[one-shot] Not That You'd Admit It
Title: Not that you’d admit it.
Length: Oneshot, 1,446 words
Author: inappropri8
Genre: secret agent!AU, angst,
Rating: Pg-13 for language and mentions of sex
Pairing: Written as Ryo/Uchi. But so damn vague it could go any way.
Warnings: 2nd person again. And angsty, again.
Comments: Inspired by James Bond. Was forced to see it, so of course I made it gay. This is not what you’re expecting, I bet. It’s vague and not fun au-y at all. The names of the characters are never established, so, like it says above, you can pretend they’re whoever you want. It’s kind of weird, but it’s what came out, so whatever.
You’re tight suits, sex and secrets. And a gun. You carry a gun too. You’re good with the gun, can shoot so sharp, sharper than anyone you’ve ever met before. You lead an exciting life, of course you do, you’re a secret agent. Explosions, gunshots, espionage. It’s all very thrilling. But that excitement has grown mundane. The assignments, the exotic locales, the kills, they’ve all started to run together. Your nights, no different no matter if they’re spent in a Cuban hovel or a posh French resort, are punctuated by the women, all the same in their sensual curves and the way they feel so small beneath you. You use your sex appeal to get their secrets, to get them in bed.
Sometimes they’re men. Men are more special. You enjoy the men more. But it’s hard to meet men in this line of work, especially the right kind of men. You don’t love any of them, men or women. But you’re more drawn to men, like the way the men feel beneath you better; strong muscles and bones preferable to soft curves. You have to kill a lot of the men you fuck, though. And that’s not too enjoyable. Somehow it feels more wrong to take the life of a man you’ve slept with than the life of one you haven’t.
You’ve killed more men than you’ve fucked. You don’t like that fact, not one bit. You wonder if maybe you should have become a host rather than a spy. Both jobs are based on lies, but as a host you’d probably never have to kill anyone. And you’d probably fuck a lot more.
Not that you’d fuck more men. Probably less, at least for work. But if you loved one, that’d be more acceptable.
You’ve never fucked the man you love, never kissed him. Maybe that’s why you sleep around. To fill a void or something. You don’t believe in psychology, but you know you have issues. You tend not to dwell on them.
You have to see a shrink once a year. Just to make sure you haven’t lost it. But your job is to lie, and you’re good at it. You can act normal and sane and well-adjusted on those days. But not too normal and sane and well-adjusted. Because your job is to kill, and killers can’t be too contented. That’s crazy in itself.
You don’t tell the shrink your issues; don’t tell them you love someone.
The words ‘love’ and ‘crazy’ are both taboos; synonymous in your line of work.
You’re crazy, you know, to be in love. But you’re beyond caring about your own sanity. It took you a while to accept it, and once you did, there was no turning back.
Accepting it and realizing it were different things. Accepting was hard, realizing was damn right impossible. Because none of the traditional signs of being in love were applicable. You thought about him all the time, but that’s only because he was your target. When you saw him, your heart would beat out of your chest, but that was only because he’d be pointing a gun at your head. You dreamt of him, but in those dreams one of you was dying, killed by the other; you’d wake up in cold sweats.
You could only tell you loved him when you didn’t pull the trigger, didn’t kill him. You broke the rules in a way you never had before, turned your back on everything you were trained to do. You let him go. And for the first time in 17 years, you cried that night.
It seems he felt he owed you. He became a valuable informant, maybe even your only friend. He called you his friend once; your cold, dead heart swelled at that. Not that you’d admit it.
It’s almost routine, this meeting. Sitting at a dark bar, him sliding next to you silently. In another life, you might have been able to enjoy his heat next to you, the inflection of his voice as he ordered his drink. It feels like an icy fire is flowing through your vains as he turns his eyes on you, asks how you’ve been in that fluid voice of his. You’ve always loved his voice.
You make a witty comment about how many people are trying to kill you. You say you’ve been great and grin at him. He chuckles, utters more pleasantries and smiles at you in the way he doesn’t know almost kills you. Your heart hurts like it never has before when his eyes sparkle like that. You finish your vodka, order another one.
“I need to know…” you say, vague, but he gets it. The smile is gone from his face.
He works with your target, closely. They trust him, tell him things, things you need to know. Things he promised to tell you. He’s not evil, they are. You tell him this. He looks at you sadly.
“I don’t know where you got that impression.” And his voice is hollow. “Maybe, once, I wasn’t evil. Now I’m not too sure.” He lowers his head in regret and you want to believe that it’s fake. But you know him, and you know that it’s not. “I’m sorry.” It’s almost inaudible, but you hear it. And you know.
You should’ve expected this. Of course he would betray you. He didn’t love you. He had work to do, just like you. Only he was smart enough not to care about you. But the look in his eyes when you ask, “How long do I have?” tells you otherwise. There’s regret, and sorrow. And you hate yourself for making him feel this way.
“About sixty seconds until they get here.” He says in his beautiful voice.
“That’s not very much time.” You say, sad little smile on your face.
