A View to Save - Part 1
Masterpost
A View to Save
Tight spaces.
There isn’t much space to move in an elevator shaft, and there really isn’t much to see either. But it’s a hell of a lot more than, say, an air duct, which is where the masked agent in black is headed. The elevator is “broken”, courtesy of the other agent in the town car around the corner.
He zips up the line, standing on a rectangular device attached to it, one that Patrick had designed to power him up to the top floor. Brendon thinks it looks like a skateboard deck, and the agent chuckles. He thinks it’s more like a scooter since it has handles.
When he gets to the top, he stops the device (Patrick had called it an ECC 4000) and takes the rod at his side out of its holster. Pressing the correct button shoots a grappling hook toward some pipes just above the air vent. It makes noise, and the agent winces, hearing his handler say into his ear, “It’s all clear in the Harlequin Suite.”
The agent breathes in, detaches the ECC 4000 from the elevator cable, and pushes another button, and it collapses in on itself so that it is small enough for him to pocket. He grips the rope tightly and swings, his feet landing on the wall just next to the elevator doors. He climbs the wall to the air vent and, with a pocket electric screwdriver, gets the vent open so he can crawl in.
His handler directs him with “Left at the second junction, and then after fifty-four feet, you should be right above the mark’s room.”
“Copy that,” the agent whispers and gets going, skillfully crawling through the air vent at a steady pace. It isn’t long until he is right in front of a vent leading down into what looks like a very large bathroom.
After working on the screws, he pushes open the vent and is about to jump down when his handler shouts in his ear, “The mistress is approaching! Stand down.”
The agent looks into the bathroom as a glamorously dressed woman strides into the bathroom and toward a vanity, yelling, “Darling, don’t worry! I just left it in here.” There is something fake about the tone of her voice. She picks up a necklace and exits the room, the agent silently exhaling as he waits for his handler to give him the go ahead.
“Alright, they’re in the elevator.”
The agent pushes the vent down, and it swings open for him to jump inside. He moves swiftly with purpose out into the main sitting room where there is a large mahogany desk. “The briefcase on the desk contains the laptop. The combination to the lock on it is 73961.”
At his handler’s words, he locates the black briefcase and punches in the code on the top. It clicks open, revealing a silver computer. The agent turns it on, and while waiting for it to start up, he takes out three flash drives.
He sticks the blue one in and mutters, “Okay, Darren. You’re up.”
The screen comes to life as he watches the work of a hacker over five thousand miles away. “Alright, you’re in,” says the hacker.
The agent takes the flash drive out and sticks in another one, this time red.
“The blueprints should be in a file called ‘Snake’,” the handler says, just as the agent disables the file hiding software. After that, it is only a quick Spotlight search for ‘Snake’, and he’s found it.
He copies it all onto the flash drive then ejects it, replacing it with the third one, this time green. It only takes a few seconds until the screen scrambles, different colors of the visible spectrum dancing across it until finally the screen goes black. The agent smiles to himself before pocketing all three drives. He shuts the computer and closes the briefcase, and then he’s out of there.
An amazing leap in the bathroom and extraordinary skill and strength get the agent back into the vent. As he crawls back the way he came, he tugs on a pair of gloves, feeling his hands cool against the strange fabric. When he gets to the opening at the elevator shaft, his rope is still there, kept in place by the grappling hook, but it is too far to reach. The agent jumps and catches it, the force swinging the man to the elevator cable, which he grabs and latches his body around. Another press of the button on the rod at the bottom of the rope retracts the grappling hook, and he places it back into its holster.
“Marshall, I’m coming down. Get ready.”
“Standing by,” his partner says in his ear.
The agent flips the switch on his gloves, and he zips down the cable, flipping the switch again so that there is traction and leaving him less than a foot above the elevator car. He jumps down on top of it and through the hole, pulling the latch closed as he lands inside the car. His bag is still there, as it should be since no one has been able to call the elevator, let alone get inside it. He pulls off the outer layer of clothing, the belt with his equipment, and the mask, to reveal nothing more than a man with long curls dressed in an expensive button down shirt and gray trousers. He replaces his government-issued climbing shoes with Jeffrey-West leather dress shoes and tugs on the suit jacket to match his pants.
He stuffs everything into the luggage bag, except for the three flash drives, which he pockets.
“Okay, Marshall,” he says, and the elevator doors open just as the man puts on his Ray-Bans.
The luggage bag rolls behind him as he strolls past the concierge’s desk and exits The Dorchester, confident and undetected. There’s a town car waiting for him, and he gets in without waiting for anyone to open it. The town car starts to move, and the man exhales.
“Man, I can’t wait to get out of this outfit,” says the driver.
“I kind of like mine,” the man in the suit says with a frown.
In the rearview mirror, he can see his partner’s familiar eyeroll. “You get to be some big-shot business man while I get stuck being your driver. How is that fair? Plus, it’s way harder driving on the wrong side of the road.”
“In England, the left side is the correct side,” Brendon reminds Agent Marshall with a chuckle, his voice sounding through the speakers of the town car.
Again, Agent DeLeon notices his partner’s eyeroll. If their handler was anyone else but Brendon, Marshall would act much less flippantly, but Brendon has always been casual with his subordinates.
Fifty-five hundred miles away, Brendon just smiles and says, “Well done, agents. You’ll be back home soon, maybe in time to catch the Laker game.”
“Aw, I was hoping to make a quick stop at Buckingham Palace,” DeLeon says, finally breaking character and being himself.
“Sorry, guys. You must be debriefed.”
Brendon thinks he hears someone say something, thinks he hears, “I bet Mr. Ross says that all the time,” but he can’t be sure, so he ignores it. “See you all tomorrow.”
He closes communication with his agents and takes a step back from the monitors. Brendon had been watching about a dozen of them, and his eyes are starting to hurt.
It is only about one in the afternoon, but he’s been at FBR420 headquarters since the wee hours of the morning, and he is so grateful to be able to get home. Brendon isn’t really sleepy, but he is exhausted from the full day of work.
Brendon pats Darren on the shoulder. “Nice work.”
“Thanks,” the hacker says from behind brown plastic frames, clearly still focused on whatever is on the screen. “DeLeon is uploading everything onto our server.”
“Great, I’ll let Jon know.”
“Uh huh,” Darren says distractedly as the lines and lines of information keep moving up the screen before his eyes.
Brendon goes down the hall to the very last door. Jon Walker’s door. His knuckles tap out a quick, almost musical rhythm against it, and Brendon hears Jon say, “Come in, Brendon.”
“How’d you know it was me?” he asks when he enters.
Jon smiles. “Because you’re the only one here who would knock like that.”
Brendon opens his mouth to argue, but Jon holds up a finger and says, “Greta isn’t in this week.” Brendon shuts his mouth.
“Anyway, did everything go okay in London?” Jon asks.
“Yes,” Brendon says, nodding. “Agents DeLeon and Marshall were able to retrieve the intel. It’s being put on one of our servers as we speak.”
“Good,” Jon says nodding. “I’ll take a look at it and send it your way later to review before the team gets back in.” Brendon nods. “But for now, have Ryan take you home.”
Brendon blinks at his boss. They are friends, of course, but Jon is still his boss. “Excuse me?”
“You have been here since long before the sun came up. And Ryan… he looks like he could take an afternoon off.” Brendon frowns. So Jon has noticed too. The way Ryan looks… tired, almost. Even if he thinks it impossible for Ryan to even be tired.
“Alright. Thanks, Jon.”
“Spencer and I can handle anything that comes up. See you later tonight.”
Tonight! Brendon forgot about dinner at Leaves of Grass. Greta has been insisting they get together for the whole week.
Ryan’s office is the second one down from Jon’s (the one closest being Spencer’s), so he pokes his head in and finds Ryan slumped over his desk, tapping away on his computer with a bored look on his face.
Then Ryan looks up, and it’s as if he’s a different person. The hint of fatigue is there just as a shadow behind Ryan’s eyes, but a grin breaks out across his face, tilted up into an almost-smirk. There is the Ryan that Brendon knows and loves.
“To what do I owe this pleasure?” Ryan says, amusement in his eyes as Brendon’s lips quirk up in a playful smile.
“Not what, but whom,” Brendon says, walking into the office, but not shutting the door behind him. He catches Ryan looking at the open door with a disappointed look on his face. Never at headquarters. Never. It’s almost become a mantra for Brendon to keep his hands to himself at work. “And the answer is Jon.”
Ryan’s eyebrows move up in surprise. “Oh?”
“Yes, he says that you are to take me home right now and have dirty, hot sex with me.”
Ryan gives him a pointed look.
“He did! Not in so many words, but he did. You have the rest of the day off along with me.”
“Really?” Brendon notices a wave of relief pass over Ryan’s face. “Well, great. Meet you at the elevators in five? I have to finish this up.”
Brendon nods and watches Ryan turn back to his work. The old Ryan is gone again, replaced by the new, disinterested, lethargic Ryan. Brendon almost makes a comment but doesn’t in the end.
+
A smooth throaty voice fills the car with the sounds of horns behind it. “I won’t dance, don’t ask me. I won’t dance, don’t ask me,” Brendon sings along to Sinatra as Ryan drives, smiling now as it seems any residual tension has left his body.
“You know what?” Brendon continues, reaching over to Ryan to poke his cheek. “You’re lovely. You know what? You’re lovely.” At every “you’re”, he pokes Ryan, making him laugh.
Ryan in turn reaches out and digs his fingers into Brendon’s ribs, interrupting the singing since he has found Brendon’s ticklish spot. Brendon laughs mostly involuntarily. “Hey! You’re being a really unsafe driver,” Brendon tries between bouts of laughter.
“Shut up,” Ryan says, digging his fingers a little harder into Brendon’s ribs and causing him to jerk a little. “If I can navigate Paris while some reckless buffoon is trying to shoot me, I can certainly drive the streets I do every day while tickling my boyfriend.”
“I refuse - ha ha - to give in - ugh, Ry - to this torture. Stop.” Ryan relents and turns to drive up the coast. Brendon rolls down the windows to let in the salty air, breathing in deeply.
“I don’t get why I was punished for telling you that you’re lovely. You are,” Brendon says, pouting ever so slightly.
“You were poking me,” Ryan deadpans.
