Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Alex hates when the intelligence on a target is incomplete.

It’s inevitable, of course. If they knew everything, there wouldn’t be a reason for him to be there. But that doesn’t mean he enjoys being surprised by things that they should know, like why the fuck the bouncer won’t let him into this club despite the fact that Alex’s alias was supposed to be on the list.

“Can you at least tell me what the problem is?” Alex asks, exasperated.

The bouncer says nothing. Alex may as well be talking to a brick wall.

Now he’s going to have to try to figure out another way in, without drawing attention to himself, because tonight is the only night that they can be sure that the target’s high-tech biometric safe will be open. As Alex stands there, a trio of women walk up and get ushered inside without a second glance. Typical. He’s about to leave and go chew someone out back in Langley for sending him here without all the information he needs, when he gets a whiff of irritatingly familiar cologne as someone else steps up behind him.

“There you are, love. Did you forget you were supposed to wait for me?” Henry fucking Fox says smoothly, smiling at him like it’s expected. Like they planned this. Like Alex should have known that MI6 would show up and blow up his operation—ok, given the number of times this particular MI6 agent has stuck his prissy nose in Alex’s business, maybe he should have— 

Henry glances over to the bouncer as he adjusts his cufflinks. “He’s with me.”

Alex is torn between telling him to fuck right off and wanting to know what his game is, and the former almost wins out when Henry steps closer and presses a hand to Alex’s lower back. It’s strangely intimate, and a little possessive, and it takes all of Alex’s considerable training not to give into the impulse to immediately pull away and deck him. It’s a good thing he doesn’t, though, because the bouncer inclines his head toward the door and just like that, they’re walking in together.

The club inside is about what he expected—a packed dance floor surrounded by high-top tables, semi-circular VIP booths upholstered in deep burgundy tucked against one wall, and a long bar lit up in neon against the other. The clientele is upscale to the extreme; Alex had come in a bespoke suit and still feels vaguely underdressed given the amount of casual wealth glittering in the club’s flashing lights.

He assumes that Henry will dispense with whatever the fuck act this is once they’re inside, but instead he practically attaches himself to Alex’s side like a limpet, hanging off his arm and touching his shoulder and putting his arm around Alex’s waist as they make their way through the space. The hand he slides onto the nape of Alex’s neck while they wait for drinks at the bar is a step too far, though. It sends a tremor of irritation shooting down Alex’s spine, and he tries to wrench away, though he doesn’t get far.

“What the hell, man?” he huffs, rubbing the back of his neck as Henry grabs onto his wrist and tugs him close again. Too fucking close. His cologne fills Alex’s nose and his body is radiating heat even through his suit, and Alex’s instincts all yell at him to get away before— well, he doesn’t really know. But it’s definitely nothing good.

“Relax, darling,” Henry murmurs, low and rich and right in his goddamn ear, “and try to pretend you don’t despise me.”

Alex takes a deep breath through his nose and grinds out, “What are you talking about?”

“You didn’t know?” Henry says archly, with a look of superiority that Alex is dying to smack off his face. “Access to this club is restricted for men. Either one of the VIP members vouches for you, or you have to come attached, as it were. It’s gained a reputation as being somewhere women can come and let loose without having to worry about unwelcome advancements.”

Alex forces himself to look out at the club again, taking in the distribution of people in it, and yes, now that he’s fully paying attention, it does seem that the limited number of men are all paired up with someone else, whether that be a woman or another man. He’s not sure how this apparently slipped by the researchers at Langley, especially if it’s well known, and he hates being made to look like a fool in front of Henry, of all people. Whoever put this dossier together is gonna get an earful for sure.

“This seems really fucking flimsy,” Alex argues, just for the sake of arguing. “How do they know people aren’t faking to get in the door?”

“It’s simple,” Henry says. He pauses as the bartender returns with their drinks—gin and tonic for him, a Manhattan for Alex—and takes a sip before continuing. “They get suspicious, they throw you out. So don’t do anything to make them suspicious, hm?”

Fucking great. Now, no longer does Alex just have to somehow get into back offices that are, by all accounts, damn near impenetrable without an invitation, he also has to do it while playing boyfriends with his fucking nemesis. Worst fucking mission ever, actually.

“Whatever you say, sweetheart,” Alex returns with his most saccharine smile, relishing the way it makes Henry’s lips tighten. There’s one thing about this that doesn’t make sense, though. “So just how were you planning on getting in here before you found me?”

Henry shrugs. “I have a special invitation.”

“But then, you didn’t—” Alex cut himself off, staring hard at Henry as the other agent resolutely ignores him and surveys the club instead.

Henry didn’t need him to get in. Henry could have just left him standing out there and gone in to do his own thing—which Alex assumes is essentially the same as his mission—but instead Henry helped him, and Alex doesn’t know what to make of that.

“So, Agent Claremont-Diaz, just what was your plan?” Henry asks eventually.

“You can’t seriously expect me to tell you that,” Alex scoffs.

Henry slants a skeptical look toward him. “Why not? I rather think we’re on the same side tonight.”

Alex sips his whiskey so he doesn’t grind his teeth together. “Our countries are allies. We’re always on the same side, in case you forgot. That hasn’t stopped you from regularly ruining my operations.”

“I’m merely doing my job, Alex, same as you.” Henry stirs his drink idly, ice clinking in the glass. “But I’d also wager that you also know how tricky the situation with our mutual friend is tonight. I was simply proposing that we might have more success if we pool our resources, such as they are.”

“Hold the phone, you’re suggesting we work together?”

“Is it really so hard to believe?”

Alex stares at him, waiting for the punchline, because there’s no way in hell that Mr. Superiority Complex actually wants to work with him. But Henry just keeps staring at him, an inscrutable expression on his face and an intensity to his gaze that makes Alex sweat, not that he’d never admit it. He wants to say no, wants to say fuck off, he can do this on his own like he planned originally, except his original plan would have been scuttled at the start if it weren’t for Henry. Plus, who knows what he could learn about the other agent, given such an opportunity. It’d be stupid not to take advantage of it.

“All right, Foxy,” Alex says slowly, grinning at the way Henry’s lips purse in disapproval. “I’m game.” He glances up to where a tall woman with long, jet-black hair and olive skin stands on a balcony overlooking the floor. “Emilia Bouchard. Heiress to a criminal dynasty who’s not waiting until daddy passes the mantle to get her hands dirty. The club is her own venture, and also where she does all of her less-than-legal business. Like tonight, when she’s hosting some kind of invitation-only shindig where she plans on flaunting some of the secrets she trades in for prospective buyers. Which I assume is why you’re here, same as me.”

“Not just secrets,” Henry corrects as he watches Bouchard out of his peripheral vision. “Her father’s high-tech weapons business is expanding into those of the chemical variety and, word is, Emilia is spearheading those efforts. She recently married one of the top chemists in this unfortunate business.”

“D’ya think the criminal underworld has their own dating apps?” Alex wonders aloud, and Henry’s lips twitch like he’s trying to suppress a smile.

“If they did, I’m certain our agencies would have figured out how to use them to set up honeytraps.”

“You’re probably right,” Alex allows. “Anyway, the plan was to wait until Bouchard and company have gone into the back. She’ll open the biometric safe in her office to retrieve the goods and, if she’s like most people, she’ll leave it open because she’s just in the next room and security is tight tonight. At least, it will be until a distraction out here draws enough of them away. While they’re occupied, I slip into her office to access the safe.”

“Her office?” Henry asks. “You don’t mean to go after the intelligence she’s trying to sell?”

“Not my objective,” Alex says. “We want that little black notebook of sources.”

Henry frowns thoughtfully. “I suppose it’s not the worst plan.”

“You suppose,” Alex scoffs. “And what was your amazing plan?”

“I told you, I have a special invitation to the event,” Henry answers smugly. “Or rather, the disaffected second son of Lord Hampton does. His family’s coffers aren’t what they once were, and he’s fallen in with a number of unsavory characters in an effort to maintain the standard of living he’s become accustomed to. Bouchard has never met him.”

“Of course you’re posing as some horrible aristocratic prick. It’s a natural fit,” Alex says, laughing at Henry’s answering glare. “So, is it gonna be a problem if my lord shows up with a guest?”

“Edward Hampton isn’t a lord, his father is,” Henry corrects primly. “And no, it won’t. He has quite the collection of paramours of varying…” He looks down his nose at Alex. “… caliber.”

Alex sneers at him and throws back the rest of his drink rather than punch him in the face; it’s a close call, regardless. After slamming the glass on the bar with a little too much force, he sets to work while Henry looks on, bemused. First he tugs off his tie, which he jams in a pocket, then unbuttons his shirt halfway to his navel, leaving a swath of sternum and chest hair exposed. He pushes a hand through his hair to loosen his curls so that they fall over his forehead, and finally, he lifts a gold chain off a drunk girl who fortuitously stumbles into him on her way to the bar.

“What the devil are you doing?” Henry asks as Alex fastens the chain around his own neck.