“No. It’s not.” He sets his jaw and looks you in the eye. “I am sorry.”
You know you’re about to die, and you know that he thinks it’s as much his fault as if he shot you himself. But it’s not, so you tell him.
“You’re not to blame,” you whisper in his ear, “I am. Had I any brains at all, any regard for my life, I wouldn’t have fallen in love with you. But I’m an idiot, and I did. I did what I swore I’d never do, I felt emotions that don’t belong in this business. I’d betray my country and give my life for you, if that would make you happy. So if this is what it takes to keep you alive, I’ll do it.” And you kiss him, hard, and it’s sure to leave a bruise but that’s exactly what you want, because you want him to feel you on his lips after you’re gone, to remember who exactly he sold down the river. You’re selfish; a little bit angry that you have to die for him. More angry at yourself then him, admittedly. But mostly, you just want to feel him before you die, feel what it’s like to kiss him.
And, though you’d never admit it, it’s more amazing then anything you’ve ever experienced before. You could write poetry about a kiss like that. Maybe you would, if you made it out alive. But that was doubtful. And you probably weren’t that great of a poet.
He pushes you away, so slightly and says against your lips, “Please, run”. There are tears in his eyes and those, mixed the fact that he didn’t shoot you when you kissed him, make you wonder. You kiss him again and flee, just as the doors to the bar are kicked open and shots are fired.
As you run, you will yourself not to cry, will yourself not to think of what could have been. Delusions of your life together; you and him in twenty years standing by the sea, your hands clasped together, smiles on your faces. It’s something you’ve never allowed yourself, the notion of him loving you back. And he probably doesn’t. But you can pretend, so that when you die, you’ll die fighting for him. Fighting for that future, those clasped hands.
You’re being silly and sentimental. But you don’t care. You don’t want to die, because that won’t make him happy. Even if he doesn’t love you, you know he wouldn’t want you to die. So each step you take, each shot you fire over your shoulder, is to see his smile again.
You’ve found an alternative to dying for him: living for him. And that’s an option you think you’d like to explore, not that you’d ever admit it.
END
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AN: I left it open ended because I can’t write a sad ending. And I thought it’d totally take away to write out the happy sappy ending I decided, for my own sanity, to give it.
Even though it has nothing do you with the fic, really, I seriously suggest you search youtube for “Nishikido Ryo secret agent man”. Because four-foot-tall Ryo singing that song has to be one of the cutest things on the planet.
EDIT: Yeah, i'm weak. i caved, and wrote a follow up. because i can't have people thinking i killed off a character! It's from the oposite POV as here, and concludes the story for now. 'Tis here.
Length: Oneshot, 1,446 words
Author: inappropri8
Genre: secret agent!AU, angst,
Rating: Pg-13 for language and mentions of sex
Pairing: Written as Ryo/Uchi. But so damn vague it could go any way.
Warnings: 2nd person again. And angsty, again.
Comments: Inspired by James Bond. Was forced to see it, so of course I made it gay. This is not what you’re expecting, I bet. It’s vague and not fun au-y at all. The names of the characters are never established, so, like it says above, you can pretend they’re whoever you want. It’s kind of weird, but it’s what came out, so whatever.
You’re tight suits, sex and secrets. And a gun. You carry a gun too. You’re good with the gun, can shoot so sharp, sharper than anyone you’ve ever met before. You lead an exciting life, of course you do, you’re a secret agent. Explosions, gunshots, espionage. It’s all very thrilling. But that excitement has grown mundane. The assignments, the exotic locales, the kills, they’ve all started to run together. Your nights, no different no matter if they’re spent in a Cuban hovel or a posh French resort, are punctuated by the women, all the same in their sensual curves and the way they feel so small beneath you. You use your sex appeal to get their secrets, to get them in bed.
Sometimes they’re men. Men are more special. You enjoy the men more. But it’s hard to meet men in this line of work, especially the right kind of men. You don’t love any of them, men or women. But you’re more drawn to men, like the way the men feel beneath you better; strong muscles and bones preferable to soft curves. You have to kill a lot of the men you fuck, though. And that’s not too enjoyable. Somehow it feels more wrong to take the life of a man you’ve slept with than the life of one you haven’t.
You’ve killed more men than you’ve fucked. You don’t like that fact, not one bit. You wonder if maybe you should have become a host rather than a spy. Both jobs are based on lies, but as a host you’d probably never have to kill anyone. And you’d probably fuck a lot more.
Not that you’d fuck more men. Probably less, at least for work. But if you loved one, that’d be more acceptable.
You’ve never fucked the man you love, never kissed him. Maybe that’s why you sleep around. To fill a void or something. You don’t believe in psychology, but you know you have issues. You tend not to dwell on them.
You have to see a shrink once a year. Just to make sure you haven’t lost it. But your job is to lie, and you’re good at it. You can act normal and sane and well-adjusted on those days. But not too normal and sane and well-adjusted. Because your job is to kill, and killers can’t be too contented. That’s crazy in itself.
You don’t tell the shrink your issues; don’t tell them you love someone.