“You liked it,” Brendon says challengingly.
Ryan laughs. “Okay, you caught me.”
Brendon smiles triumphantly and takes Ryan’s hand in his, lacing them together and resting them on the center compartment. Brendon starts humming along to the CD this time, quite sure that their relationship is just fine. He shouldn’t be worried.
“One day, I’m going to take you to this place in the Village in New York. They have great Italian food and a huge pop art painting of Frank that we could sit in front of.”
Brendon smiles. Now that’d be a great date.
When they get to the house, Brendon takes out his key and opens the door. There are boxes strewn about the living room and kitchen. Brendon knows that Ryan doesn’t like the move at all, remembering Ryan yelling rather irrationally at Alex about how empty such a large house will seem. Brendon and Ryan have yet to talk about what they are going to do with the house all to themselves, the second floor practically empty.
Brendon leads the way up the stairs, and while his back is turned, he feels a soft pat on his butt.
“Ryan Ross,” he says, turning to see a mischievous look on Ryan’s face to indicate it was on purpose, “don’t you dare start what you don’t intend to finish.” Brendon notices his voice is a tad huskier than normal as he throws a flirty look over his shoulder.
“I would never,” Ryan responds, voice low as well.
Brendon smiles slyly and quickly lands a light smack on Ryan’s hip, a quick retaliation before he speeds up the stairs towards their bedroom. Ryan is right behind him and finds Brendon waiting in front of their bedroom door.
Ryan skids to a stop with arms stretched out, palms against the door on either side of Brendon’s head to block him. A shift of Brendon’s pelvis outward causes Ryan to groan involuntarily, and Brendon’s smile turns into a cunning one.
He tilts his head up, capturing Ryan’s lips in a kiss not too tender yet not too forceful. Ryan‘s arms travel down, one hand cupping Brendon’s cheek and the other pulling Brendon closer to him. Brendon’s hands have settled on Ryan’s hips, gripping tightly as they press their bodies together. He can feel Ryan’s body slowly turning into butter, becoming more pliable as the seconds pass.
Brendon turns his head, kissing once softly at Ryan’s jaw, and whispers, “Bed,” like it is more than a word but a promise. Ryan nods and turns the knob of the door Brendon is pressed against, and as the it swings open, Brendon guides Ryan inside, pushing him backwards until the back of Ryan’s knees hit the bed, causing him to sit. Brendon walks back to shut the door, and when he turns, Ryan visibly swallows. He is right where Brendon wants him.
+
Brendon pries an eye open, the sunlight of late afternoon streaming into the room through the west-facing French doors and landing on his face to successfully wake him up. He opens the other eye to find his arms tangled around a naked, bony individual, still napping. He doesn’t sleep with a gun under his pillow anymore; Ryan had built a special holster onto the side of both his and Brendon’s end tables. Just to be safe.
He doesn’t know if he unintentionally moved too much, but Ryan stirs next to him, both eyes awake and already alert. He smiles up at Brendon, who has shifted to sit up, bare back resting against the headboard. “We fell asleep,” Ryan says.
Brendon laughs. “We did a bit more than that.”
Ryan shoves him playfully. “That goes without saying.”
Brendon leans down to press a kiss to the top of Ryan’s head, but Ryan has his arm around him fast and pulls Brendon down for a deeper kiss. Ryan nuzzles Brendon’s neck, muttering an “I love you” onto his skin just under Brendon’s ear.
Brendon’s hand comes up and grasps Ryan’s, squeezing tightly, while Ryan is busy placing soft kisses along Brendon’s jaw and neck. “I was beginning to worry,” Brendon says.
Ryan stills. Brendon really hadn’t planned on bringing it up just then, or even ever, but he guesses, sometimes, his mouth moves faster than his brain. And when it comes to something that’s just bothering him on a deeper level, Brendon should know that it’s going to come out sooner or later.
“What?” Ryan asks, obviously completely puzzled.
“I can tell something’s up with you,” Brendon says, squeezing Ryan’s hand again. “I know it’s not something sudden, that it’s been building for a while.”
Ryan shuts his eyes tightly. “It has nothing to do with how I feel about you.”
“Then what does it have to do with?” Brendon asks without hesitation. He’s pushing, and he knows it. But it’s them. They have to talk about it.
There is a pause, Ryan trying to figure out what to say. “It’s nothing you need to worry about.” Brendon is about to protest, because it’s too easy, a cop-out, but Ryan says quickly, “It’s something I have to get over on my own.”
Brendon sits up again, looking down at his lap and avoiding Ryan’s face. He should feel better, but he doesn’t. Ryan could be lying or in denial or way over his head about something. He doesn’t get that, if it’s affecting him so much, whatever it is, it’s Brendon’s problem too. They’ve been together for a year and half. It should count for something.
“I love you,” Ryan repeats. “I mean it every time I say it.”
It’s a good thing to hear. Brendon will give Ryan that. He doesn’t want to let it go though.
“You still haven’t-”
“I know. I just want to handle it on my own,” Ryan says. “Please.”
Brendon hesitates. “You promise it has nothing to do with our relationship?”
“Promise,” Ryan says. “If anything, we are the one thing I’m most happy about.”
Brendon nods. “Okay. But if I see you’re not handling whatever it is, I’m going to say something. I’m not going ignore it.”
“Okay,” Ryan concedes.
“Okay,” Brendon echoes, kissing Ryan’s temple.
They lie there together in silence for a while until they hear the faint sound of a door closing. “Shit, what time is it?” Brendon says, looking around for the time.
Ryan cranes his neck and looks at the clock, cringing. “Damn it, we need to get dressed.”
Right on cue, there is a knock on their door. “Gentlemen,” Greta’s voice says through the wood of the door, cheerful and sweet-sounding, “this is your reminder that we have to be at the restaurant in forty-five minutes.”
“Fuck, we both need showers too,” Ryan says as he sits up, the sound of Greta’s footsteps going back down to the second floor.
Brendon gives him a sly look before getting up, letting the sheet fall away to leave him bare. “I know how we can save time.”
As he walks away, he feels Ryan’s eyes on him and can hear him laughing a little as he follows Brendon into the bathroom.
+
“So I left Spencer in the locker room, took all his clothes with me,” Ryan says, concluding his story by taking a sip of his iced tea. Brendon is in hysterics beside him, Greta and Jon are laughing politely, Alex is rolling his eyes with a smile, and Spencer looks this close to taking Ryan’s head off.
“That’s not funny,” Spencer says, and all laughter is stifled except for Ryan’s slight chuckle. “I was traumatized.”
“Stop being a baby,” Ryan says glibly. “That was almost ten years ago. You don’t hate me anymore.”
Spencer rolls his eyes. “That’s not the point.”
Ryan shakes his head. “Don’t pretend you didn’t pull any pranks on me. I won’t let you get away with making everyone at this table think that I bullied you.”
Spencer glares at him, and Ryan responds with a glare back. Brendon’s eyes flit between the two, as the tension gets thicker.
“Spence,” Jon says, hints of concern and placation in his voice.
“Um,” Brendon mumbles, glancing at Ryan.
“Wait for it,” Alex whispers to Brendon, who glances back quickly at Alex’s smiling face.
A few seconds later, Spencer and Ryan are in fits of laughter.
“Oh God, we were assholes back then, huh?” Spencer says.
“Speak for yourself,” Ryan replies. “I was positively charming.”
Alex snorts. “I wouldn’t go that far.”
Brendon tries to laugh, and he thinks he’s successful at it. He doesn’t really know what it is. Alright, it could possibly, maybe have to do with the fact he’s always wished he knew Ryan back then. It would’ve been a better upbringing for Brendon at the very least.
“So, Alex,” Jon says, “dinner was fantastic.”
“Thanks,” Alex says, smiling. “It was nothing. Whipped it up really fast, very easy.”
“Stop being so modest,” Greta says, pinching his cheek. Then she turns to everyone at the table. “Well, we got everyone together tonight for a reason.”
Brendon looks to Ryan, who sits up straighter, for a hint of what it might be about, but Ryan clearly has no idea. “As you all know,” Greta continues, “Alex and I are moving out of Ryan’s. And even though it’s been fun living with Ryan, and Brendon too, we had a reason.”
She turns to her purse hanging off the chair and digs around in it. Brendon tries to see, but Spencer’s body is blocking her. Then Greta thrusts her hand out in front of her, and there is a small glittering diamond on her ring finger. “Alex asked me to marry him, and I said yes. We’re getting married!”
The table erupts with exclamations and congratulations. Brendon smiles as he hugs Alex and Greta, telling them how happy he is for them. Out of the corner of his eye, however, he notices the way Ryan’s smile is a little tighter and thinner than normal, and Brendon can’t help but worry.
+
A couple of days later, Brendon can feel Patrick’s excitement from where he sits at the conference table between Ryan and Spencer. The screen behind them is on, and Pete watches stoically from it. Jon, sitting at the end of the table, gives Patrick the nod to start.
“Okay, well, I’ve got some new equipment that is out of the beta phase and ready for use in the field,” Patrick says, eyebrows jumping up into his trucker hat. He shoves his glasses up with his knuckle.
“I’ll start with the new phones.” He pulls out what looks to be - at least to Brendon - an iPhone. Upon closer inspection, it seems much sleeker and there is no Apple logo. “As you all know, we obtained the iPhone designs years ago.”
“You all can thank me for that,” Jon says with a smile. “One of my first missions.”
“Naturally, I improved on them quite a bit. With this phone, you can trace any call, incoming or outgoing, log on securely to our systems, even encrypt voice messages, texts, and emails automatically. You can make anything you send from our phones untraceable. Greta had a huge part in designing the software. There’s even a built in lock-picking system.”
Patrick demonstrates all the features, showing how the phone scans a lock and picks it with minimal effort using tools that pop out from it, and Brendon has to admit that it is far better than Alex’s iPhone.
“Everyone will get a manual-”
“And it will be a mandatory read for all agents and handlers,” Jon says, jumping in. Brendon sighs. He’s sure he could figure it out on his own.
“Right,” he says, handing the phone to Ryan to study.
“Okay, what else?” Spencer asks.
“I’ve improved on the pen series.”