“If I’m gonna be playing your American boy toy, I should look the part, don’t you think?”

Henry’s gaze rakes over him, lingering unmistakably on his chest, then he turns toward the bar and drains the rest of his drink. “I think that you should be careful drawing attention to yourself.”

“Don’t worry about me, sweetheart,” Alex tells him with a shit-eating grin. “No one suspects a himbo.”

“Christ,” Henry mutters under his breath as he flags down the bartender.

“So, how should we pass the time? Dancing?”

“I don’t dance,” Henry replies flatly.

“Why’d you bring me to a club if you don’t wanna dance, baby?” Alex pouts as he drapes himself over Henry’s arm.

Henry tenses subtly, but to his credit, he does a decent job of making his exasperation look fond for anyone who might be watching. “I didn’t bring you anywhere, you demon,” he mutters under his breath, then forces on an indulgent smile as the bartender approaches. “Another round for us,” he says, then turns back to Alex. “You know I have business tonight, darling.”

Plucking the cherry out of his nearly empty drink by the stem, Alex lifts the bright red fruit to his mouth and curls his tongue around it to draw it between his teeth. Henry’s eyes track every movement, his mouth dropping open slightly as Alex closes his lips and plucks the stem out, and Alex doesn’t bother hiding his smugness as he chews. “Fine, then,” he says, leaning in close, “I’ll just have to find a way to have fun without you.”

“Behave,” Henry hisses, surprisingly flustered.

If Alex had known the way to get under Henry’s unflappable exterior was by flirting, he might have tried it earlier. Smirking, he pulls away and shrugs as he grabs his fresh drink off the bar. “Just selling the covers you put us up to.”

Henry’s answering sigh is a lot more beleaguered than is really warranted.

“So, MI6 is interested in these chemical weapons, then?” Alex prompts after another minute passes and the area around them has cleared some.

Henry nods. “We want to know what exactly they’re offering and who they’re selling it to. Right now, they seem fairly small-scale, but…”

“But you’re worried about what someone who regularly supplies military-grade drones to the highest bidder might be capable of,” Alex finishes.

“Just so.”

Movement on the balcony catches Alex’s eye; a severe-looking man in a boring suit approaches Bouchard and leans in to speak into her ear, and a moment later she follows him into the depths of the back.

“So are they gonna let me back there with you?” Alex asks.

“There will be a high-sensitivity scanner at the entrance, but assuming you don’t have any bugs or weapons on you, then yes, guests of invitees are permitted.”

“What do you take me for, an amateur?” Alex scoffs. Henry cocks an eyebrow. “Don’t answer that.”

“Security will be extremely tight, even back there. Especially back there. How do you intend to get to the office?” Henry asks.

Alex just grins. “I’ve got some ideas.”

“You said you didn’t have any weapons,” Henry hisses angrily.

“I lied,” Alex says with a shrug. “I got it in, didn’t I?”

“This is far too risky. We should just stick to the plan.”

“That was your mission, sweetheart,” Alex counters, using the sarcastic endearment without meaning to. Now that he’s started, he can’t seem to stop. “I have a different objective, and I don’t plan on failing. If you don’t want to help, you can stay here.”

“And wait for them to turn on me when you get yourself caught? I think not,” Henry scoffs. “For better or worse, we’re in this together now.”

“Then don’t get in my fucking way,” Alex bites out.

Bouchard’s little show-and-tell—something between a product showcase and a silent auction—is taking place in a sprawling, enclosed courtyard somewhere near the rear of the building. The other guests are all milling around with drinks in hand, listening intently as Bouchard’s people dispassionately describe the effects of this drug or that weapon as if working a cosmetics counter. They’ve been making the rounds for a while now, both to avoid drawing attention to themselves and also for Henry to collect the intel he’s after, but Alex is getting impatient.

It’s time. Alex slips off his watch, presses a button, and surreptitiously drops it into a nearby fountain, then mutters to Henry, “Five minutes.”

Henry checks his own watch and gives a short nod, cocking an eyebrow at Alex as if to silently prompt, well?

Alex smirks and proceeds to dump the majority of his drink down his front—a waste of good whiskey, but what can you do?—then dramatically swoons into Henry. He’d told Henry more or less what he planned, but he might have left out the specifics and this, apparently, is still a surprise; Henry’s eyes go wide as he wraps his arms around Alex’s waist automatically, only narrowly avoiding dropping his own drink on the ground.

“You’re s’pretty, baby,” Alex slurs drunkenly. He leans in, nearly burying his face in Henry’s neck but still making sure he’s fully audible when he whines, “Take me home pleaaaase, I’ll even let you fu—”

“All right, love,” Henry interrupts, flushing prettily and playing the part of the harried boyfriend to perfection as he shoots apologetic looks at the nearby guests, who are now glaring at them in disapproval. He’s annoyingly good at this, actually. “Let’s get you cleaned up a bit first, all right?”

Alex stumbles along as Henry leads him toward the courtyard’s only point of egress, which is currently being guarded by two large, scowling men.

“Pardon me, can you point us toward a washroom, perhaps?” Henry asks them. “I’m afraid my companion is feeling a bit ill.”

“No one in or out until the showcase is over,” one of the guards grunts.

Alex slumps forward, groaning loudly and punctuating with a sickening gagging noise.

“Unless you want him vomiting in your fountain, I suggest you reconsider,” Henry says pointedly. The two guards exchange a look, and Henry huffs. “Surely one of you can escort us to the washroom? Quickly, if I may?”

“Fine,” the first guard says. “Come on.”

He shows them to a small, single-occupancy restroom just down the hall, parking himself outside as Henry pushes Alex inside and locks the door behind them. Immediately, Alex puts as much space between them as possible, though it isn’t much in the small space.

“Time?” he prompts, plucking a little forlornly at his damp shirt.

“A minute-thirty,” Henry reports. “What happens if this doesn’t work?”

“Then we come up with a plan B,” Alex says flatly. “I’m not leaving here without getting into that office.”

“You don’t even know for sure that the safe is open.”

“I’m not arguing with you about this. I told you already, your presence is not needed, Henry.”

Henry’s reply is interrupted by a knock on the door.

“Finished?” the guard calls.

Alex makes a loud and dramatic hork noise, and Henry yells back, “One more moment!” Then he wipes a hand over his face and mutters, “I cannot believe I let you talk me into this.”

“In ten minutes we’ll be out of here and you go back to whatever the fuck you get up to when you’re not interfering in my missions,” Alex hisses back.

“Oh, I’m the one interfering, that’s rich—” Henry starts.

A muffled thunk vibrates the floor as the explosive in Alex’s watch detonates, and he falls silent.

“Stay here!” the guard yells.

They wait until the echo of his heavy boots on the hard floor fades to nothing, then Alex carefully unlocks the door and cracks it open to look out. The hallway is deserted now, and they waste no time before taking off down the hall. Even if the CIA hadn’t secured blueprints to the club ahead of time, Bouchard’s office is obvious with its ornate wooden doors. It’s also, blissfully, unlocked. They slip inside, and Henry takes up a position by the door, on high alert for any signs that someone might be approaching.

Alex was right that Bouchard would leave her safe open, but unfortunately, she did it for a very good reason.

“It’s empty,” Alex says, stunned by the utterly bare shelves. They had good intel that she keeps a hard copy of her sources and contacts, but no one could have expected that she wouldn’t keep that in her most secure vault.

“What?” Henry asks, glancing back toward him.

“The safe is empty. She must keep the book somewhere else.”

“Or on her person.”

“Fuck,” Alex groans, tipping his face toward the ceiling in frustration.

The look on Henry’s face is infuriatingly self-righteous. “Are you satisfied now? Can we leave?”

“No, I’m not fucking satisfied,” Alex snaps, sinking a hand into his hair and tugging. “I was supposed to retrieve that fucking book.”

“Well I’m afraid there’s little chance of that happening now that you set a bomb off in her fountain.”

“Fuck you, it was only a small explosive charge—”

“Enough, I think he’s coming back,” Henry interrupts, sticking his head out into the hallway again, and it’s only the fact that they can’t get caught in here that keeps Alex from arguing. Unfortunately, the path toward the exit is also the direction that the footsteps are coming from, leaving them no choice but to retreat. Henry jerks his head down the hall. “Back to the restroom.”

Alex despises having to follow Henry’s lead, especially in this moment, but that’s what he does: they run down the hall as quickly and quietly as possible, making it back to the restroom just in time. The guard must round the corner moments later, because they don’t stand there long before the banging resumes on the door.

“Out, now, or I will open the door!” the guard shouts, rattling the handle.

Henry shoots Alex a hesitant look. “Do you think—”

There’s a loud, metallic grinding sound, like the door handle has been torn clean off, and before Alex can process what’s happening Henry is shoving him back against the sink and dropping down to his knees in front of him with his back to the door. Then, as if Alex had any doubts about the picture he wishes to paint of what exactly they've been doing in here, Henry's hands come up to his waistband and his nimble fingers start unbuckling Alex’s belt, and abruptly everything goes a little hazy.

