says.

“Aw, c’mon. I always wanted to try Italy.”

“Maybe after a year or something.”

“Okay. After that year though.”

Mitch looks over at him. “What are you asking? If I changed my mind?”

Ronnie just shrugs. “Yeah. Have you?”

“No. I still want to stay with you. And everything.”

“Everything,” Ronnie echoes.

“Yep.”

He apparently doesn’t have any comeback for that, so they drive in silence for a bit. They have a good driving playlist by now, and Mitch considers putting it on but he can’t decide if that would be rude.

“I’m just waiting for the other shoe to drop,” Ronnie finally says. “Y’know, like. Your M.O.”

“Oh. I send shit south on purpose,” Mitch says.

“Yeah.”

“Seem to remember you saying that wasn’t gonna work with you.”

Ronnie shrugs. “Where there’s a will, I figure.”

“There isn’t. I don’t want that to happen with you.”

His partner goes quiet again, looking out the window when Mitch glances over at him. “You keep asking me what’s gonna happen,” Mitch finally says. “Is that cuz you don’t want me to like. Freak?”

“Yeah,” Ronnie says.

“You don’t want to have a say?”

“I don’t care about it that much, man. You’re good, I’m good.”

Mitch feels his breath tighten in his chest, even if he’s not quite sure why. “Okay,” he says. “Well I’m happy as long as we don’t get caught. So I say we stay in Canada, we get some cover jobs, and take it slow.”

“Not great at that,” Ronnie says.

“We’ll learn.”

“That’s really what you wanna do.”

“Yeah. It is.” Mitch thinks it probably will even be good for them. “You gonna be cool with that?”

“Sure am, 24. Stop worrying.”

Mitch nods a couple times, eyes firmly on the road. “Haven’t called me that for a while,” he says.

“You want me not to?”

“No,” Mitch says. “I like it.” He feels Ronnie’s hand on his arm then, just kinda there for a couple seconds before he pulls away again. And Ronnie doesn’t say anything, but by now, of course, he doesn’t have to.
  
After twelve hours of driving, Mitch finally takes the keys out of the goddamn ignition and leaves them out. “Thank fuck,” Mitch sighs very deeply, slumping in his chair dramatically.

Ronnie, who’s been able to sleep, yawns. “We can unpack when it’s dark, let’s just get inside. A weird dude on crutches on a Tuesday morning isn’t exactly incognito.”

“Yeah not quite.” Mitch gets out and grabs their duffle of essentials, then helps Ronnie to the front door. It’s a house, it’s furnished, but a small one with close neighbors. Best they could do.

“Leave me on the couch,” Ronnie says with a grunt.

“Shut up,” Mitch sighs. “C’mon.” And they get him up to the bedroom, where they’re greeted with another problem. Or not a problem, per se, but a situation. One bed, a queen-sized. Because it’s a house with one bedroom, so of fucking course it’s one bed.

“Well,” Ronnie says. “Something you wanna tell me?”

“No, motherfucker,” Mitch says. “I fucked up, that’s all.”

“It’s fine, man, I’m just giving you shit.” Ronnie settles heavily down the bed, grimaces a little. “I promise I can keep myself from jumping your bones, so. Don’t flip out.”

Mitch kind of grits his teeth rather than answering right away. “That’s not what I meant,” he says.

“Then why you getting pissed off about it?”

“Because you’re always blaming all this shit on me.”

Ronnie shrugs. “I’m just kidding. I’m tired. I don’t mean anything by it dude, let’s just sleep.”

The only thing saving them from another argument is Mitch being very tired. He drops their bag, kicks his shoes off, helps Ronnie with his, and that’s about all he can handle before he collapses in bed. Too late, he realizes that Ronnie has to lean painfully to turn off the light.

“Sorry,” Mitch murmurs.

“It’s fine.” Ronnie shifts. Neither of them get under the blankets, they stay on top. He rolls closer then too, and Mitch feels him sigh. And they fall asleep like that, not touching but so aware.
  