“We have a very deceptive design,” he says, picking up a sleek, Montblanc-like pen from a box. “It works like a normal ball point pen, so anyone can test it,” he says, uncapping it and leaning over to write on the pad of paper Spencer was taking notes on. “But a firm push and twist counterclockwise…”
He demonstrates it, and the pen has morphed, pieces shifting and moving into place to form what looks like a Bowie knife. To his right, Ryan is probably nodding, impressed with Patrick’s innovation. However, Brendon doesn’t actually look at Ryan because he is absolutely vibrating with excitement, phone set aside next to him. This is the closest to Transformers he is going to get.
Patrick sets the knife down and picks up another pen. “The guns are a tad trickier.” He pulls out a single bullet. “You can store a bullet inside for a quick fire,” he explains, screwing off the tip and slipping the bullet in. Then he pushes and twists the other end, transforming the ballpoint pen into a Glock, pieces clanging and shifting into place. “If you want to have more ammunition, you’ll need to carry magazines with you.”
He looks down. “That’s a major flaw in my design. I apologize.”
Brendon laughs, reaching for the knife and inspecting it. “Are you kidding? This is brilliant, will really help against the Decepticons.”
Patrick looks excited again. “You just push that button right there, and it will go back to being a pen,” he tells Brendon. Brendon tests it out, pushing the button just at the bottom of the handle, and soon after, a pen is resting in his palm.
“Cool,” Brendon says, shrugging and handing it to Ryan to inspect.
“Very cool,” Spencer adds, reaching across Brendon and snatching it from Ryan.
“What else have you got?” Ryan asks.
Patrick nods, pulling out a small box and extracting a tray of cartridges. “These cartridges contain bullets with a GPS tracker in them.” He displays them for the four men to see. “Say you shoot someone to wound but not to kill, and they get away. It’ll take some time for them to get to a hospital or a medic to get the bullet removed and by then you’ll have tracked them.” He nods to the phone next to Brendon, smiling. “There’s an app for that.”
Brendon can see how that would be handy, though shooting to wound is so boring.
“Just be careful with these,” Pete says from the screen behind them, “Use them wisely.” Patrick shoots Ryan a pointed look, and Ryan just rolls his eyes in response.
“Next,” Patrick continues, taking out a display head with a wig on it. The base of the display head has a cord on it. “We have self-styling wigs.”
Ryan cocks his head. “Is it because all of the agents are really bad hairdressers?”
“Yes,” Patrick deadpans, and Brendon snorts. “Anyway, you plug your phone in and-”
“Let me guess,” Spencer says. “There’s an app for that.”
“Precisely,” Patrick says, tapping the screen. “You can choose the color. We have a wide range of natural and unnatural hair colors. Then there’s length, texture, volume, plus several different styles. You’ll need to play with it.”
They all watch as Patrick makes a blonde beehive wig, the hairs lightening, growing, and twisting together before their eyes. He then detaches the wig and puts it on Brendon’s head.
“I look hot, don’t I?” Brendon says, whispering to Ryan.
“I wouldn’t wear it to bed,” Ryan answers.
“Screw you, I’m fucking beautiful,” Brendon says haughtily, and Ryan smiles.
“And that concludes my presentation,” Patrick says, walking over to Brendon to remove the wig. “These will be available by Friday.”
Patrick bows and thanks everyone before leaving.
Jon and Spencer exit, citing lots of work to be done, and Pete excuses himself as the video feed shuts off. Brendon stretches in his seat, and Ryan rubs at his temple.
“Tired?” Brendon asks, hand on Ryan’s shoulder. Ryan shakes his head, though the gesture is unconvincing since he yawns as he does it.
“I have to brief the Alexes first. I think they’re waiting by the door. But we should have lunch afterwards.”
“A lot of paperwork,” Ryan mumbles.
“You have to eat, right?” Brendon offers, and eventually, Ryan nods.
“I’ll come find you after, okay?” Brendon says, smiling, and Ryan smiles back as he gets up to leave and goes to send the Alexes in before heading to his office.
Brendon stands from his seat, gathering the different files that he’ll need for the briefing. Soon, in come Agent DeLeon and Agent Marshall, walking in fresh-faced and eager for a new mission after Jon had debriefed them the day before on their last. Brendon’s lips tilt up in a half smile. “Have a seat, gentlemen.”
They do, and Brendon hands them each a folder. He picks up the remote and turns on the large screen to commence the presentation. “Drugs, arms, people. All are being moved across borders, sold to the highest bidder to be dispersed to thousands of lowlifes across the country,” Brendon says as pictures of each come up on the screen. “One of the newest yet most successful organized crime groups responsible for trafficking is The Clan. They operate out of New York.”
“Excuse me, Brendon,” Agent DeLeon says. “Why doesn’t the New York division handle this then? Isn’t it under their jurisdiction?”
Brendon nods. “Normally, it would be. But they handed us the case for a couple of reasons. The New York division is swamped right now. They just busted a covert terrorist organization that was operating out of lower Manhattan.”
He pushes a button on the remote, and a picture of a man pops up. “And then there is, of course, the issue of Mr. Alex Suarez.” He looks to his two agents, the curly-haired one rolling his eyes. Brendon chuckles. “Yeah, I know. Tough to keep all of you guys straight. But Suarez here was one of our targets in the past. He escaped years ago when we tried to apprehend him and has disappeared. However, one of the New York division’s sources has named him as The Clan’s head honcho.”
Brendon leans forward, hands on the long table in front of him. “Pack your bags, guys. You’re going to New York.” The two agents look excited about that. “Agent Marshall, you will be backup and technical support. Agent DeLeon, you’re the point man in this mission. Right now, it’s recon. You will need to obtain the location of The Clan’s headquarters as well as relaying as much information and evidence about their daily operations as possible and, eventually, confirm that Suarez is indeed the mastermind behind their dealings. You will go over there and assess the situation, then check in with me for further instructions. I will be assisting you from headquarters here. Any questions?”
“Will we need to plan an extraction or go undercover?” asks Agent Marshall.
“Maybe,” Brendon answers. “It all depends on how deep this thing is. My hunch is that it’s likely, and you should prepare yourselves for it.”
The two agents nod. “Your flight leaves at six. All necessary equipment will already be onboard the plane. You two are dismissed.”
The Alexes get up and leave, and Brendon sighs, though he smiles at the prospect of lunch.
+
When the food comes, Ryan doesn’t seem all that hungry. He has been quiet for most of lunch, letting Brendon take over conversation as he pushes his food around the plate. Brendon hasn’t missed it, and he’s finding it harder to ignore as every minute passes.
He nudges Ryan’s foot. “Are you okay?” Brendon asks.
Ryan blinks. “Fine.”
“You don’t seem like it.”
“Well, I am,” Ryan says with obviously fake insouciance.
Brendon can’t let it go. He told Ryan he wouldn’t. “You’re not-”
“I’m fine, okay!” Ryan snaps.
Brendon’s jaw tenses, his lips pursing together so all that is left of his normally luscious lips is a thin angry line. He glares at Ryan for a second and then looks to his food, and they finish in silence. When the check comes, Brendon slips his credit card in and closes the billfold a little harder than necessary, and to avoid having to say anything to Ryan, he pulls out his phone and starts playing with it.
“Look, Brendon-” Ryan says when he gets to the car, but Brendon interrupts him.
“You don’t seem to want to talk to me, so I don’t want to talk to you either,” Brendon says and gets in the car. Ryan gets in silently as well. Brendon sees a frown out of the corner of his eye, but that’s it.
Ryan seems to have given up on the fight, which is even more disconcerting than Ryan’s mood during lunch. Anytime he doesn’t fight back is cause for concern; the last time it happened, they weren’t even together yet.
Just after ten that night once he finished coaching one of his teams in Venezuela on their mission, Brendon feels tired as he leaves for home by himself, since Ryan left in his own car hours before.
When he walks into the house, he heads up the two flights of stairs to the third floor, but instead of going straight to the bedroom, he follows the sounds of Ryan talking in his office.
“You always win a bet with yourself,” he hears Ryan say. “And lose too. Besides, my misery is no laughing matter.”
It doesn’t take a genius to know that Ryan is talking to Alex about him. Or maybe complaining about him. He leaves for the bedroom, not wanting to hear anymore.
Brendon takes off his suit jacket and slips it onto a hanger, moving into the large walk-in closet to put it away. He untucks his shirt as he walks back out but stops in the middle of undoing his tie because Ryan is standing there wide-eyed in the doorway.
“I didn’t know you were home,” Ryan mumbles.
Brendon averts his gaze and grunts, continuing to pull the tie off and toss it onto a chair.
“I was just wondering,” Ryan says quietly, “if you want me to sleep in another room tonight.”
“Do whatever you want. It’s your house,” Brendon says as he unbuttons his shirt.
Brendon notices Ryan take a cautious step forward. “It’s yours too.”
Brendon just shrugs, pulling on a plain white v-neck to sleep in.
“You know, I’d rather sleep next to you mad at me than stay up all night because I miss you downstairs,” Ryan says after another step.
The muscles in Brendon’s face relax as he steps out of his pants so he can sleep in his boxers. He finally turns his head to look at Ryan directly, and Ryan is closer than he thought. Brendon thinks Ryan looks a bit downcast.
“I know I’m being difficult,” Ryan says quickly, as if he thinks he’ll lose his chance if he hesitates. “I’m just-”
“We can talk about this in the morning,” Brendon says, interrupting and causing Ryan to shut up immediately, completely unsure of himself. It’s always strange and unsettling to see a diffident Ryan. “I’m tired and I just want us to go to bed.”
“Us?” Ryan asks with a hint of a smile.
Brendon returns the smile. “Yeah, us.”
+
Ryan’s phone is ringing, and all Brendon wants is for it to stop. He pokes the warm body next to him, and Ryan removes his arm from Brendon’s chest and reaches to pick up the phone.
“Hello?” Ryan says into the phone as Brendon adjusts to huddle close to Ryan so as not to lose comfort and warmth.
Suddenly, Ryan sits up, forcing Brendon to move, and turns on the light on his bedside table. Brendon rubs his eyes with the heels of his palms. “What?” Ryan says, and Brendon pauses at the alarm in Ryan’s voice. “When - How do you -”
Ryan is getting cut off at every question he tries to ask, like the speaker is talking quickly and urgently, and Brendon can see that what he’s being told is incredibly serious. The line in the middle of Ryan’s forehead, the one that Brendon is sure he’s too young to have, is evidence enough for Brendon.