Because Alex’s fly is open and Henry’s hands are pressing against his thighs, hot through the thin fabric of his trousers, and Henry’s face is fucking inches from where Alex’s cock is starting to take a distinct interest in the proceedings despite their dire fucking circumstances. It’s a-fucking-lot, even with his boxers still in place, and when Henry looks up at him, blue eyes shining up through pale eyelashes, his pink fucking lips glistening like he’s licked them, Alex’s brain executes a complete and unplanned shutdown.

With a crash, the door slams open, and Alex only gets a glimpse of the man on the other side before Henry jumps up directly in front of him, completely shielding him from the guard. It’s a weird feeling, like Henry is protecting him, and Alex is in no place to try to mentally deal with that right now. As it is, he can barely make his hands fasten his pants and buckle his belt again. He feels unaccountably flustered, which is ridiculous, because he doesn't get flustered. At least he’s probably selling that they were, in fact, interrupted mid-fellatio.

“Out,” the guard grunts, looming threateningly in the doorway, now with a gun pointed at them. There’s no mistaking the revulsion on his face as he looks over the two of them, and as they start to walk past into the hallway, he mutters, “Disgusting.”

Henry moves before Alex even fully processes it, slamming his fist into the guard’s face with enough force that Alex hears his jaw crack. The first blow effectively stuns him, then Henry follows it up with a swinging elbow to the temple and the guard goes sprawling to the floor, unconscious.

There’s a beat as Henry shakes out his fist and smooths down the front of his jacket, then he looks back at Alex almost sheepishly. “Sorry. Might have gotten a bit carried away, there.”

“Let’s get him out of the hall,” Alex says, valiantly pretending like he’s not sporting the most confused half-boner of his life.

The guard is a good six foot four inches of solid muscle, and dragging him into the tiny restroom takes some effort even for the two of them. Alex snags the pistol out of his hand and checks the clip before slamming it back together, then tucks it into the back of his waistband under his jacket and follows Henry out into the hall. 

It’s quiet—too quiet, in fact. An explosive just went off in the building not that long ago, surely there should be some commotion still. They move quickly through the halls, working their way toward the front of the club, where they’ll hopefully be able to melt into the crowd and make their escape. The trick is getting past the courtyard, where Bouchard and her hired muscle will probably be keeping everyone inside to try to figure out who set off the charge, and they almost, almost make it—they’re most of the way past when the door opens and another guard steps out, quickly zeroing in on them.

“You, there! Stop!” the guard calls.

Without even exchanging a glance, Alex and Henry do the opposite.

Unfortunately, the guard’s appearance cuts off their exit toward the front, so they take off at top speed back the way they came, getting further and further into the depths of the building. Alex knows there are exits toward the back, but running for his life isn’t particularly conducive to remembering the details of blueprints, so they end up turning this way and that at random, moving steadily away from their pursuers. A few steps ahead of him, Henry rounds another corner, and it’s only then that Alex realizes that the sound of heavy footsteps has faded away behind them.

“Hey, H, I think we might have lost—” he’s whispering, looking over his shoulder as he rounds the corner, only to turn back and see Henry standing in the hall with his hands up and a rifle pushed into his back.

On pure, instinctual muscle memory, Alex draws the pistol out of his waistband in one fluid movement, training it steadily on the guard currently holding Henry at gunpoint. There are three of them and one of him, though, and he’s not that fast with a gun.

“Try anything and he’s dead,” the guard on the left says in the kind of low, even tone that brooks no argument. “Drop the gun.”

“Or I could make a run for it,” Alex counters, his eyes flicking between the three guards and avoiding Henry’s face.

“Then he is also dead.”

“I don’t believe you. You wouldn’t waste the opportunity for information.”

The guard on the right crosses his arms over his chest. “Try it.”

In his years as spy, Alex has learned not to try anyone who says try it. Maybe he’d be able to get away, maybe he could take out the guy holding Henry at gunpoint and not get immediately shot himself. The odds are slim, though. Finally, he lets his eyes meet Henry’s. Steady blue stares back at him, uncompromising, unflinching. A man who knows he’s caught and there isn’t a thing he can do about it. A spy whose number is up.

Henry mouths run.

He should. He has no loyalty to Henry, should have no concern for his well-being. Hell, Alex has tried to shoot him in the past. If anything, this should make his life easier, not having Henry fucking Fox around anymore.

And yet… 

Alex drops the gun.

“No—” Henry tries, but it’s too late, Alex is already kicking the pistol across the gap.

If they’re taken alive, that means the possibility of escape. The possibility of survival for the both of them. Much as he might not care for the guy, Alex can’t condemn him to death. Especially not when Henry had clearly been willing to give up his life for Alex’s, even though he has no reason to. Even though Alex is the one who got them into this mess.

“Now what?” Alex says, putting his hands up.

One of the guards steps forward and grabs his wrists, wrenching them roughly behind his back, and the last thing Alex feels is the prick of a needle sliding into the side of his neck.

A concrete floor is, objectively, one of the worst surfaces you can wake up on. Every joint in Alex’s body is screaming at him, he’s freezing cold, and his skull feels like it’s about to crack apart. That last bit probably doesn’t have anything to do with the floor, but it does have to do with his circumstances, namely that, when his eyelids flutter open, he finds himself stuck in a fucking cell. Ugh.

There’s no telling exactly how long he’s been out, but as he scratches over the stubble on his jaw, he figures it can’t have been more than half a day. It’s probably morning now, if he had to guess. Their captors have left the lights on—bright, fluorescent bulbs that fill his already messed-up head with buzzing and reflect blindingly off of white-washed walls.

“He’s waking up,” someone grunts from nearby. “Should get the doc.”

“What about the other one?” another voice asks.

“Fuck if I know. They said he’d be out longer.”

“You really think this is gonna work?”

“Not my place to question it. Anyway, they came together, didn’t they? It’ll work.”

Alex listens to the footsteps fade away before he makes any attempt at moving. His head is still foggy, thoughts and memories jumbled, but he needs to get out of here before they can put whatever they have planned into play. Dredging up some reserves of energy, he pushes himself unsteadily up to standing, his legs and back protesting as he stumbles over to the wall of bars closest to the cell that contains another person—he’s curled up on his side facing away from Alex, but those shoulders and that blond hair could only belong to his reluctant partner from the night before.

“I can’t believe they gave you a fucking mattress,” Alex croaks as he rubs his eyes and glares across the gap between their cells. “How is that fucking fair?”

Henry doesn’t answer. Well, the guy did say he might still be unconscious, though he could always be faking. As Alex watches, a tremor runs through Henry’s body, more violent than just a shiver from the cold, and Alex frowns.

“Hey,” he says, a little louder. “Fox. Asshole. Your royal fucking jerk-off. Dumbass who ran into a trap. Henry.”

Nothing.

Alex wipes a hand over his face, wondering how the fuck he’s gonna get out of this.

The click of heels on cement interrupts his thoughts, and he turns to see a petite, full-figured woman in a white lab coat approaching. There’s a stethoscope slung around her neck, a few tools in her pocket, and a clipboard in her hands—‘the doc’, Alex guesses. She appears to be somewhere in her late thirties to early forties, with large gray eyes blinking behind horn-rimmed glasses and her russet hair cut in a bob. Not the kind of person he’d expect to be working for a criminal organization, but if there’s one thing he’s learned in his years as a spy, it’s not to underestimate anyone.

“Oh good, they said you were awake,” she says when she sees him up. She smiles, kindly. It’s disconcerting. “How are you feeling?”

“Like shit.”

She chuckles, like this is a joke. “Not the gentlest tranquilizers out there, I know, but the effects will wear off soon. Your wrist?”

Alex stares at her blankly, and she holds out a hand palm up just outside the bars of his cell, which are just big enough to pass an arm. It’s remarkably trusting—he could reach out and grab her, do something drastic—but then again, one of the guards is standing nearby with a gun. For now, Alex behaves and sticks his arm through the bars, and the doctor presses two fingers to his wrist to take his pulse. A moment later she smiles at him.

“You’re in very good shape, Mr. Lopez.”

“For now, you mean,” Alex returns, shooting her a skeptical quirk of his eyebrows. The use of his cover name isn’t surprising, given they’ve clearly emptied his pockets and found his wallet. They’ve also, he couldn’t help but notice, relieved him of the slim lengths of metal woven into his lapels that could be used as lock picks.

“Oh, you’ll be fine,” she says in an ominously bright tone, then turns and walks toward Henry’s cell.

This time, the guard unlocks the door to the cell and looms menacingly in the entrance as the doctor walks over to Henry’s curled up figure. She kneels down next to him, taking his pulse too, then marks it down on her clipboard and pulls what seems to be a thermometer out of her pocket. Henry flinches a little when she presses down on his chin to open his mouth, but he doesn’t wake. Troubling.

“What about him?” Alex asks. “Is he gonna be fine?”