They wake up at the same time, and Mitch can’t tell if Ronnie has been awake and was waiting for him or what. “Hey,” Mitch yawns.

“Hey.”

“You wanna get up?”

“Do you?”

Mitch takes that as a yes, in exasperation. “We don’t have any food,” he says as he thinks of it, when he’s sitting and realizing he’s hungry.

“We’ve got money,” Ronnie says. He stands with Mitch’s help, but doesn’t put any weight on his broken leg. “I need to hit the head.”

Mitch helps him to the bathroom and stands in the door while Ronnie pisses. “You good with staying here while I go?” he says.

“Don’t kid around,” Ronnie says. “I’m coming. But I’ll stay in the car,” he adds, when he takes a step.

“You don’t have to.”

Ronnie levels a look at him, firm in a way he hasn’t been for a while. Since the beginning, when they just met. “I’m coming,” he says.

“Okay then. Now?”

“Sure, now. I could eat.”

So Mitch helps him back down the steps and into the car and takes them to the nearest grocery store. Ronnie does stay in the car, gun under his seat, while Mitch runs in for eggs and bread and shit.

Mitch ends up cooking, too, making them a late breakfast in the tiny kitchen while Ronnie sits on the small table and watches. “Jobs doing what,” he finally say. Responding to the conversation from yesterday.

“Uh, I don’t know. At a mall or something. Something really boring.”

“Together?”

“Well yeah.”

Ronnie nods, has a sip of water and falls kind of suspiciously silent. “Shit,” he finally says. “Looks like I need to get a hobby.”
  
They both tense up again around bedtime. Mitch tries to handle it by acting like nothing’s wrong, but Ronnie gets squirrelly. He’s physically tense in a way he doesn’t usually let himself be, and he keeps looking at Mitch when he thinks he won’t be noticed.

“Who’s making it weird now,” Mitch finally says. “What’s going on with you, dude.”

“Nothing, dude,” Ronnie echoes back. “You wanna turn off the light.”

“No, I want you to tell me what’s going on.”

“It’s fine. Nothing. Just.” He’s quiet for a bit, and then he leans slowly against Mitch. It takes a while for Mitch to know how to respond. “This okay?” Ronnie says.

“No,” Mitch says dryly, and puts his arm over Ronnie’s shoulders. “Is this?”

“Sure.”

They both smell kinda weird. Probably could use a shower, but Mitch isn’t in the mood to navigate that with Ronnie’s broken leg. “I don’t know what the rules are for this stuff,” Ronnie says. “Been a while.”

“Yep. Same here. Obviously.”

“I mean never, if you mean with another a guy,” he adds after a second.

“Yeah. Me too.”

It works anyway, at least. Nothing gets too weird. They just do this sometimes too.
  
This neighborhood is residential and occupied, so they have neighbors. And since they’re trying to be normal, to find jobs and blend in, they end up meeting a couple of them.

They’re unloading the car from a shopping trip and someone calls out, “Hey neighbor!”

Mitch looks up and sees a man jogging over. “Hi,” Ronnie answers, smiling a little. “I don’t think we’ve met.” He puts the bags in his hands down, and not just to shake the guy’s hand. He’s ready to draw his gun, too.

“Brad, me and my partner Lisa live next door,” Brad says, motioning over his shoulder. “You new to the area?”

“Yep. I’m Ron, this is my partner Mitch.”

Brad shakes Mitch’s hand too. “Great to meet you guys. Let us know if you need anything.”

“Thanks. Yeah, same here.”

“Have a nice day.”

“You too.”

They watch him walk away, and then Ronnie turns back to pick up the bags again. “Your partner?” Mitch says quietly.

“Yeah.” Ronnie manages to pick up all the bags and close the trunk himself. “Two guys living together our age, they’d think it anyways.” He walks towards the door, and Mitch follows him. And it’s not till they’re in the door when Ronnie adds, “You have a problem with that?”

“No.”

“You sure about that?”

“Yeah. Just… surprised.”

Ronnie turns back to look at him. “Surprised, motherfucker?”