“Listen to me, don’t talk to anyone else until I get there,” Ryan orders. “Greta, promise me.”
Greta? What could possibly be going on with her?
“Okay. Everything’s going to be okay. I’ll be there soon.” Ryan hangs up the phone and gets up right away, tugging on a pair of dark jeans over his boxers.
“What’s going on?” Brendon asks, getting out of bed too. “What’s wrong with Greta?”
“I need to go over there,” Ryan says distractedly, pulling a shirt over his head. He isn’t paying attention and doesn’t notice that it’s one of Brendon’s.
“Why?” Brendon asks, but Ryan doesn’t say anything as he shrugs on his jacket.
Finally, Brendon grabs Ryan’s arm as he reaches for his keys and yells, “Ryan!”
Ryan turns slowly, and Brendon can see that, under his swift and controlled actions, his insistence that everything will be fine, Ryan is freaking out in the inside.
“What happened?” Brendon asks slowly in a firm but calm tone.
“Alex is gone.”
+
When Ryan pulls his car in front of the Brentwood condominium, Greta is outside waiting for them.
Brendon notes she is still dressed for work, though she’s switched her stylish black flats for brown house slippers. Her makeup is smeared, nose red, and eyes puffy and bloodshot. It kills him to see her like this.
“Thank God you’re here,” Greta says quietly as she hugs them. “I’m just - I don’t know what to do.” Her eyes start to water, but she doesn’t cry.
“It’s okay,” Ryan says, arm around her and leading her up the stairs to Greta and Alex’s apartment.
Brendon adds, “We’ll do everything we can to help.”
Once inside, Ryan says, “No one touch anything. Just tell me what happened, Greta.”
She sighs and looks up while breathing in deeply, as if to calm herself down. “Alright. Well, I came home around two-thirty since I was helping Spencer out with one of his teams in Australia. Alex should have been home asleep, but the place was empty. His car was in his spot though.”
Greta starts pacing. “Of course I wondered where he was, so I called him. His phone was on the dresser, next to his wallet and keys. And then I checked his phone, and he had a voicemail from the manager of the restaurant, wondering where he was because he should’ve been back. I called him, even though it’s late, and he told me Alex went home at around eight-thirty to change his pants because he spilled sauce all over the ones he was wearing and was supposed to be back, but he never showed. I found the pants too, in the hamper.
“Even if-” Greta pauses, and finally, she starts to cry. Brendon rushes forward and hands her a tissue from the coffee table. “Even if Alex left me, he would’ve had his wallet with him, at the very least.”
“Alex would never leave you,” Brendon whispers, holding Greta to him.
Ryan crosses his arms, looking like he is doing some very hard thinking. Then he says, “He was taken. There’s no other explanation for it.”
“But why?” Brendon asks. “Why would anyone kidnap him? He’s a civilian. He’s a chef, for Christ’s sake!”
“Me?” Ryan offers. “Someone with a grudge against me linked him to me. Trying to send me a message by taking him.”
The way Ryan says it, it sounds like that’s what he believes. “I don’t know,” Brendon says.
“Think about it,” Ryan says. “Think about what I do, what I’ve done. I’ve pissed off a lot of people; anyone connected to one of my current or past cases could easily be responsible for this.”
“Do you think he’s…” Greta says, and everyone in the room knows what the end of that sentence is.
“No,” Ryan says. “If they wanted him dead, they would’ve killed him here. Unfortunately, we’ll have to wait until they contact us. We have no idea where to look.”
Brendon knows Ryan is right about that part at least. Alex is alive somewhere.
“What about police?” Greta asks.
Ryan shakes his head. “No. I don’t trust them. We need to have our agents on this.”
Brendon doesn’t think that’s a good idea at all. “But Ryan-”
“I need to talk to Pete, excuse me,” he says quickly, pulling out his phone and heading into the kitchen. Brendon hands Greta another tissue.
“We’ll find him, Greta,” Brendon says.
“If anyone could, it’d be you guys,” she says, sniffing.
Then, they hear a crash coming from the other room, followed by Ryan yelling, “What do you mean it’s not an FBR420 matter?! Sir, he knows several agents, is engaged to one! How is this not our problem?”
After a pause, Ryan exclaims, “No proof? What more do you need? Why won’t you - Asshole!”
Ryan bursts into the room. “Pete hung up on me! What a bastard.”
“What’d he say?” Brendon asks, even though both he and Greta have already figured it out.
“He said to go the police because there’s no proof that this is a matter of national security. Alex is a civilian, and he doesn’t want us devoting FBR420 resources to him. I’m not even allowed to tell Jon and Spencer about Alex being gone. This is bullshit.”
Brendon hates to be the one to bring it up, but he has to. “Maybe we should-”
“No police. No.” Ryan clenches his fists, stance determined. “Don’t tell anyone what happened. I’ll take care of it. I’m going to find him myself.”
+
The next couple of days at FBR420 are bizarre. A casual observer would see business as usual. But Brendon knows something is off and can feel it in his bones. Greta has a permanent frown on her face as she works at her station, glazed-over eyes staring at her computer screen as if not really seeing it. All day, she looks as if she just cried, and she sits as if she is folding in on herself.
Ryan’s state is alarming in a different way. He is going about his day like the model handler, keeping his agents’ files as up-to-date as possible and checking in with his teams more than he has to. Ryan even asks Jon to borrow his computer to do more work when Darren is busy fixing his after a crash. He acts as if nothing is wrong, smiling almost genuinely at his colleagues and speaking encouragingly to them. Brendon knows Ryan, and that is not Ryan.
“Sir?” DeLeon says from the monitor.
Brendon blinks, realizing that he is in the middle of debriefing his team. “Sorry, kind of spaced out. So what have you two found out?”
“We have discovered that The Clan is operating out of a building in the Upper West Side, with a club as their front.”
“Excellent,” Brendon says. “Your next instructions are as follows: you will use your alias, Alec Singer, to infiltrate The Clan. Start out with working at the club. Make them think you want to join, be one of their lackeys, that sort of thing. Once you are in, you assess the situation from the inside and report back. Have Agent Marshall help you with surveillance and documentation, audio and video when possible.”
DeLeon nods on the screen. “Copy that, Mr. Urie.”
The feed cuts off, and Brendon sighs as he removes his headset and hands it back to Darren.
“You okay, Brendon?” Darren asks, concerned, which is unusual since he usually doesn’t bother with anything that doesn’t involve computer keys, code, and a monitor.
Brendon tries to smile. “Yeah, I’m fine.”
Darren looks skeptical, eyeing Brendon for a second. For a moment, Brendon thinks he may have passed whatever test Darren subjected him to, but as he walks away, he hears him mutter under his breath, “What is it with everyone these days?”
Brendon pauses mid-stride and looks to his left where Greta is working, watching her as she rests her head on her hand, looking positively worn out.
He sighs as he continues walking back to his office. Brendon glances at Ryan’s shut door, blinds covering the window into the office drawn closed too. Ryan barely says anything to him now, and it’s distressing, to say the least.
Each day that passes seems to drag on longer and longer, and Brendon wonders if everything will ever feel right like it used to. Alex is in danger, and the people who care about him can’t do anything about it, their real selves evaporating before Brendon’s eyes and leaving behind hollow shells.
Brendon knocks on Ryan’s door, even though he would normally barge in. “It’s me,” he calls.
There’s a pause. “I’m busy,” he hears through the door. Nothing inviting him to come in.
“Okay,” Brendon says, trying not to sound as hurt as he feels.
He turns to go back to his office when he accidentally bumps into Spencer, who is probably heading to his own.
“You alright there, Brendon?” Spencer asks, even though Brendon bumped into him.
“Yeah, fine,” Brendon answers automatically before slipping into his own office and shutting the door.
+
Brendon tugs on the wrapping tape, securing it just above his wrist. He walks out onto the training floor in a sleeveless shirt and shorts, several agents still there working out and sparring. He doesn’t do this as often as he used to, but he misses it. Plus, Brendon needs to clear his head.
He jumps a rope for a few minutes, and Brendon can already feel himself sweat, knowing there’s a light sheen on his forehead. He hasn’t even really started yet.
The punching bag is just a few feet away, and Brendon approaches it, shifting his weight from one foot to the next and keeping on the balls of his bare feet. He tilts his head to the left and to the right, stretching out his neck muscles.
And then he punches, a quick jab with his left. He does it again and this time adds a reverse with the right. Brendon isn’t wearing gloves; he doesn’t think he’ll punch hard enough to need to.
Brendon does the same routine for a few minutes, getting into that mindset where everything but him and the bag are there. He doesn’t notice the agents around him still going about their training.
Suddenly, he breaks his small punching routine and gives the bag a quick kick with his right foot along with a slightly audible exhalation of air. He comes around and tries a circular kick, still punching intermittently. A drop of sweat trickles down his forehead, but Brendon pays no mind to it.
Brendon doesn’t know how long he’d been going at it before his punches and kicks become harder, his breathing broken up with louder grunts. It’s just him out there, even when a few agents stop what they’re doing to watch.
Every assault makes him feel just a little lighter. Makes him forget and focus. The sounds come out on their own, and the tension seeps out with each grunt.
And then he stops, his breath labored, his shirt drenched. He raises his hands above his head to rest up there while he catches his breath, and Brendon turns around and pauses.
Everyone in the training room is staring at him.
He turns back around to ignore them and grab his towel to wipe away the sweat, when he feels the soreness of his hands. The tape wrapped around his hands is all messed up, and his hands are practically ravaged and bleeding in some parts where the tape moved. He doesn’t pay attention to the pain, just picks up his water bottle and downs half of it.
As he walks toward the locker room, he sees Spencer leaning against the back wall, watching the agents, who’ve gone back to their training, intently. Brendon is sure, though, that Spencer had seen him.
That night, Brendon comes home later than Ryan, and when he goes up the stairs to check on him, he hears music playing through the door of Ryan’s study. He tries the door this time, and it’s locked.
Brendon withdraws his hand, bandaged from earlier, like he’s been burned. Ryan and Brendon are the only ones in the house. That locked door is meant for him.