The smile she turns on him is utterly without warmth. “That depends on you, Mr. Lopez.”

Alex’s hands tighten around the bars of his cell, knuckles going white. “What does that mean? What did you do to him?”

“It means that it’s in both of your best interests to cooperate. Answer the questions you’re asked, and he’ll be fine,” she says. “For now, try to rest. You’ll likely need your strength.”

“What the fuck does that mean?” Alex demands, but she ignores him as she stands up and walks briskly out of the cell again. The guard locks Henry’s cell and takes up his position by the stairwell, staring blankly off into space. “What about you?” Alex asks. He was, after all, one of the two that had been discussing their situation earlier. “What did you mean when you asked if it would work?”

Predictably, the guard says nothing.

Alex sighs and looks back at Henry, pressing his forehead to the bars. Whatever this is, he’s pretty sure he’s not going to like it.

Eventually he slides down to the floor, because sitting on concrete is still better than standing. He uses the time to carefully catalog every inch of the prison they currently find themselves in, looking for weaknesses to exploit, but mostly he watches the steady rise and fall of Henry’s shoulders. Alex isn’t sure how much time passes—a half hour? an hour? more?—until finally he stirs. Groaning, Henry rolls onto his back, a grimace on his face and his eyes pressed closed against the light.

“Good, you are alive,” Alex says flatly. “Woulda been pissed if I’d surrendered only to have you kick it on me now.”

“You should have run,” Henry sighs without opening his eyes, the words rough and tight, as if he’s in pain.

“Didn’t realize you had a death wish, sweetheart.”

“And I didn’t know you cared, darling.”

Alex scoffs, looking off into the endless whiteness, and catches sight of the guard out of the corner of his eye. Probably not a good idea to torpedo the cover relationship just yet. “How are you doing?”

Henry’s face tips toward him, a furrow of confusion between his brows. “Like utter rubbish,” he answers. “And you?”

“Better than you look, that’s for sure.”

Alex is pretty sure it’s not just the lights that are giving Henry’s skin that pale, sickly cast. Sweat glistens slightly on his face, even at a distance, and his breathing is definitely labored. As Alex watches, he shifts a little on the mattress and winces.

“You injured?” Alex asks. Henry had been moving fine before their capture, so unless the guards did something while was unconscious or Henry tried to fight back after Alex had been injected, he shouldn’t be.

“No,” Henry answers tightly, even as he winces again. 

“Then what—”

“It’s nothing,” Henry interrupts, his voice oddly sharp now. “Must be a bad reaction to the tranquilizer. Just— leave it.”

He turns over again so his back is to Alex again, which is as clear a dismissal as anything, and it rankles under Alex’s skin. He’s acting very much like someone who’s fucking hurt, yet he refuses to talk to Alex about it. Fucking typical, really. Even with everything they’ve been through on this mission, Henry doesn’t trust him.

Fine, then. Alex will just figure out a way out of here on his own.

Unfortunately for both of them, Henry’s condition only seems to be deteriorating, and rapidly at that. At first he’s listless, unable to stay still for very long, but as time passes he ends up curled in on himself in a corner of the cell, back pressed against the bars and his knees tucked against his chest. Alex watches him, taking in every twitch, every minute gasp, every time his entire body seems to tense at once. The obvious conclusion is that they must have fucking dosed Henry with some kind of toxin, and will only give him the antidote when Alex talks. Probably they’ll draw it out until things seem really fucking dire.

Well, Alex isn’t going to wait around to find out. They’ve left only one guard down here with them, and the singular visible camera seems to be focused on Henry’s cell, not his. The guy is big, but Alex is certain he could take him down if he could just lure him into the cell. These guys aren’t usually known for their brains, but they are trained to be suspicious. Playing sick won’t be enough, and will probably just bring the doctor down, anyway.

Alex takes off his shoes, making sure the guard sees him do it, then carefully settles down on the floor with his back to the guard. There aren’t actually any fun high-tech devices hidden in his soles—he’s not James Bond, and he doesn’t have a Q—but he knows how to play on paranoia. He looks over his shoulder frequently, hunches over like he’s trying to hide something, constantly fidgets with the shoes in his lap where the guard can’t see. It doesn’t take long to pay dividends.

“Hey,” the guard says. “What are you doing?”

“Dunno what you’re talking about, man,” Alex returns. He glances over his shoulder again and sees the guard take a step to the side to get a different angle, so he shifts in concert. “Y’all searched me, didn’t you?”

The guard frowns. “Turn around.” Alex ignores him. “Turn around or I’ll shoot you.”

Alex snorts. “That, I don’t believe. What would your boss say if you told them you shot an unarmed man in a cell for no reason? If you’re so worried, turn me around yourself.”

“No one is allowed in the cells without someone else here.”

“Seems like you have two choices, then. Call one of your superiors—who will probably be annoyed you got them down here for nothing—or ignore me.”

“This is a trick,” the guard says dubiously.

“Sure,” Alex agrees.

Now, he doesn’t have to turn around to know the guard is watching him. The hook has been baited; he just needs to wait. He keeps on with his charade, banging the heel of one of his shoes on the ground and moving like he’s trying to pry something open. From his position, he can see Henry watching him from his position in the corner of his cell, a tiny, almost invisible crease between his brows. 

Then, he lets out a huff and a carefully just-audible, “Finally.”

“Turn around,” the guard tries again. Alex ignores him, and he swears under his breath.

A moment later, the distinctive jingle of keys sounds behind him, and Alex can’t help but smile. The door to the cell swings open and the guard steps inside, but still Alex stays hunched over, ‘working’ even more furiously. He tracks the guard’s footsteps as he moves closer, until finally the muzzle of the rifle jabs him in the shoulder.

“Turn around.”

“Fuck off, I don’t take orders from you,” Alex retorts.

The guard hesitates another beat, then takes the bait. He reaches down to grab Alex’s shoulder, and the moment he does, Alex springs into action. An elbow flying backward slams into the man’s groin, and Alex takes advantage of his slackened grip to yank the rifle from his hands. The guard immediately starts fumbling for the pistol on his hip, but Alex is already scrambling to his feet and swinging the butt of the rifle like a bat. There’s a satisfying crack when it connects with the guard’s temple, and he goes sprawling onto the floor.

“Thanks for your cooperation,” Alex says to his unconscious form as he bends down to relieve him of his pistol, the keys to the cells, and his earpiece, which he hooks over his own ear. He takes a moment to put his shoes back on, then looks up to find Henry still watching him.

The smart thing to do would be to leave him. Alex will move far faster without him, might even be able to scout whatever building they’re in on the way out and gain some valuable intelligence. Right now, no one knows he’s free, but that will change if he pulls Henry out of the cell that’s being video monitored. He tries to tell himself that he wouldn’t necessarily be leaving Henry to die now. They probably wouldn’t kill him right away. Alex could call someone once he got out and tell them to get a message to MI6, have them send in an extraction team. Or, Alex could unlock the cell, leave him the pistol, and let Henry make his own way out. Even as he thinks it, though, he knows there’s no way. He’s pretty sure Henry can barely stand on his own right now, much less fight his way through god knows how many guards.

Still. Trying to rescue him dramatically reduces Alex’s chances of escape. He’s sure Nora could tell him the exact numbers.

Alex steps out of the cell and locks the guard inside. Then he turns away from Henry’s cell and walks toward the stairs leading to freedom. He pauses at the base of them, listening for running footsteps or any sign his escape has been noticed. Nothing. The radio also stays silent.

Taking a deep breath, he looks back again. Henry’s eyes are closed, his shoulders curled in even further. He looks absurdly pitiful like this; nothing like the formidable agent Alex has come to know.

Fuck fuck fucking fuck.

Alex silently runs up the flight of stairs to the next level, which blessedly seems to be the ground floor. The door opens into the middle of a nondescript, empty corridor with unremarkable gray laminate floors, white walls, and gray doors at regular intervals. He’s about to step into the hall when footsteps start echoing from the direction of an intersecting corridor, so he shrinks back, leaving only a narrow gap to watch a guard walk past his hall and keep going. So they’re patrolling, but not extensively.

When the coast is clear again, he slips into the hall and edges his way over to a window in one of the doors. Within is a lab full of beakers, test tubes, all that shit. Alex has never seen a more stereotypical one. No one seems to be working—do villain chemists give their employees Sundays off?—so Alex nabs a lab coat off a hook by the door then returns to the stairwell.

Predictably, Henry has not moved an inch, but he looks up when he hears Alex’s footsteps. Even in his current state, he keeps his reaction of shock to a minimum, but it’s clear he assumed Alex had left him. Like he should have. Ugh.

After making sure the guard is still out cold, Alex unlocks his old cell again and sets about removing the other man’s jacket, which he pulls on over his own (what? he likes this suit, he’s not losing part of it). His pants aren't the same color as the guard’s, but they’re dark enough to hopefully not be noticed. Finally, he grabs the guard’s cap off the ground and tugs it on before slinging the rifle over his shoulder again.