“Yeah,” Mitch answers, sounds defensive. That’s a mistake. Ronnie grins at him. “Surprised you’d say it.”

“Well. Can I keep saying it?” Ronnie asks, and goes to the kitchen to put all these bags down.

Mitch follows and raises his eyebrows at him. “Keep saying we’re partners? Like together?”

“Yep.”

“Sure,” he answers after a second. And that’s that.
  
They get jobs. Mitch drives a truck and does package delivery. Ronnie works at a factory, comes home smelling like motor oil. They spend their time at home doing nothing, watching TV or playing video games or training. But they only train casually now, only a couple hours a night, and they haven’t discussed their next goals.

It feels like a bubble Mitch is deathly afraid of popping. For three weeks, they’re just normal. A normal couple.

“Hey,” Ronnie says one night. They’re on the couch next to each other, just finished a movie and about to start a new one. Mitch is leaning against him, his head on Ronnie’s shoulder, and when he freezes up Ronnie says, “Don’t.”

“Okay. Well, what is it?”

“You’re jumpy,” Ronnie says, momentarily sidetracked. “Relax, I’m not gonna bite.”

“Then what is it?”

Ronnie looks at him, suspicious and concerned and hesitant. He’s been easier to read recently. Mitch can tell when he decides to let this drop. “Well, I was gonna ask you out, if that’s alright with you.”

“A little late for that, if you haven’t noticed.”

Ronnie gives Mitch the exasperated glare Mitch has started to think of as his favorite. “For dinner,” he says. “Like, a nice one. If you want to do that..”

“Nice places have cameras,” Mitch says.

“Let me worry about that.” Ronnie flips through a couple movies on Netflix. “Is that a yes?”

“Obviously it’s a yes, dude.” He sounds annoyed. He doesn’t mean to sound so annoyed.

Ronnie doesn’t seem to mind. “Well alright then,” he says, and turns on a documentary about football.

So then dates start being a normal thing for them too. Sometimes it’s explicit, but more often than not they’re just out somewhere together doing something mundane and Ronnie will just look at him a particular way, and Mitch will suddenly realize this could be a date too. Not that he’s opposed to it in any way, he’s just never been in a relationship this totally unremarkable.

A lot of that is down to Ronnie, probably. His default state seems to be nonchalance, or at least a really good front. He never seems too nervous when he asks Mitch to go somewhere or do something. And it’s kind of surprising but even though it’s almost never true, probably, the farce is contagious. Mitch feels like none of this is a big deal, most of the time.

He’s also never dated anyone else in this line of work. Or anyone, at all, since he started doing this stuff. So that’s probably a factor.

They’re out at the mall, on what Mitch thought was just a trip to get Ronnie jeans, but they’ve stopped a couple other places and Ronnie just bought him a sandwich and gave him one of those looks. So maybe they’re out on a date at a mall, Mitch is thinking. That’s when there’s an explosion.

Everyone runs, but Ronnie and him freeze. Mitch looks at him. “It’s not for us,” he says. “Right?”

“Bomb doesn’t make sense for us.”

“Terrorism?”

“Domestic, probably.” Ronnie looks at their sandwiches. “Guess it’s good we got these to go.”

Mitch rolls his eyes and they start walking. “Can’t believe you,” he says.

Ronnie grins. “Learned it form you, 24.”

They don’t have to discuss what they’re doing. Everyone’s running in one direction, away from the blast. They walk towards it, strides lengthening in unison.

“Who’d bomb a mall?” Mitch says, mostly rhetorically. But Ronnie, of course, knows the answer.

“Local, probably young, probably Caucasian, definitely male. Some kind of outcast at least in his own mind.”

They’re closer to the rubble now, which happened in the main, most populated area of the food court. There’s a girl standing in front of them, holding her bloody hand.

Ronnie takes her by the wrist and examines the room. “Hey,” he says, points with his pinky at the nail in her hand.

“Great,” Mitch says.

“What, what does that mean?” the girl asks.