Part 2
A View to Save
Tight spaces.
There isn’t much space to move in an elevator shaft, and there really isn’t much to see either. But it’s a hell of a lot more than, say, an air duct, which is where the masked agent in black is headed. The elevator is “broken”, courtesy of the other agent in the town car around the corner.
He zips up the line, standing on a rectangular device attached to it, one that Patrick had designed to power him up to the top floor. Brendon thinks it looks like a skateboard deck, and the agent chuckles. He thinks it’s more like a scooter since it has handles.
When he gets to the top, he stops the device (Patrick had called it an ECC 4000) and takes the rod at his side out of its holster. Pressing the correct button shoots a grappling hook toward some pipes just above the air vent. It makes noise, and the agent winces, hearing his handler say into his ear, “It’s all clear in the Harlequin Suite.”
The agent breathes in, detaches the ECC 4000 from the elevator cable, and pushes another button, and it collapses in on itself so that it is small enough for him to pocket. He grips the rope tightly and swings, his feet landing on the wall just next to the elevator doors. He climbs the wall to the air vent and, with a pocket electric screwdriver, gets the vent open so he can crawl in.
His handler directs him with “Left at the second junction, and then after fifty-four feet, you should be right above the mark’s room.”
“Copy that,” the agent whispers and gets going, skillfully crawling through the air vent at a steady pace. It isn’t long until he is right in front of a vent leading down into what looks like a very large bathroom.
After working on the screws, he pushes open the vent and is about to jump down when his handler shouts in his ear, “The mistress is approaching! Stand down.”
The agent looks into the bathroom as a glamorously dressed woman strides into the bathroom and toward a vanity, yelling, “Darling, don’t worry! I just left it in here.” There is something fake about the tone of her voice. She picks up a necklace and exits the room, the agent silently exhaling as he waits for his handler to give him the go ahead.
“Alright, they’re in the elevator.”
The agent pushes the vent down, and it swings open for him to jump inside. He moves swiftly with purpose out into the main sitting room where there is a large mahogany desk. “The briefcase on the desk contains the laptop. The combination to the lock on it is 73961.”
At his handler’s words, he locates the black briefcase and punches in the code on the top. It clicks open, revealing a silver computer. The agent turns it on, and while waiting for it to start up, he takes out three flash drives.
He sticks the blue one in and mutters, “Okay, Darren. You’re up.”
The screen comes to life as he watches the work of a hacker over five thousand miles away. “Alright, you’re in,” says the hacker.
The agent takes the flash drive out and sticks in another one, this time red.
“The blueprints should be in a file called ‘Snake’,” the handler says, just as the agent disables the file hiding software. After that, it is only a quick Spotlight search for ‘Snake’, and he’s found it.
He copies it all onto the flash drive then ejects it, replacing it with the third one, this time green. It only takes a few seconds until the screen scrambles, different colors of the visible spectrum dancing across it until finally the screen goes black. The agent smiles to himself before pocketing all three drives. He shuts the computer and closes the briefcase, and then he’s out of there.
An amazing leap in the bathroom and extraordinary skill and strength get the agent back into the vent. As he crawls back the way he came, he tugs on a pair of gloves, feeling his hands cool against the strange fabric. When he gets to the opening at the elevator shaft, his rope is still there, kept in place by the grappling hook, but it is too far to reach. The agent jumps and catches it, the force swinging the man to the elevator cable, which he grabs and latches his body around. Another press of the button on the rod at the bottom of the rope retracts the grappling hook, and he places it back into its holster.
“Marshall, I’m coming down. Get ready.”
“Standing by,” his partner says in his ear.
The agent flips the switch on his gloves, and he zips down the cable, flipping the switch again so that there is traction and leaving him less than a foot above the elevator car. He jumps down on top of it and through the hole, pulling the latch closed as he lands inside the car. His bag is still there, as it should be since no one has been able to call the elevator, let alone get inside it. He pulls off the outer layer of clothing, the belt with his equipment, and the mask, to reveal nothing more than a man with long curls dressed in an expensive button down shirt and gray trousers. He replaces his government-issued climbing shoes with Jeffrey-West leather dress shoes and tugs on the suit jacket to match his pants.
He stuffs everything into the luggage bag, except for the three flash drives, which he pockets.
“Okay, Marshall,” he says, and the elevator doors open just as the man puts on his Ray-Bans.
The luggage bag rolls behind him as he strolls past the concierge’s desk and exits The Dorchester, confident and undetected. There’s a town car waiting for him, and he gets in without waiting for anyone to open it. The town car starts to move, and the man exhales.
“Man, I can’t wait to get out of this outfit,” says the driver.
“I kind of like mine,” the man in the suit says with a frown.
In the rearview mirror, he can see his partner’s familiar eyeroll. “You get to be some big-shot business man while I get stuck being your driver. How is that fair? Plus, it’s way harder driving on the wrong side of the road.”
“In England, the left side is the correct side,” Brendon reminds Agent Marshall with a chuckle, his voice sounding through the speakers of the town car.
Again, Agent DeLeon notices his partner’s eyeroll. If their handler was anyone else but Brendon, Marshall would act much less flippantly, but Brendon has always been casual with his subordinates.
Fifty-five hundred miles away, Brendon just smiles and says, “Well done, agents. You’ll be back home soon, maybe in time to catch the Laker game.”
“Aw, I was hoping to make a quick stop at Buckingham Palace,” DeLeon says, finally breaking character and being himself.
“Sorry, guys. You must be debriefed.”
Brendon thinks he hears someone say something, thinks he hears, “I bet Mr. Ross says that all the time,” but he can’t be sure, so he ignores it. “See you all tomorrow.”
He closes communication with his agents and takes a step back from the monitors. Brendon had been watching about a dozen of them, and his eyes are starting to hurt.
It is only about one in the afternoon, but he’s been at FBR420 headquarters since the wee hours of the morning, and he is so grateful to be able to get home. Brendon isn’t really sleepy, but he is exhausted from the full day of work.
Brendon pats Darren on the shoulder. “Nice work.”
“Thanks,” the hacker says from behind brown plastic frames, clearly still focused on whatever is on the screen. “DeLeon is uploading everything onto our server.”
“Great, I’ll let Jon know.”
“Uh huh,” Darren says distractedly as the lines and lines of information keep moving up the screen before his eyes.
Brendon goes down the hall to the very last door. Jon Walker’s door. His knuckles tap out a quick, almost musical rhythm against it, and Brendon hears Jon say, “Come in, Brendon.”
“How’d you know it was me?” he asks when he enters.
Jon smiles. “Because you’re the only one here who would knock like that.”
Brendon opens his mouth to argue, but Jon holds up a finger and says, “Greta isn’t in this week.” Brendon shuts his mouth.
“Anyway, did everything go okay in London?” Jon asks.
“Yes,” Brendon says, nodding. “Agents DeLeon and Marshall were able to retrieve the intel. It’s being put on one of our servers as we speak.”
“Good,” Jon says nodding. “I’ll take a look at it and send it your way later to review before the team gets back in.” Brendon nods. “But for now, have Ryan take you home.”
Brendon blinks at his boss. They are friends, of course, but Jon is still his boss. “Excuse me?”
“You have been here since long before the sun came up. And Ryan… he looks like he could take an afternoon off.” Brendon frowns. So Jon has noticed too. The way Ryan looks… tired, almost. Even if he thinks it impossible for Ryan to even be tired.
“Alright. Thanks, Jon.”
“Spencer and I can handle anything that comes up. See you later tonight.”
Tonight! Brendon forgot about dinner at Leaves of Grass. Greta has been insisting they get together for the whole week.
Ryan’s office is the second one down from Jon’s (the one closest being Spencer’s), so he pokes his head in and finds Ryan slumped over his desk, tapping away on his computer with a bored look on his face.
Then Ryan looks up, and it’s as if he’s a different person. The hint of fatigue is there just as a shadow behind Ryan’s eyes, but a grin breaks out across his face, tilted up into an almost-smirk. There is the Ryan that Brendon knows and loves.
“To what do I owe this pleasure?” Ryan says, amusement in his eyes as Brendon’s lips quirk up in a playful smile.
“Not what, but whom,” Brendon says, walking into the office, but not shutting the door behind him. He catches Ryan looking at the open door with a disappointed look on his face. Never at headquarters. Never. It’s almost become a mantra for Brendon to keep his hands to himself at work. “And the answer is Jon.”
Ryan’s eyebrows move up in surprise. “Oh?”
“Yes, he says that you are to take me home right now and have dirty, hot sex with me.”
Ryan gives him a pointed look.
“He did! Not in so many words, but he did. You have the rest of the day off along with me.”
“Really?” Brendon notices a wave of relief pass over Ryan’s face. “Well, great. Meet you at the elevators in five? I have to finish this up.”
Brendon nods and watches Ryan turn back to his work. The old Ryan is gone again, replaced by the new, disinterested, lethargic Ryan. Brendon almost makes a comment but doesn’t in the end.
+
A smooth throaty voice fills the car with the sounds of horns behind it. “I won’t dance, don’t ask me. I won’t dance, don’t ask me,” Brendon sings along to Sinatra as Ryan drives, smiling now as it seems any residual tension has left his body.
“You know what?” Brendon continues, reaching over to Ryan to poke his cheek. “You’re lovely. You know what? You’re lovely.” At every “you’re”, he pokes Ryan, making him laugh.
Ryan in turn reaches out and digs his fingers into Brendon’s ribs, interrupting the singing since he has found Brendon’s ticklish spot. Brendon laughs mostly involuntarily. “Hey! You’re being a really unsafe driver,” Brendon tries between bouts of laughter.
“Shut up,” Ryan says, digging his fingers a little harder into Brendon’s ribs and causing him to jerk a little. “If I can navigate Paris while some reckless buffoon is trying to shoot me, I can certainly drive the streets I do every day while tickling my boyfriend.”
“I refuse - ha ha - to give in - ugh, Ry - to this torture. Stop.” Ryan relents and turns to drive up the coast. Brendon rolls down the windows to let in the salty air, breathing in deeply.
“I don’t get why I was punished for telling you that you’re lovely. You are,” Brendon says, pouting ever so slightly.
“You were poking me,” Ryan deadpans.