Henry says nothing through all of this, but when Alex walks toward the door of his cell and unlocks it, he hisses, “What are you doing?”

“Saving your ass,” Alex says dryly. “Can you get up?”

“Just leave, Alex,” Henry replies, his words partly muffled where his face is pushed into his knees.

Alex rolls his eyes and glares at him. “Listen, asshole, I don’t care how much you don’t like me, or if being rescued is beneath you or some shit, I’m not fucking leaving you behind. Now either you get up, or I’m coming in there to get you.”

Henry stares at him for a long moment, then closes his eyes again. Alex has rarely seen a man look so defeated. “No, Alex. What I mean is it’s not worth your life to try. I can’t… I don’t think I can walk on my own, and you’re not going to bloody carry me out of here.”

“That’s where you’re wrong, sweetheart.”

Alex leaves the lab coat by the door to the cell, out of the view of the camera, and steps inside. His new hat and coat probably won’t be enough to keep someone from coming, considering what the guard told him about not entering the cells without someone else present, but with luck they’ll only send one person to check on things.

“You are the most obstinate man I’ve ever met,” Henry hisses accusingly at him when Alex reaches down to pull him up.

Alex just grins at him and says, “Yup. Now come on, we gotta move quickly. I need you to work with me here.”

Henry gasps when Alex grabs his wrist, as if the contact alone is painful, but he’s just going to have to bear it. Alex still isn’t expecting him to nearly convulse when he bends down and pulls Henry’s arm over his shoulders. He feels like he’s on fire, his suit damp where he’s been sweating through it, and every small jostle makes him moan. Alex reaches up to press his fingers to the side of Henry’s neck to feel for his pulse—which is fucking racing—and his eyes nearly roll back in his head.

“Alex, no, don’t,” he starts as Alex wraps an arm around his waist to try to pull him in, squirming in his grasp like he can’t decide whether he wants to get closer or pull away. His movements only bring their bodies into more contact, though, and Alex nearly drops him when he feels—

“You’re hard,” Alex blurts without thinking, unable to tear his eyes away from the rather sizable erection straining in the front of Henry’s pants. “What—”

“We need to go,” Henry interrupts sharply, apparently finding a bit of strength. He doesn’t pull away from Alex, but he does support a little more of his own weight. And, well, he has a point. They don’t have time for whatever the fuck this is.

Alex shoves the lab coat at him once they’re out of the cell and they part just long enough for Henry to drag it on. Then he attaches himself to Alex’s side like a barnacle again, as if he’s drawing strength from the contact. The disguises, such as they are, won’t do much for them in their current circumstances, especially with Henry looking like he’s seconds from passing out, but if even one person overlooks them it’ll be worth it. Alex hands Henry the pistol and is in the middle of fumbling with the rifle so he can get it arranged to use one handed, when another guard appears at the bottom of the stairs.

“What the—”

Henry fires, two shots dead center to the chest, and the guard drops like a stone.

“Good to see your aim hasn’t suffered,” Alex says as he starts dragging Henry toward the stairs.

“I was going for head shots,” Henry replies weakly, and Alex can’t tell if he’s joking or not.

There’s little chance that no one heard the gunshots, which makes their swift exit even more pressing. The stairs take longer to navigate than he’d like, and by the time they burst through the door at the top, there are more guards already turning the corner into the corridor. Alex sends a spray of rifle fire their way, making them shrink back temporarily, but it won’t last long.

“C’mon, Henry, you gotta run.”

They take off at as close to a sprint as can be managed in their current positions, and when Henry stumbles, Alex just grips him tighter around the waist and pushes himself on until his muscles are screaming at the effort. Bullets ricochet off the floor, embed themselves in the walls, and whistle past their bodies as they run, but miraculously none of them find their marks. That’s no doubt helped by Henry’s erratic firing over his shoulder, though he’s going to empty the clip soon.

On the next shot the pistol clicks, empty, and Henry throws it away. Right, then. They’re too exposed in the corridors, and when Alex glances through one of the lab doors, he sees a large panel of windows on the other side of the room. He abruptly changes direction and pulls Henry into the lab with him, ducking briefly behind a lab bench to check the rifle. Glassware shatters and rains down around them as the guards fire, and it’s only a matter of time before they start closing in.

“What now?” Henry gasps, flinching as more glass explodes to their right.

“We’re going through the window,” Alex tells him.

As if on cue, one of the bullets flying around them slams into one of the large plate-glass windows, sending a spider-web of cracks out from the point of impact. Reinforced, then, but not, it seems, fully bulletproof. Alex takes a breath and fires the rifle at the weakened area, further spreading the damage until the window is nearly opaque with fractures and sagging in the frame.

“I’m gonna draw their fire, and you go through the window first,” he tells Henry.

“You’re insane,” Henry yelps. “I can’t— and anyway, how will you get out?” He shakes his head and looks around, his eyes landing on a metal cabinet across from them labeled FLAMMABLE. He glances over at Alex. “We go together.”

Alex nods. “On three.”

On the count, Henry scrambles for the cabinet, grabs the first bottle he comes across, and hurls it over the benches toward the guards. It smashes on the floor between them and in the chaos, Alex fires, hoping for a spark. The third shot wings off a metal pipe, and seconds later the chemical ignites in a fiery inferno.

“Good choice,” he comments as he grabs Henry again and hauls him up.

Slinging the rifle over his back, he takes off at a run and throws himself and Henry bodily through the window, which yields under them, peeling out of the frame and dumping them out into a parking lot. Some fucking luck, for once. Alex drags Henry to the nearest car, breaks out the passenger-side window with the butt of the rifle, then stuffs him haphazardly inside, hardly noticing the way he’s gone sort of limp. He tosses the rifle into the back seat and runs around to the driver’s side, yanks the wires out from under the steering column to hot wire it, and seconds later, the engine rumbles to life.

He’s so focused on getting out of there that he doesn’t look over at Henry until they’re several miles away and he’s gotten them on a road headed back toward the main part of the city. He swears when he does, because Henry is sprawled almost lifelessly in the other seat, his head lolling every time the car turns.

“Henry,” Alex barks, to no avail. He reaches out with one hand to shake Henry’s shoulder, eyes flitting between the road and the other man, but gets no response. Then he grabs Henry’s wrist to check for a pulse and Henry stutters awake again. “Fuck, man,” he exhales heavily. “Don’t fucking die on me now.”

“Where’re we goin’?” Henry slurs.

“Safehouse. I’ll call Nora, see if she has any ideas about what this is.”

“Mmm.”

Alex glances over at him again to find his eyes closed, his head tipped back against the headrest. “Hey, don’t go to sleep, ok?”

“Not sleeping,” Henry mumbles, just before he loses consciousness again.

Swearing, Alex stomps on the accelerator and the car jolts forward, rocketing down the road into the gathering dark.

Chapter Text

“Pick up pick up pick up,” Alex mutters under his breath, wedging the burner phone that had been stashed at the safehouse between his ear and his shoulder as he digs through the medicine cabinet. The voicemail picks up and he stabs at the phone to end the call and redial. This time, she picks up on the second ring.

“Where the fuck have you been?” Nora demands. “You missed a check-in.”

“Sorry, I was being held captive in some creepy chemist’s lab,” Alex shoots back.

That seems to pull her up short. She makes a kind of surprised sound, then asks, “What? What happened? Did you get the intel?”

“No,” he growls. “There’s been a complication. Henry Fox showed up.”

“Henry Fox, the MI6 agent?”

“Do you know another one?”

Nora hums over the clattering of her keyboard. “Didn’t think the Brits were working this one.”

“Yeah, well, it was a surprise to me, too,” Alex grumbles, coming up empty on anything that would be useful in the cabinet.

“So, what happened?” Nora prompts. “Did he snipe it from you or something?”

“No.” Alex would be offended if Henry wasn’t constantly fucking over his missions by making off with Alex’s objective before he managed it. “He— he actually helped me, but it wasn’t even in the safe. Everything went to shit. Long story short, Fox got dosed with some kind of toxin and it’s not like I can just take him to the fucking hospital—”

“Wait, he’s with you now?” she asks, shock obvious in her voice. “At the safehouse?”

Alex groans and walks back out to the living room, where Henry is still lying on the couch in the heap where Alex left him. He’d only been barely conscious when Alex had dragged him up the stairs and now is basically unresponsive.

“Yeah, he’s fucking here,” Alex confirms wearily.

“Alex, you’re not supposed to bring anyone—”

“You think I don’t know that?” he snaps, scrubbing a hand through his hair. “I couldn’t just fucking leave him there. No matter how much of an asshole he is.”

“Jesus fucking Christ on toast,” Nora mutters under her breath, though most of the following rant about him and Henry is unintelligible. He’s heard it before, anyway, like it’s Alex’s fucking fault that Henry’s always in his way, of course Alex is going to complain about him all the time. A few seconds later, she instructs, “Gimme his symptoms, I’ll cross-reference them in the database and see if there’s anything I can tell you.”