“It’s shrapnel. Don’t take that out of your hand,” Ronnie says, looking her dead in the eyes. “Wait for the paramedics.”

“What does shrapnel mean?” she asks, more panicked, and Mitch notices how pale she is.

“Means he probably Googled how to make this bomb,” Ronnie answers, looking over at Mitch. “First time.”

“Probably stuck around to see the aftermath,” Mitch finishes the thought.

Ronnie nods once. “Keep an eye out.”

They walk closer to the epicenter and Mitch feels dizzy for a second, smelling blood and metal and smoke. Gunpowder, too. There’s a phantom ringing in his ears.

Ronnie grabs his upper arm. “Steady,” he says.

“I’m steady.” Mitch looks around at all the wounded, the people helping them. There’s a fair amount of rubble. Seems like the bomb went off near the ground. And as they get closer to the center, there’s some bodies. Limbs scattered in with pieces of tables and chairs. And nails, lots of them. Mitch doesn’t want to think about the body count.

Ronnie’s in hyper concentration mode, taking in every detail as they step through the destruction. He picks up a scrap of cloth. “Duffle bag.”

“Left it in a chair or under a table.”

Ronnie’s scanning the people watching. There’s a fair amount of people recording this. It makes Mitch antsy.

“We should get out of here,” he says.

“In a second.” Ronnie squats, touches some ash.

An old man to their left reaches out and Mitch realizes that he doesn’t have half his hand. “Help,” the old man rasps, and Mitch kneels down next to him. He rips a piece of the guy’s pant leg off and makes it into a tourniquet around the man’s wrist. He’s on autopilot, hands moving, and he runs through the faces they’ve passed in here in his mind.

He gets a flash of clarity, a memory of a kid in a white shirt, maybe, khaki pants. Unremarkable hair. The most memorable thing, though, was the expression on his face. Anxiety, and excitement. “Hey Ronnie,” he says, looking over at Ronnie. Ronnie’s tying off some lady’s missing leg. Definite severed femoral artery. She’s got a couple minutes max.

“What, Mitch.”

Mitch scans the crowd again, looking for the face to match his memories and sees it. They make eye contact, and the guy knows he’s been made. He spooks. “It’s him,” Mitch says.

Ronnie takes off in a dead sprint, and Mitch follows. He’s fast, but nobody beats Ronnie in sprints. His football career would’ve been legendary. The guy runs too, obviously, but they catch him easy, split up and block his path. “Stop, y’piece of shit,” Ronnie says, and when the kid doesn’t stop he tackles him.

“Nice catch,” Mitch says.

“Y’mad I stole it?” Ronnie smirks.

“Shut up.”

“Yeah, whatever. Go do some field medic shit. Wait, gimme your jacket first.” Mitch obeys, and Ronnie uses the jacket to hold the guy’s arms behind his back.

The guy’s been protesting this whole time. “I didn’t do anything,” he says as Ronnie hauls him to his feet.

“Yeah, you did, kiddo,” Ronnie says. “Stop struggling or I’ll break your arm.”

He’s got that handled so Mitch hurries back, to help some more wounded. It’s mostly tourniquets, tying off missing arms and feet to keep people from bleeding out. The paramedics are here in ten minutes anyways, and the police even before that. They should split. But Ronnie doesn’t say it, so Mitch doesn’t say it. And before they know it, some news anchor is asking them for an interview.

“No, we don’t want to make a fuss,” Ronnie answers for them both, and herds Mitch away with a hand on his back. And once they’re further away, but not out of sight, he takes Mitch’s hand in his.

“They’re definitely filming us,” Mitch says.

“I know,” Ronnie answers, as Mitch knew he would. “But we saved more than a dozen lives in here, I think they’ll deal with us being gay.”

Mitch bites his lip, choses his next words carefully. “I thought you weren’t gay.”

Ronnie looks over at him. “Well, I’m in love with you. So. You tell me.”

That night, when they’re in bed together, Mitch says it back. After that, he doesn’t care much what the plan is. They’ll figure something out.