“You liked it,” Brendon says challengingly.
Ryan laughs. “Okay, you caught me.”
Brendon smiles triumphantly and takes Ryan’s hand in his, lacing them together and resting them on the center compartment. Brendon starts humming along to the CD this time, quite sure that their relationship is just fine. He shouldn’t be worried.
“One day, I’m going to take you to this place in the Village in New York. They have great Italian food and a huge pop art painting of Frank that we could sit in front of.”
Brendon smiles. Now that’d be a great date.
When they get to the house, Brendon takes out his key and opens the door. There are boxes strewn about the living room and kitchen. Brendon knows that Ryan doesn’t like the move at all, remembering Ryan yelling rather irrationally at Alex about how empty such a large house will seem. Brendon and Ryan have yet to talk about what they are going to do with the house all to themselves, the second floor practically empty.
Brendon leads the way up the stairs, and while his back is turned, he feels a soft pat on his butt.
“Ryan Ross,” he says, turning to see a mischievous look on Ryan’s face to indicate it was on purpose, “don’t you dare start what you don’t intend to finish.” Brendon notices his voice is a tad huskier than normal as he throws a flirty look over his shoulder.
“I would never,” Ryan responds, voice low as well.
Brendon smiles slyly and quickly lands a light smack on Ryan’s hip, a quick retaliation before he speeds up the stairs towards their bedroom. Ryan is right behind him and finds Brendon waiting in front of their bedroom door.
Ryan skids to a stop with arms stretched out, palms against the door on either side of Brendon’s head to block him. A shift of Brendon’s pelvis outward causes Ryan to groan involuntarily, and Brendon’s smile turns into a cunning one.
He tilts his head up, capturing Ryan’s lips in a kiss not too tender yet not too forceful. Ryan‘s arms travel down, one hand cupping Brendon’s cheek and the other pulling Brendon closer to him. Brendon’s hands have settled on Ryan’s hips, gripping tightly as they press their bodies together. He can feel Ryan’s body slowly turning into butter, becoming more pliable as the seconds pass.
Brendon turns his head, kissing once softly at Ryan’s jaw, and whispers, “Bed,” like it is more than a word but a promise. Ryan nods and turns the knob of the door Brendon is pressed against, and as the it swings open, Brendon guides Ryan inside, pushing him backwards until the back of Ryan’s knees hit the bed, causing him to sit. Brendon walks back to shut the door, and when he turns, Ryan visibly swallows. He is right where Brendon wants him.
+
Brendon pries an eye open, the sunlight of late afternoon streaming into the room through the west-facing French doors and landing on his face to successfully wake him up. He opens the other eye to find his arms tangled around a naked, bony individual, still napping. He doesn’t sleep with a gun under his pillow anymore; Ryan had built a special holster onto the side of both his and Brendon’s end tables. Just to be safe.
He doesn’t know if he unintentionally moved too much, but Ryan stirs next to him, both eyes awake and already alert. He smiles up at Brendon, who has shifted to sit up, bare back resting against the headboard. “We fell asleep,” Ryan says.
Brendon laughs. “We did a bit more than that.”
Ryan shoves him playfully. “That goes without saying.”
Brendon leans down to press a kiss to the top of Ryan’s head, but Ryan has his arm around him fast and pulls Brendon down for a deeper kiss. Ryan nuzzles Brendon’s neck, muttering an “I love you” onto his skin just under Brendon’s ear.
Brendon’s hand comes up and grasps Ryan’s, squeezing tightly, while Ryan is busy placing soft kisses along Brendon’s jaw and neck. “I was beginning to worry,” Brendon says.
Ryan stills. Brendon really hadn’t planned on bringing it up just then, or even ever, but he guesses, sometimes, his mouth moves faster than his brain. And when it comes to something that’s just bothering him on a deeper level, Brendon should know that it’s going to come out sooner or later.
“What?” Ryan asks, obviously completely puzzled.
“I can tell something’s up with you,” Brendon says, squeezing Ryan’s hand again. “I know it’s not something sudden, that it’s been building for a while.”
Ryan shuts his eyes tightly. “It has nothing to do with how I feel about you.”
“Then what does it have to do with?” Brendon asks without hesitation. He’s pushing, and he knows it. But it’s them. They have to talk about it.
There is a pause, Ryan trying to figure out what to say. “It’s nothing you need to worry about.” Brendon is about to protest, because it’s too easy, a cop-out, but Ryan says quickly, “It’s something I have to get over on my own.”
Brendon sits up again, looking down at his lap and avoiding Ryan’s face. He should feel better, but he doesn’t. Ryan could be lying or in denial or way over his head about something. He doesn’t get that, if it’s affecting him so much, whatever it is, it’s Brendon’s problem too. They’ve been together for a year and half. It should count for something.
“I love you,” Ryan repeats. “I mean it every time I say it.”
It’s a good thing to hear. Brendon will give Ryan that. He doesn’t want to let it go though.
“You still haven’t-”
“I know. I just want to handle it on my own,” Ryan says. “Please.”
Brendon hesitates. “You promise it has nothing to do with our relationship?”
“Promise,” Ryan says. “If anything, we are the one thing I’m most happy about.”
Brendon nods. “Okay. But if I see you’re not handling whatever it is, I’m going to say something. I’m not going ignore it.”
“Okay,” Ryan concedes.
“Okay,” Brendon echoes, kissing Ryan’s temple.
They lie there together in silence for a while until they hear the faint sound of a door closing. “Shit, what time is it?” Brendon says, looking around for the time.
Ryan cranes his neck and looks at the clock, cringing. “Damn it, we need to get dressed.”
Right on cue, there is a knock on their door. “Gentlemen,” Greta’s voice says through the wood of the door, cheerful and sweet-sounding, “this is your reminder that we have to be at the restaurant in forty-five minutes.”
“Fuck, we both need showers too,” Ryan says as he sits up, the sound of Greta’s footsteps going back down to the second floor.
Brendon gives him a sly look before getting up, letting the sheet fall away to leave him bare. “I know how we can save time.”
As he walks away, he feels Ryan’s eyes on him and can hear him laughing a little as he follows Brendon into the bathroom.
+
“So I left Spencer in the locker room, took all his clothes with me,” Ryan says, concluding his story by taking a sip of his iced tea. Brendon is in hysterics beside him, Greta and Jon are laughing politely, Alex is rolling his eyes with a smile, and Spencer looks this close to taking Ryan’s head off.
“That’s not funny,” Spencer says, and all laughter is stifled except for Ryan’s slight chuckle. “I was traumatized.”
“Stop being a baby,” Ryan says glibly. “That was almost ten years ago. You don’t hate me anymore.”
Spencer rolls his eyes. “That’s not the point.”
Ryan shakes his head. “Don’t pretend you didn’t pull any pranks on me. I won’t let you get away with making everyone at this table think that I bullied you.”
Spencer glares at him, and Ryan responds with a glare back. Brendon’s eyes flit between the two, as the tension gets thicker.
“Spence,” Jon says, hints of concern and placation in his voice.
“Um,” Brendon mumbles, glancing at Ryan.
“Wait for it,” Alex whispers to Brendon, who glances back quickly at Alex’s smiling face.
A few seconds later, Spencer and Ryan are in fits of laughter.
“Oh God, we were assholes back then, huh?” Spencer says.
“Speak for yourself,” Ryan replies. “I was positively charming.”
Alex snorts. “I wouldn’t go that far.”
Brendon tries to laugh, and he thinks he’s successful at it. He doesn’t really know what it is. Alright, it could possibly, maybe have to do with the fact he’s always wished he knew Ryan back then. It would’ve been a better upbringing for Brendon at the very least.
“So, Alex,” Jon says, “dinner was fantastic.”
“Thanks,” Alex says, smiling. “It was nothing. Whipped it up really fast, very easy.”
“Stop being so modest,” Greta says, pinching his cheek. Then she turns to everyone at the table. “Well, we got everyone together tonight for a reason.”
Brendon looks to Ryan, who sits up straighter, for a hint of what it might be about, but Ryan clearly has no idea. “As you all know,” Greta continues, “Alex and I are moving out of Ryan’s. And even though it’s been fun living with Ryan, and Brendon too, we had a reason.”
She turns to her purse hanging off the chair and digs around in it. Brendon tries to see, but Spencer’s body is blocking her. Then Greta thrusts her hand out in front of her, and there is a small glittering diamond on her ring finger. “Alex asked me to marry him, and I said yes. We’re getting married!”
The table erupts with exclamations and congratulations. Brendon smiles as he hugs Alex and Greta, telling them how happy he is for them. Out of the corner of his eye, however, he notices the way Ryan’s smile is a little tighter and thinner than normal, and Brendon can’t help but worry.
+
A couple of days later, Brendon can feel Patrick’s excitement from where he sits at the conference table between Ryan and Spencer. The screen behind them is on, and Pete watches stoically from it. Jon, sitting at the end of the table, gives Patrick the nod to start.
“Okay, well, I’ve got some new equipment that is out of the beta phase and ready for use in the field,” Patrick says, eyebrows jumping up into his trucker hat. He shoves his glasses up with his knuckle.
“I’ll start with the new phones.” He pulls out what looks to be - at least to Brendon - an iPhone. Upon closer inspection, it seems much sleeker and there is no Apple logo. “As you all know, we obtained the iPhone designs years ago.”
“You all can thank me for that,” Jon says with a smile. “One of my first missions.”
“Naturally, I improved on them quite a bit. With this phone, you can trace any call, incoming or outgoing, log on securely to our systems, even encrypt voice messages, texts, and emails automatically. You can make anything you send from our phones untraceable. Greta had a huge part in designing the software. There’s even a built in lock-picking system.”
Patrick demonstrates all the features, showing how the phone scans a lock and picks it with minimal effort using tools that pop out from it, and Brendon has to admit that it is far better than Alex’s iPhone.
“Everyone will get a manual-”
“And it will be a mandatory read for all agents and handlers,” Jon says, jumping in. Brendon sighs. He’s sure he could figure it out on his own.
“Right,” he says, handing the phone to Ryan to study.
“Okay, what else?” Spencer asks.
“I’ve improved on the pen series.”