“Elevated heart rate, shortness of breath, dilated pupils, kinda feverish,” Alex rattles off. “Also touch sensitivity, and, um”—he hesitates, biting his lip—“he’s hard.”

The steady clatter of Nora’s fingers on the keyboard goes abruptly silent. “Huh? What’s hard?”

“What part do you think? He’s got a fucking boner, ok?” Alex hisses, though Henry is clearly not listening in on this conversation. “And not a little one.”

“Oh shit, I’ve heard of this,” she says ominously as the clacking picks up again.

“You have?”

“I mean, I thought it was an agency legend, not something that actually exists—” Her voice cuts off. “Shit. It’s in the fucking database, even.”

“What is, Nora?”

“It’s a neurotoxin designed to trigger dangerously intense states of arousal,” she tells him flatly.

“Dangerous?” he echoes. “How dangerous can that be?”

“Kill-you-if-you-don’t-get-relief kind of dangerous,” she says. “How long has it been since he was dosed?”

Alex looks at the clock and calculates backward. “I don’t know, a while. At least five hours, maybe more. But back the fuck up, what you do mean relief?”

Nora snorts softly. “I think you can guess.”

“Nora—”

“I mean he needs to get off,” she says in no uncertain terms, “and not on his own. Apparently that doesn’t work. Also says that most subjects didn’t start recovering until they’d come at least four times and sometimes as many as six, so.”

“You’re fucking with me,” Alex replies, his voice going high and slightly hysterical. “This isn’t funny, Nora, he’s in bad shape—”

“I’m not fucking with you,” she interrupts. “I’m dead fucking serious, Alejandro. If he doesn’t get significant human contact in the next hour, he’s toast.”

“There has to be some mistake, something else it could be—”

“Touch him.”

Alex actually takes the phone away from his ear and stares at it, like Nora will be able to see the incredulous expression on his face. “I can’t— I’m not going to fucking touch him, Nora, he’s unconscious.”

“I’m not telling you to grab his dick, idiot,” she snaps. “Put your hand on his face or something. If I’m right, just the skin-on-skin contact should help revive him.”

This is insane. Certifiably, actually insane. And yet, he thinks of how Henry seemed to be drawing strength from the contact between them as they escaped. Of all the times Alex tried to revive him, only to have no luck until he touched Henry’s bare skin. Maybe there’s something to this, unlikely though it might seem.

Alex’s feet carry him over to the couch, where Henry’s supine form lays nearly unmoving, the only sign of life the slow rise and fall of his chest as his labored breaths wheeze through his lips. His cheeks are vividly flushed, which is made even starker by how fucking pale the rest of his skin is. So sickly, deathly pale that it ties a knot in Alex’s stomach, no matter his increasingly complicated feelings about the guy. Henry doesn’t stir as he kneels next to the couch, nor when Alex puts a hand on his shoulder to try to revive him. Gritting his teeth, Alex takes a deep breath and reaches out to lay a palm on Henry’s cheek.

Henry gasps, his pale eyelashes fluttering before his eyes shoot open and start roving wildly over Alex. It’s so sudden and startling that Alex tries to pull away, only for Henry to grab his wrist in an iron grip and press Alex’s hand harder against his face. They stare at each other for a beat, then another, then Alex experimentally swipes his thumb over Henry’s skin, brushing against the corner of his mouth, and Henry moans.

“He’s awake,” Alex croaks in disbelief. “Nora, what…” He can’t bring himself to ask the question. Doesn’t want to hear the answer.

“Oh, you’re gonna have to fuck him, little buddy. Good luck!” Nora says brightly, then promptly hangs up on him.

“Alex?” Henry rasps, his eyes roving searchingly over Alex’s face. “What’s going on?”

“I talked to one of our people in Langley,” Alex says carefully. He hasn’t moved his hand, and Henry hasn’t pulled away. Alex wonders if he can tell, somehow. If he knows, deep down, what this is. “She identified the kind of drug you were dosed with.”

Henry swallows. “And?”

“It’s a neurotoxin designed to trigger dangerously intense states of arousal,” Alex tells him, parroting Nora’s words exactly, as if that somehow will allow him to maintain some semblance of distance from this. Mental, if not physical. “Bad enough to kill you if you don’t get significant human contact.” He bites his lower lip and lets it out slowly from between his teeth, doesn’t miss how Henry’s eyes track it hungrily. “And you need to get off. Not by yourself. Um, quite a few times, probably.”

“What,” Henry squawks, abruptly pushing himself into a sitting position and pulling away from Alex’s touch. “She’s— she’s got to be mistaken.”

“She never is,” Alex sighs wearily.

“I mean, she can’t know without a sample of the toxin, or a blood test, or—”

“Henry.”

“—surely there are other possibilities—”

Alex climbs up to sit on the couch by Henry’s feet, trying not to feel anything about how Henry tries to push further away from him. His breathing is getting shallower and Alex can see the tremors wracking his body, getting worse the longer they’re apart. On instinct, he slides a hand up under the bottom of one of Henry’s trouser legs until his palm finds the bare skin of his calf, and Henry makes a sound somewhere between pleasure and pain, his eyelashes fluttering.

“I think you know there aren’t,” Alex murmurs, so quietly the words would be inaudible if it weren’t for the deathly stillness of the apartment.

“Alex,” Henry says brokenly—pleads, really, like Alex could make the circumstances different just by saying so.

“It doesn’t have to be a big deal,” Alex says as evenly as he can manage, trying to convince himself as much as Henry. “It’s just… orgasms, nothing more. I’d stitch you up if you were injured, this is no different,” he reasons. “Whatever happens tonight, we just forget about it and go our separate ways in the morning.”

“No, absolutely not,” Henry replies immediately, with startling vehemence.

Of-fucking-course. This is a man who probably regularly fucks the scum of the Earth for intel, and yet he still can’t stomach sleeping with Alex to save his own fucking life. It’s not just offensive; it’s fucking infuriating. Alex pulls away from him and gets up, ignoring the way Henry whimpers softly when he leaves. Fucking good. Maybe that’ll convince him to get off his high horse for once in his life.

“Did you miss the part where you’re going to fucking die?” Alex snaps, crossing his arms over his chest. “I know you despise me, but this is a bit much, even for you. What is it, anyway? Do you hate Americans? Or is it the whole brown thing that turns your stomach?”

“Oh Christ, no,” Henry says emphatically, grimacing and covering his eyes with a shaking hand. “I don’t despise you.” He sighs as his hand drops away, and he deliberately holds Alex’s gaze as he says, “There is not a single thing about you that I hate, Alex.”

Alex doesn’t know what to do with that confession, or the way it makes something twist in his gut. Moreso because of the helpless look in Henry’s eyes, the way he says it like he’s saying something else entirely.

He sniffs and looks away. “Yeah, well. You have a funny way of showing it.”

Henry lets out an unsteady breath, his eyelids drooping like he’s fighting to stay conscious, and abruptly Alex realizes that something’s going to have to change if they’re going to continue this conversation. He walks back over to Henry’s side, but he doesn’t sit back down on the couch. Instead, he lowers himself on the coffee table and holds out both hands. Henry stares at them for a moment, and Alex readies himself for another argument, but then Henry slides his palms against Alex’s and curls their fingers together, closing his eyes and breathing out a sigh of relief as he does. His skin is clammy and his grip tight, holding onto Alex like his life depends on it.

Well, Alex supposes, it does.

“Do you remember the first mission we met?” Henry asks eventually.

Of course he does. How could he forget? He’d been a month into an operation infiltrating a weapons trafficking ring operating out of Rabat when Henry had abruptly showed up on the scene with his blue eyes and finely tailored suits and stupid fucking cheekbones, trying to make absurd deals. Alex had dismissed him as some idiot out of his depth, which was in fact precisely what Henry had wanted, but the real rub came when they figured out that they were one in the same: covert agents working toward nearly identical ends. Henry had refused to collaborate, though, had dismissed Alex without even hearing him out, then had gone on to completely obliterate all of Alex’s careful work. To say Alex had been pissed would have been a drastic understatement.

Since then, every time they’ve crossed paths has only continued their antagonism, their growing familiarity with each other’s skills and tactics breeding a kind of strange intimacy. He knows so little about Henry, and yet it sometimes feels like Alex knows him as well as he knows himself. His favorite guns and the quirks in his hand-to-hand combat style, his preferred methods for intelligence gathering, the parts of his personality that sneak past the cover identities. Henry can be annoying and pig-headed and infuriatingly self-righteous, but Alex has also witnessed his charm, and his honor, and his compassion. It’s part of why the fact that he’s such an asshole to Alex rankles so much.

“I remember you deciding I wasn’t worth giving the time of the day, yeah,” Alex answers, not bothering to hide the bitterness in his voice.

Henry’s mouth tightens, pinching in at the corner. “That’s… not why I refused to work with you, Alex.”

“Oh yeah? Enlighten me, then.”