The words ‘love’ and ‘crazy’ are both taboos; synonymous in your line of work.
You’re crazy, you know, to be in love. But you’re beyond caring about your own sanity. It took you a while to accept it, and once you did, there was no turning back.
Accepting it and realizing it were different things. Accepting was hard, realizing was damn right impossible. Because none of the traditional signs of being in love were applicable. You thought about him all the time, but that’s only because he was your target. When you saw him, your heart would beat out of your chest, but that was only because he’d be pointing a gun at your head. You dreamt of him, but in those dreams one of you was dying, killed by the other; you’d wake up in cold sweats.
You could only tell you loved him when you didn’t pull the trigger, didn’t kill him. You broke the rules in a way you never had before, turned your back on everything you were trained to do. You let him go. And for the first time in 17 years, you cried that night.
It seems he felt he owed you. He became a valuable informant, maybe even your only friend. He called you his friend once; your cold, dead heart swelled at that. Not that you’d admit it.
It’s almost routine, this meeting. Sitting at a dark bar, him sliding next to you silently. In another life, you might have been able to enjoy his heat next to you, the inflection of his voice as he ordered his drink. It feels like an icy fire is flowing through your vains as he turns his eyes on you, asks how you’ve been in that fluid voice of his. You’ve always loved his voice.
You make a witty comment about how many people are trying to kill you. You say you’ve been great and grin at him. He chuckles, utters more pleasantries and smiles at you in the way he doesn’t know almost kills you. Your heart hurts like it never has before when his eyes sparkle like that. You finish your vodka, order another one.
“I need to know…” you say, vague, but he gets it. The smile is gone from his face.
He works with your target, closely. They trust him, tell him things, things you need to know. Things he promised to tell you. He’s not evil, they are. You tell him this. He looks at you sadly.
“I don’t know where you got that impression.” And his voice is hollow. “Maybe, once, I wasn’t evil. Now I’m not too sure.” He lowers his head in regret and you want to believe that it’s fake. But you know him, and you know that it’s not. “I’m sorry.” It’s almost inaudible, but you hear it. And you know.
You should’ve expected this. Of course he would betray you. He didn’t love you. He had work to do, just like you. Only he was smart enough not to care about you. But the look in his eyes when you ask, “How long do I have?” tells you otherwise. There’s regret, and sorrow. And you hate yourself for making him feel this way.
“About sixty seconds until they get here.” He says in his beautiful voice.
“That’s not very much time.” You say, sad little smile on your face.
“No. It’s not.” He sets his jaw and looks you in the eye. “I am sorry.”
You know you’re about to die, and you know that he thinks it’s as much his fault as if he shot you himself. But it’s not, so you tell him.
“You’re not to blame,” you whisper in his ear, “I am. Had I any brains at all, any regard for my life, I wouldn’t have fallen in love with you. But I’m an idiot, and I did. I did what I swore I’d never do, I felt emotions that don’t belong in this business. I’d betray my country and give my life for you, if that would make you happy. So if this is what it takes to keep you alive, I’ll do it.” And you kiss him, hard, and it’s sure to leave a bruise but that’s exactly what you want, because you want him to feel you on his lips after you’re gone, to remember who exactly he sold down the river. You’re selfish; a little bit angry that you have to die for him. More angry at yourself then him, admittedly. But mostly, you just want to feel him before you die, feel what it’s like to kiss him.
And, though you’d never admit it, it’s more amazing then anything you’ve ever experienced before. You could write poetry about a kiss like that. Maybe you would, if you made it out alive. But that was doubtful. And you probably weren’t that great of a poet.
He pushes you away, so slightly and says against your lips, “Please, run”. There are tears in his eyes and those, mixed the fact that he didn’t shoot you when you kissed him, make you wonder. You kiss him again and flee, just as the doors to the bar are kicked open and shots are fired.
As you run, you will yourself not to cry, will yourself not to think of what could have been. Delusions of your life together; you and him in twenty years standing by the sea, your hands clasped together, smiles on your faces. It’s something you’ve never allowed yourself, the notion of him loving you back. And he probably doesn’t. But you can pretend, so that when you die, you’ll die fighting for him. Fighting for that future, those clasped hands.
You’re being silly and sentimental. But you don’t care. You don’t want to die, because that won’t make him happy. Even if he doesn’t love you, you know he wouldn’t want you to die. So each step you take, each shot you fire over your shoulder, is to see his smile again.
You’ve found an alternative to dying for him: living for him. And that’s an option you think you’d like to explore, not that you’d ever admit it.
END
----
AN: I left it open ended because I can’t write a sad ending. And I thought it’d totally take away to write out the happy sappy ending I decided, for my own sanity, to give it.
Even though it has nothing do you with the fic, really, I seriously suggest you search youtube for “Nishikido Ryo secret agent man”. Because four-foot-tall Ryo singing that song has to be one of the cutest things on the planet.
EDIT: Yeah, i'm weak. i caved, and wrote a follow up. because i can't have people thinking i killed off a character! It's from the oposite POV as here, and concludes the story for now. 'Tis here.