“We have a very deceptive design,” he says, picking up a sleek, Montblanc-like pen from a box. “It works like a normal ball point pen, so anyone can test it,” he says, uncapping it and leaning over to write on the pad of paper Spencer was taking notes on. “But a firm push and twist counterclockwise…”
He demonstrates it, and the pen has morphed, pieces shifting and moving into place to form what looks like a Bowie knife. To his right, Ryan is probably nodding, impressed with Patrick’s innovation. However, Brendon doesn’t actually look at Ryan because he is absolutely vibrating with excitement, phone set aside next to him. This is the closest to Transformers he is going to get.
Patrick sets the knife down and picks up another pen. “The guns are a tad trickier.” He pulls out a single bullet. “You can store a bullet inside for a quick fire,” he explains, screwing off the tip and slipping the bullet in. Then he pushes and twists the other end, transforming the ballpoint pen into a Glock, pieces clanging and shifting into place. “If you want to have more ammunition, you’ll need to carry magazines with you.”
He looks down. “That’s a major flaw in my design. I apologize.”
Brendon laughs, reaching for the knife and inspecting it. “Are you kidding? This is brilliant, will really help against the Decepticons.”
Patrick looks excited again. “You just push that button right there, and it will go back to being a pen,” he tells Brendon. Brendon tests it out, pushing the button just at the bottom of the handle, and soon after, a pen is resting in his palm.
“Cool,” Brendon says, shrugging and handing it to Ryan to inspect.
“Very cool,” Spencer adds, reaching across Brendon and snatching it from Ryan.
“What else have you got?” Ryan asks.
Patrick nods, pulling out a small box and extracting a tray of cartridges. “These cartridges contain bullets with a GPS tracker in them.” He displays them for the four men to see. “Say you shoot someone to wound but not to kill, and they get away. It’ll take some time for them to get to a hospital or a medic to get the bullet removed and by then you’ll have tracked them.” He nods to the phone next to Brendon, smiling. “There’s an app for that.”
Brendon can see how that would be handy, though shooting to wound is so boring.
“Just be careful with these,” Pete says from the screen behind them, “Use them wisely.” Patrick shoots Ryan a pointed look, and Ryan just rolls his eyes in response.
“Next,” Patrick continues, taking out a display head with a wig on it. The base of the display head has a cord on it. “We have self-styling wigs.”
Ryan cocks his head. “Is it because all of the agents are really bad hairdressers?”
“Yes,” Patrick deadpans, and Brendon snorts. “Anyway, you plug your phone in and-”
“Let me guess,” Spencer says. “There’s an app for that.”
“Precisely,” Patrick says, tapping the screen. “You can choose the color. We have a wide range of natural and unnatural hair colors. Then there’s length, texture, volume, plus several different styles. You’ll need to play with it.”
They all watch as Patrick makes a blonde beehive wig, the hairs lightening, growing, and twisting together before their eyes. He then detaches the wig and puts it on Brendon’s head.
“I look hot, don’t I?” Brendon says, whispering to Ryan.
“I wouldn’t wear it to bed,” Ryan answers.
“Screw you, I’m fucking beautiful,” Brendon says haughtily, and Ryan smiles.
“And that concludes my presentation,” Patrick says, walking over to Brendon to remove the wig. “These will be available by Friday.”
Patrick bows and thanks everyone before leaving.
Jon and Spencer exit, citing lots of work to be done, and Pete excuses himself as the video feed shuts off. Brendon stretches in his seat, and Ryan rubs at his temple.
“Tired?” Brendon asks, hand on Ryan’s shoulder. Ryan shakes his head, though the gesture is unconvincing since he yawns as he does it.
“I have to brief the Alexes first. I think they’re waiting by the door. But we should have lunch afterwards.”
“A lot of paperwork,” Ryan mumbles.
“You have to eat, right?” Brendon offers, and eventually, Ryan nods.
“I’ll come find you after, okay?” Brendon says, smiling, and Ryan smiles back as he gets up to leave and goes to send the Alexes in before heading to his office.
Brendon stands from his seat, gathering the different files that he’ll need for the briefing. Soon, in come Agent DeLeon and Agent Marshall, walking in fresh-faced and eager for a new mission after Jon had debriefed them the day before on their last. Brendon’s lips tilt up in a half smile. “Have a seat, gentlemen.”
They do, and Brendon hands them each a folder. He picks up the remote and turns on the large screen to commence the presentation. “Drugs, arms, people. All are being moved across borders, sold to the highest bidder to be dispersed to thousands of lowlifes across the country,” Brendon says as pictures of each come up on the screen. “One of the newest yet most successful organized crime groups responsible for trafficking is The Clan. They operate out of New York.”
“Excuse me, Brendon,” Agent DeLeon says. “Why doesn’t the New York division handle this then? Isn’t it under their jurisdiction?”
Brendon nods. “Normally, it would be. But they handed us the case for a couple of reasons. The New York division is swamped right now. They just busted a covert terrorist organization that was operating out of lower Manhattan.”
He pushes a button on the remote, and a picture of a man pops up. “And then there is, of course, the issue of Mr. Alex Suarez.” He looks to his two agents, the curly-haired one rolling his eyes. Brendon chuckles. “Yeah, I know. Tough to keep all of you guys straight. But Suarez here was one of our targets in the past. He escaped years ago when we tried to apprehend him and has disappeared. However, one of the New York division’s sources has named him as The Clan’s head honcho.”
Brendon leans forward, hands on the long table in front of him. “Pack your bags, guys. You’re going to New York.” The two agents look excited about that. “Agent Marshall, you will be backup and technical support. Agent DeLeon, you’re the point man in this mission. Right now, it’s recon. You will need to obtain the location of The Clan’s headquarters as well as relaying as much information and evidence about their daily operations as possible and, eventually, confirm that Suarez is indeed the mastermind behind their dealings. You will go over there and assess the situation, then check in with me for further instructions. I will be assisting you from headquarters here. Any questions?”
“Will we need to plan an extraction or go undercover?” asks Agent Marshall.
“Maybe,” Brendon answers. “It all depends on how deep this thing is. My hunch is that it’s likely, and you should prepare yourselves for it.”
The two agents nod. “Your flight leaves at six. All necessary equipment will already be onboard the plane. You two are dismissed.”
The Alexes get up and leave, and Brendon sighs, though he smiles at the prospect of lunch.
+
When the food comes, Ryan doesn’t seem all that hungry. He has been quiet for most of lunch, letting Brendon take over conversation as he pushes his food around the plate. Brendon hasn’t missed it, and he’s finding it harder to ignore as every minute passes.
He nudges Ryan’s foot. “Are you okay?” Brendon asks.
Ryan blinks. “Fine.”
“You don’t seem like it.”
“Well, I am,” Ryan says with obviously fake insouciance.
Brendon can’t let it go. He told Ryan he wouldn’t. “You’re not-”
“I’m fine, okay!” Ryan snaps.
Brendon’s jaw tenses, his lips pursing together so all that is left of his normally luscious lips is a thin angry line. He glares at Ryan for a second and then looks to his food, and they finish in silence. When the check comes, Brendon slips his credit card in and closes the billfold a little harder than necessary, and to avoid having to say anything to Ryan, he pulls out his phone and starts playing with it.
“Look, Brendon-” Ryan says when he gets to the car, but Brendon interrupts him.
“You don’t seem to want to talk to me, so I don’t want to talk to you either,” Brendon says and gets in the car. Ryan gets in silently as well. Brendon sees a frown out of the corner of his eye, but that’s it.
Ryan seems to have given up on the fight, which is even more disconcerting than Ryan’s mood during lunch. Anytime he doesn’t fight back is cause for concern; the last time it happened, they weren’t even together yet.
Just after ten that night once he finished coaching one of his teams in Venezuela on their mission, Brendon feels tired as he leaves for home by himself, since Ryan left in his own car hours before.
When he walks into the house, he heads up the two flights of stairs to the third floor, but instead of going straight to the bedroom, he follows the sounds of Ryan talking in his office.
“You always win a bet with yourself,” he hears Ryan say. “And lose too. Besides, my misery is no laughing matter.”
It doesn’t take a genius to know that Ryan is talking to Alex about him. Or maybe complaining about him. He leaves for the bedroom, not wanting to hear anymore.
Brendon takes off his suit jacket and slips it onto a hanger, moving into the large walk-in closet to put it away. He untucks his shirt as he walks back out but stops in the middle of undoing his tie because Ryan is standing there wide-eyed in the doorway.
“I didn’t know you were home,” Ryan mumbles.
Brendon averts his gaze and grunts, continuing to pull the tie off and toss it onto a chair.
“I was just wondering,” Ryan says quietly, “if you want me to sleep in another room tonight.”
“Do whatever you want. It’s your house,” Brendon says as he unbuttons his shirt.
Brendon notices Ryan take a cautious step forward. “It’s yours too.”
Brendon just shrugs, pulling on a plain white v-neck to sleep in.
“You know, I’d rather sleep next to you mad at me than stay up all night because I miss you downstairs,” Ryan says after another step.
The muscles in Brendon’s face relax as he steps out of his pants so he can sleep in his boxers. He finally turns his head to look at Ryan directly, and Ryan is closer than he thought. Brendon thinks Ryan looks a bit downcast.
“I know I’m being difficult,” Ryan says quickly, as if he thinks he’ll lose his chance if he hesitates. “I’m just-”
“We can talk about this in the morning,” Brendon says, interrupting and causing Ryan to shut up immediately, completely unsure of himself. It’s always strange and unsettling to see a diffident Ryan. “I’m tired and I just want us to go to bed.”
“Us?” Ryan asks with a hint of a smile.
Brendon returns the smile. “Yeah, us.”
+
Ryan’s phone is ringing, and all Brendon wants is for it to stop. He pokes the warm body next to him, and Ryan removes his arm from Brendon’s chest and reaches to pick up the phone.
“Hello?” Ryan says into the phone as Brendon adjusts to huddle close to Ryan so as not to lose comfort and warmth.
Suddenly, Ryan sits up, forcing Brendon to move, and turns on the light on his bedside table. Brendon rubs his eyes with the heels of his palms. “What?” Ryan says, and Brendon pauses at the alarm in Ryan’s voice. “When - How do you -”
Ryan is getting cut off at every question he tries to ask, like the speaker is talking quickly and urgently, and Brendon can see that what he’s being told is incredibly serious. The line in the middle of Ryan’s forehead, the one that Brendon is sure he’s too young to have, is evidence enough for Brendon.