Henry is silent for a long while, staring at their linked hands. “That mission was one of my first solo operations,” he says when he speaks again, “and I was under an immense amount of pressure from my— from MI6 high command. And I saw you there, a young, brilliant CIA officer at the top of his game, and I thought”—his voice breaks, and he clears his throat, squeezing his eyes shut—“I thought, this is a man who could utterly ruin me. I knew that I had to do whatever was necessary to keep you as far away as possible.”

Alex opens his mouth and closes it again, frowning. “What the fuck does that mean? We’re supposed to be allies. Why would I ruin you?”

Alex isn’t expecting him to laugh, low and humorless. “Don’t you get it, Alex?” Henry asks, a flicker of fire in his eyes for the first time in hours. “This life we lead… everything is in service to our agencies, our countries. We change identities like clothes, shoving ourselves and our hopes and desires so deep down they’re almost lost entirely. We don’t get to have things for ourselves, don’t even get to want, but I— I wanted.” He closes his eyes and exhales heavily. “Lord help me, I wanted you.”

“Then fucking have me, Henry,” Alex says, sharp and sudden, the words tumbling from his lips before he even knows what he’s saying. He pulls a hand from Henry’s grip only so he can reach up and press it to his cheek again, and Henry immediately leans into it, his full lips parting in a gasp.

“I can’t— not like this,” Henry whispers miserably, desperately.

“Sorry, sweetheart,” Alex murmurs as he pushes his hand back into Henry’s hair, lets his fingers tangle in the soft strands, “but it’s going to have to be like this.”

Still, Henry shakes his head. “I can’t ask you to do this.”

“You’re not asking. I’m offering. Willingly. Please, Henry,” Alex pleads. “Let me help you.”

Henry closes his eyes, his forehead creasing as he takes a deep breath that shudders in his chest. Somehow he’s still wrestling with the decision, for reasons that Alex can’t quite fathom. It seems pretty cut-and-dried, even factoring in their history; hell, Henry’s admission that he wanted Alex should make things easier, right? Alex presses his fingertips into Henry’s scalp a little, and Henry lets out a quiet whimper.

“All right,” Henry finally agrees, his voice weak and wobbly. “Whatever… whatever you need to do.”

“Pretty sure it’s gonna be all about what you need, actually,” Alex returns with a tiny, wry smile. “C’mon, we should move to the bed.”

Henry’s lips barely twitch in response, making it rapidly clear that if they don’t get a move on, none of this discussion is going to matter. Alex hauls him up with an arm over his shoulder again, Henry’s body an oddly familiar weight by now, and they hobble the short distance into the apartment’s small bedroom. A flurry of dust motes erupt into the air when Alex yanks back the blankets, but the sheets look clean enough. Not that it really matters; they’ll probably be ruined by the time they’re done here tonight.

Henry weakly shifts himself onto the mattress as Alex flips on a lamp next to the bed then kneels next to him, considering his next move. Skin-on-skin contact, Nora had said, and it’s certainly worked to help inject some life back into him before, so it stands to reason that more would be better.

“Let’s get rid of these clothes,” Alex murmurs as he starts quickly unbuttoning Henry’s shirt, exposing a wide swath of smooth, pale skin. Henry doesn’t have much in the way of chest hair, but there’s a little trail of blond fuzz extending down from his navel that looks soft and tempting, which is definitely not a thought Alex ever thought he’d allow himself to have about Henry Fox.

Once he’s got Henry’s shirt open, he immediately slips his hands inside. He’s expecting a reaction, sure, but not for Henry to jolt as if he’s been shocked, sucking in a gasp that slides into a low, heated moan the instant Alex’s palms make contact with his skin. Henry feels like he’s on fire, almost too hot to touch, but Alex doesn’t dare flinch away.

“Oh Christ, more,” Henry pants as he arches into Alex’s touch, writhing even more desperately when Alex starts moving his hands.

He pushes the shirt wide to reveal a constellation of scars covering Henry’s chest and abdomen. Alex is similarly marked from a life in the field, and he doesn’t know why he expected any different of Henry. Maybe because Henry always seemed so in control, like he wouldn’t be careless enough to get shot, and yet there are bullet grazes and even the starburst of a direct hit just above the waistband of his trousers. Alex rubs his thumb over it unthinkingly, and Henry shudders, though whether from being touched at that particular spot or just the movement, Alex can’t tell.

Pulling away to remove more clothing turns out to be a trickier proposition than Alex expected; Henry lets out a sound that could only be described as a sob when Alex withdraws and his hands shoot out to grip Alex’s wrists with a startling strength, considering how weak he seemed moments ago.

“Please, don’t go,” Henry begs, his blue eyes wide and wild.

“Not going anywhere, promise,” Alex soothes as he attempts to extract his hands. “Gotta get us undressed, ok? Just one second, I swear.”

That seems to make it past Henry’s desperation, and he nods shakily as he lets Alex go and reclines onto the bed again. He can’t quite seem to hold back the whimpers when Alex makes quick work of his belt and pants, though, nor his gasps and trembles at the fabric being pulled down and off along with his shoes and socks. His cock bounces slightly against his belly when Alex carefully removes his boxers, astoundingly hard and so dark red it’s nearly purple where the tip is pushing out of his foreskin—and also ridiculously, annoyingly pretty. Alex has seen his fair share of cocks over the years and has a general aesthetic appreciation for nice ones, but this is almost offensive. Alex would probably be more mad about it if his mouth wasn’t fucking watering at the idea of tasting it.

Nora had said Henry needed to get off, but she also said significant human contact, and given Henry’s reaction so far to touch, Alex decides that the blowjob can wait. After all, if he’s looking at pulling four-to-six orgasms out of Henry, he’s got to pace himself. He climbs off the bed again to strip as quickly as he can, yanking his shirt over his head without unbuttoning it and shoving his pants and underwear over his hips in one go as he does his best to not think too hard about what exactly he’s doing.

Nearly twenty-four hours ago, Alex was on a routine mission. Twenty-four hours ago, he couldn’t have dreamed that this man would be stretched out naked in front of him.

It would be one thing if he hated Henry. Alex has fucked people he despised before for the sake of a mission. But after what happened at the club and their conversation here, Alex doesn’t know what to feel anymore. He is loath to admit it, but he’s always admired Henry as an agent. He’s always felt a thrill whenever they’d tangled together on missions, one he assumed was just the high of competition and the rush of antagonism, but now…

Now, as he climbs naked over Henry, something else curls in Alex’s gut, an electric anticipation he wasn’t expecting. He’s frankly been sporting a semi since they started seriously talking about this, but he’s quickly becoming fully hard under Henry’s hungry gaze, and when Henry reaches up to tug him close, it’s not hard to let himself go. Henry nearly sobs with relief when Alex blankets him, straddling Henry’s hips and pressing as much of their skin together as possible.

“Alex,” he whimpers, his chest heaving, “I need—”

“Take it,” Alex murmurs to him when Henry’s voice fails. “Whatever you need, c’mon, Henry.”

Henry’s hips push up immediately against his, the dry grind of their cocks together slightly uncomfortable at first, but Henry’s leaking profusely enough to ease the way before too long. His long fingers dig into the sides of Alex’s hips, holding him firmly in place as he thrusts with increasing force and speed, and it takes no time at all before he’s crying out and everything abruptly becomes a lot slicker as Henry comes hotly between their bellies.

Alex pulls back just enough to watch him as he chases the tail end of his orgasm. Color is flooding back into parts of him that aren’t his cock or his cheeks—though those are still plenty red—and his eyes are losing that horrible glassy, distant look. His expression smooths out as he practically melts back into the mattress, lips parted as he breathes heavily, but more freely than he has in hours.

“Fuck,” Henry says to the ceiling, the word sounding odd on his lips; Alex has never heard him swear.

“How’re we doing?” Alex asks, smoothing a hand over Henry’s ridiculously soft hair. He’d feel more awkward about the unintentional show of tenderness if Henry wasn’t responding by pressing into it like a dog seeking pets. “Any relief?”

“A little,” Henry breathes. But when his hands relax their grip on Alex’s hips, Alex feels them trembling, and the fever within him seems to be going strong.

There’s also the fact that he’s quite obviously still hard, with no sign of the erection subsiding. Alex tries not to move too much, tries not to chase the friction he’s increasingly desperate for against his own aching cock, but he doesn’t quite succeed. They both groan as he shifts and their hard cocks slide together, Henry’s come slicking the way.

“Th-thought you said,” Henry stutters, his breaths already coming shallower again, “this would help?”

“You’ve got at least three more to go, sweetheart,” Alex grinds out, “and it did help. What now?”

Henry presses his eyes closed as their hips grind slowly together. “You can just— keep going, it’s fine.”

Alex grabs his chin and forces Henry to look at him. “This isn’t about me. What do you need, Henry?”

Henry’s mouth opens and loses again, and he swallows hard. “Your mouth. Christ, please, if you— I mean, I don’t know if you’ve—”

“I know how to give a blowjob, Henry,” Alex interrupts dryly.