“Listen to me, don’t talk to anyone else until I get there,” Ryan orders. “Greta, promise me.”
Greta? What could possibly be going on with her?
“Okay. Everything’s going to be okay. I’ll be there soon.” Ryan hangs up the phone and gets up right away, tugging on a pair of dark jeans over his boxers.
“What’s going on?” Brendon asks, getting out of bed too. “What’s wrong with Greta?”
“I need to go over there,” Ryan says distractedly, pulling a shirt over his head. He isn’t paying attention and doesn’t notice that it’s one of Brendon’s.
“Why?” Brendon asks, but Ryan doesn’t say anything as he shrugs on his jacket.
Finally, Brendon grabs Ryan’s arm as he reaches for his keys and yells, “Ryan!”
Ryan turns slowly, and Brendon can see that, under his swift and controlled actions, his insistence that everything will be fine, Ryan is freaking out in the inside.
“What happened?” Brendon asks slowly in a firm but calm tone.
“Alex is gone.”
+
When Ryan pulls his car in front of the Brentwood condominium, Greta is outside waiting for them.
Brendon notes she is still dressed for work, though she’s switched her stylish black flats for brown house slippers. Her makeup is smeared, nose red, and eyes puffy and bloodshot. It kills him to see her like this.
“Thank God you’re here,” Greta says quietly as she hugs them. “I’m just - I don’t know what to do.” Her eyes start to water, but she doesn’t cry.
“It’s okay,” Ryan says, arm around her and leading her up the stairs to Greta and Alex’s apartment.
Brendon adds, “We’ll do everything we can to help.”
Once inside, Ryan says, “No one touch anything. Just tell me what happened, Greta.”
She sighs and looks up while breathing in deeply, as if to calm herself down. “Alright. Well, I came home around two-thirty since I was helping Spencer out with one of his teams in Australia. Alex should have been home asleep, but the place was empty. His car was in his spot though.”
Greta starts pacing. “Of course I wondered where he was, so I called him. His phone was on the dresser, next to his wallet and keys. And then I checked his phone, and he had a voicemail from the manager of the restaurant, wondering where he was because he should’ve been back. I called him, even though it’s late, and he told me Alex went home at around eight-thirty to change his pants because he spilled sauce all over the ones he was wearing and was supposed to be back, but he never showed. I found the pants too, in the hamper.
“Even if-” Greta pauses, and finally, she starts to cry. Brendon rushes forward and hands her a tissue from the coffee table. “Even if Alex left me, he would’ve had his wallet with him, at the very least.”
“Alex would never leave you,” Brendon whispers, holding Greta to him.
Ryan crosses his arms, looking like he is doing some very hard thinking. Then he says, “He was taken. There’s no other explanation for it.”
“But why?” Brendon asks. “Why would anyone kidnap him? He’s a civilian. He’s a chef, for Christ’s sake!”
“Me?” Ryan offers. “Someone with a grudge against me linked him to me. Trying to send me a message by taking him.”
The way Ryan says it, it sounds like that’s what he believes. “I don’t know,” Brendon says.
“Think about it,” Ryan says. “Think about what I do, what I’ve done. I’ve pissed off a lot of people; anyone connected to one of my current or past cases could easily be responsible for this.”
“Do you think he’s…” Greta says, and everyone in the room knows what the end of that sentence is.
“No,” Ryan says. “If they wanted him dead, they would’ve killed him here. Unfortunately, we’ll have to wait until they contact us. We have no idea where to look.”
Brendon knows Ryan is right about that part at least. Alex is alive somewhere.
“What about police?” Greta asks.
Ryan shakes his head. “No. I don’t trust them. We need to have our agents on this.”
Brendon doesn’t think that’s a good idea at all. “But Ryan-”
“I need to talk to Pete, excuse me,” he says quickly, pulling out his phone and heading into the kitchen. Brendon hands Greta another tissue.
“We’ll find him, Greta,” Brendon says.
“If anyone could, it’d be you guys,” she says, sniffing.
Then, they hear a crash coming from the other room, followed by Ryan yelling, “What do you mean it’s not an FBR420 matter?! Sir, he knows several agents, is engaged to one! How is this not our problem?”
After a pause, Ryan exclaims, “No proof? What more do you need? Why won’t you - Asshole!”
Ryan bursts into the room. “Pete hung up on me! What a bastard.”
“What’d he say?” Brendon asks, even though both he and Greta have already figured it out.
“He said to go the police because there’s no proof that this is a matter of national security. Alex is a civilian, and he doesn’t want us devoting FBR420 resources to him. I’m not even allowed to tell Jon and Spencer about Alex being gone. This is bullshit.”
Brendon hates to be the one to bring it up, but he has to. “Maybe we should-”
“No police. No.” Ryan clenches his fists, stance determined. “Don’t tell anyone what happened. I’ll take care of it. I’m going to find him myself.”
+
The next couple of days at FBR420 are bizarre. A casual observer would see business as usual. But Brendon knows something is off and can feel it in his bones. Greta has a permanent frown on her face as she works at her station, glazed-over eyes staring at her computer screen as if not really seeing it. All day, she looks as if she just cried, and she sits as if she is folding in on herself.
Ryan’s state is alarming in a different way. He is going about his day like the model handler, keeping his agents’ files as up-to-date as possible and checking in with his teams more than he has to. Ryan even asks Jon to borrow his computer to do more work when Darren is busy fixing his after a crash. He acts as if nothing is wrong, smiling almost genuinely at his colleagues and speaking encouragingly to them. Brendon knows Ryan, and that is not Ryan.
“Sir?” DeLeon says from the monitor.
Brendon blinks, realizing that he is in the middle of debriefing his team. “Sorry, kind of spaced out. So what have you two found out?”
“We have discovered that The Clan is operating out of a building in the Upper West Side, with a club as their front.”
“Excellent,” Brendon says. “Your next instructions are as follows: you will use your alias, Alec Singer, to infiltrate The Clan. Start out with working at the club. Make them think you want to join, be one of their lackeys, that sort of thing. Once you are in, you assess the situation from the inside and report back. Have Agent Marshall help you with surveillance and documentation, audio and video when possible.”
DeLeon nods on the screen. “Copy that, Mr. Urie.”
The feed cuts off, and Brendon sighs as he removes his headset and hands it back to Darren.
“You okay, Brendon?” Darren asks, concerned, which is unusual since he usually doesn’t bother with anything that doesn’t involve computer keys, code, and a monitor.
Brendon tries to smile. “Yeah, I’m fine.”
Darren looks skeptical, eyeing Brendon for a second. For a moment, Brendon thinks he may have passed whatever test Darren subjected him to, but as he walks away, he hears him mutter under his breath, “What is it with everyone these days?”
Brendon pauses mid-stride and looks to his left where Greta is working, watching her as she rests her head on her hand, looking positively worn out.
He sighs as he continues walking back to his office. Brendon glances at Ryan’s shut door, blinds covering the window into the office drawn closed too. Ryan barely says anything to him now, and it’s distressing, to say the least.
Each day that passes seems to drag on longer and longer, and Brendon wonders if everything will ever feel right like it used to. Alex is in danger, and the people who care about him can’t do anything about it, their real selves evaporating before Brendon’s eyes and leaving behind hollow shells.
Brendon knocks on Ryan’s door, even though he would normally barge in. “It’s me,” he calls.
There’s a pause. “I’m busy,” he hears through the door. Nothing inviting him to come in.
“Okay,” Brendon says, trying not to sound as hurt as he feels.
He turns to go back to his office when he accidentally bumps into Spencer, who is probably heading to his own.
“You alright there, Brendon?” Spencer asks, even though Brendon bumped into him.
“Yeah, fine,” Brendon answers automatically before slipping into his own office and shutting the door.
+
Brendon tugs on the wrapping tape, securing it just above his wrist. He walks out onto the training floor in a sleeveless shirt and shorts, several agents still there working out and sparring. He doesn’t do this as often as he used to, but he misses it. Plus, Brendon needs to clear his head.
He jumps a rope for a few minutes, and Brendon can already feel himself sweat, knowing there’s a light sheen on his forehead. He hasn’t even really started yet.
The punching bag is just a few feet away, and Brendon approaches it, shifting his weight from one foot to the next and keeping on the balls of his bare feet. He tilts his head to the left and to the right, stretching out his neck muscles.
And then he punches, a quick jab with his left. He does it again and this time adds a reverse with the right. Brendon isn’t wearing gloves; he doesn’t think he’ll punch hard enough to need to.
Brendon does the same routine for a few minutes, getting into that mindset where everything but him and the bag are there. He doesn’t notice the agents around him still going about their training.
Suddenly, he breaks his small punching routine and gives the bag a quick kick with his right foot along with a slightly audible exhalation of air. He comes around and tries a circular kick, still punching intermittently. A drop of sweat trickles down his forehead, but Brendon pays no mind to it.
Brendon doesn’t know how long he’d been going at it before his punches and kicks become harder, his breathing broken up with louder grunts. It’s just him out there, even when a few agents stop what they’re doing to watch.
Every assault makes him feel just a little lighter. Makes him forget and focus. The sounds come out on their own, and the tension seeps out with each grunt.
And then he stops, his breath labored, his shirt drenched. He raises his hands above his head to rest up there while he catches his breath, and Brendon turns around and pauses.
Everyone in the training room is staring at him.
He turns back around to ignore them and grab his towel to wipe away the sweat, when he feels the soreness of his hands. The tape wrapped around his hands is all messed up, and his hands are practically ravaged and bleeding in some parts where the tape moved. He doesn’t pay attention to the pain, just picks up his water bottle and downs half of it.
As he walks toward the locker room, he sees Spencer leaning against the back wall, watching the agents, who’ve gone back to their training, intently. Brendon is sure, though, that Spencer had seen him.
That night, Brendon comes home later than Ryan, and when he goes up the stairs to check on him, he hears music playing through the door of Ryan’s study. He tries the door this time, and it’s locked.
Brendon withdraws his hand, bandaged from earlier, like he’s been burned. Ryan and Brendon are the only ones in the house. That locked door is meant for him.
Part 2