“Well, I shouldn’t like to presume,” Henry huffs, and this little hint of the pretentious ass that Alex knows so well convinces him more than anything else that this is helping.

This time Henry doesn’t make any noises when Alex pulls away, though it’s obvious he’s biting them back based on the way his face screws up. Alex shifts down the bed, running his palms over the fine hair covering Henry’s thighs as he tucks himself between them and stares up at Henry’s cock, which is leaking like he hadn’t just come minutes ago. Alex makes sure he’s staying in as much skin-to-skin contact as possible as he reaches up tentatively to wrap his hand around the shaft of it, giving it a few gentle strokes that have Henry gasping and squirming.

“You’re not too oversensitive?” Alex asks.

“Oh, I am,” Henry says with a little despairing laugh, “but I also need your fucking mouth so badly it’s painful, so.” He makes a little ‘get on with it’ hand gesture, which Alex would find annoying if Henry wasn’t rapidly deteriorating in front of him again. When he leans in with his mouth open and his tongue half out, he’s certainly not expecting Henry to jump in again. “Wait— should we… clean up a little?”

“Seriously? What’s the point?” Alex counters.

Yes, Henry’s come is smeared all over, but that’s probably only going to be more true as things go on. Before Henry can reply, he ducks forward and licks a long stripe up the underside of Henry’s cock, tasting the salty bitterness there, before sealing his lips around the head and suckling gently.

“Fuck,” Henry swears again brokenly, letting his head tip back against the pillow again.

Alex has been told he’s pretty good at giving head, though he’s not sure it matters much in this particular case. Henry is so incredibly keyed up that he’d probably get off on little more than a wet mouth around him, but still, Alex feels a perverse desire to show off. To make it good for him, or at least as good as it can be when Henry’s constantly on a knife’s edge of pleasure and pain. He pulls out all the stops, swirls his tongue and provides just the right amount of suction, and before too long some of the tension seems to smooth out of Henry’s expression. At least until Alex tries to take Henry as far as he can go. Then Henry’s hips jolt forward of their own accord, shoving his cock deeper and making Alex choke on it, and Henry freezes.

“Christ, sorry—”

“It’s ok,” Alex tells him once he pulls back. “You can fuck my throat.”

Henry gapes at him, somehow managing to look simultaneously desperate for and terrified by the suggestion. “I— I don’t think that’s a good idea, Alex.”

“It’s fine, I promise,” Alex assures him. 

“It’s not necessary.”

“I’m telling you, I can take it—”

“I don’t want to hurt you!” Henry snaps, seemingly surprised by his own outburst. He bites his lower lip and looks away before continuing, tremulously, “I’m— I’m not certain I’ll be able to control myself once I start.”

Alex reaches out and extracts one of Henry’s hands from where he’s been gripping the sheets next to his hips, lifting it up and pressing it into his curls. That draws Henry’s eyes back to him, shining in the lamplight with trepidation. His lower lip is plump and glistening, and Alex has a sudden urge to bite it. Which is decidedly not going to help anything. 

“And I’m telling you, you don’t have to,” Alex tells him evenly.

Henry’s fingers slowly tighten in his hair, which Alex figures is as good as an agreement. Shifting slightly, Alex sinks his mouth down on Henry’s cock again until it hits the back of his throat, then continues further, pushing past his gag reflex. He works up and down a few times, so he’s certain he can take it without choking, then inhales deeply, swallows Henry to the root, and taps his hip to urge him on.

The thrusts start slowly, Henry’s knuckles going white in the sheet as he tries to hold onto some shred of self-control, but it doesn’t last. As soon as Alex swallows around him, his palm goes flat against the back of Alex’s head, holding him in place as Henry fucks up into his mouth. And yeah, it’s a lot, almost too much to take, but Alex forces himself to relax, to let Henry use him in the way he needs.

“Christ, Alex, your mouth,” Henry moans, “so perfect, so fucking perfect for me—”

Alex can’t stop the whine that pushes out of his throat at that, which seemingly tips Henry over the edge. On his next thrust, he drives all the way in until Alex’s nose is buried in his pubic hair and his hips still as he spills hotly down Alex’s throat. Alex does his best to take it all, but eventually he hits his limit and starts choking despite himself. Henry releases him immediately, and Alex pulls back with a mess of come and saliva dribbling down his chin as he tries to suck in air.

“Oh god, I’m so sorry,” Henry starts, looking absolutely mortified when Alex sits back and wipes both his mouth and the tears clinging to his eyelashes.

Alex waves him off. “All good,” he croaks, his voice rough in a way that belies that statement.

Apparently Henry doesn’t have it in him to argue, which is certainly saying something. He collapses back onto the bed, one arm thrown over his head as he tries to catch his breath. This time, the relief of his symptoms is even more obvious—the tension leaves his body, his skin loses its feverish cast, and the tremors still. In fact, if it weren’t for the fact that he’s still fucking hard, Alex would think he’d recovered entirely. For a long moment Alex just watches him, taking in the way his blond hair is darkened with sweat where it’s sticking to his forehead and temples, the fan of his pale eyelashes over flushed cheeks, the way his lips part as he breathes steadily in and out.

He is, quite unfortunately, unspeakably gorgeous like this, and Alex bites his lip as he settles down on the bed next to him. It’s tempting to leave a space between them, a buffer against the growing itch under Alex’s skin, but he can’t. Henry needs human contact, so Alex presses up next to him and doesn’t let himself think about the way that Henry relaxes further against him.

“Better this time?” Alex murmurs, sliding an arm over Henry’s waist.

Henry sighs dreamily and turns to face him, tangling their legs together as he pulls Alex close and tucks his face against Alex’s neck. “Much.”

“Maybe that was enough,” Alex wonders aloud as his fingers tangle unconsciously in Henry’s hair. “Maybe my blowjob skills are worth three orgasms.”

Henry snorts. “I wouldn’t be so full of yourself, love.”

Alex pinches him for that, and Henry laughs hotly against his skin, and it’s all far, far too comfortable.

“I’m going to get some water,” Alex announces abruptly, pushing himself to sitting and ignoring Henry’s little mewl of discomfort at the loss. “You need to hydrate if you’re gonna come that many times. You gonna survive without me touching you for five minutes?”

“I shall do my best to manage,” Henry says with obviously put-upon weariness.

That might have been optimistic, though; by the time Alex returns, no more than a couple of minutes later, Henry’s looking rather wan again and shivering as he curls further inward on himself, laying on his side where Alex left him. He jolts when Alex touches his shoulder again, blinking owlishly as he turns over.

“Fuck, this shit is bad news,” Alex huffs as he helps Henry into a sitting position and forces the glass of water into his hand. He keeps a hand pressed to Henry’s back as he orders, “Drink this.”

Henry does, draining the whole glass in one go. Alex considers going to get him more, but instead just sets it on the bedside table and sits down on the bed next to him again, sliding an arm around his shoulders, which makes Henry sigh in relief. It’s a little odd to have such a big man curling into his arms like this, but Henry somehow seems to make himself smaller as the tremors wrack his body, and Alex can’t help but hold him tighter.

“You haven’t come,” Henry says abruptly, like it’s just occurred to him, which Alex supposes is probably fair. Henry’s got a few other things on his mind. Now, though, he’s curled such that he’s staring right at Alex’s cock. His hard cock, which Alex has been trying to ignore, frankly.

“I’m flattered you finally noticed,” Alex returns, rubbing a circle on Henry’s shoulder.

Henry pulls back slightly, not out of his arms, but enough to look at him. “Do you”—he breaks off, licks his lips—“do you want to?”

“I mean, I wouldn’t say no,” Alex admits, a little wryly. “Just been a bit focused on keeping you alive, y’know?”

Henry’s eyes drop to his cock again. “So if I asked you to fuck me…”

Alex blinks. “I, um. Sure, if you think it’ll help,” he manages.

Henry’s answering laugh is low and husky, sliding like hot caramel down Alex’s spine to pool in his gut. “I can’t imagine it won’t.”

“Wait, fuck,” Alex says as something occurs to him. “We don’t have any lube or condoms.”

Henry bites the side of his lip, thinking. “Petroleum jelly in the med kit?”

“Yeah, but—”

“Not my favorite lube, but it will do in a pinch. I’m guessing you undergo regular testing, same as we do, and take the same prophylactics,” Henry cuts in. “I’m comfortable if you are.”

Alex opens his mouth. Closes it again. He’s not wrong; all field agents have to be tested on a regular basis, and additionally after missions requiring sexual contact. They’re all on PrEP. It’s perhaps to be expected that MI6 would have the same type of precautions. Still… it feels like a lot, even though rationally he knows it’s far safer than half of the sexual encounters he’s had for the sake of a mission. He’s careful, of course, because that’s how you stay alive as a spy, but sometimes risks are unavoidable. That’s just what this is. An unavoidable risk.

“Alex?” Henry prompts, his voice starting to become weak and thready. “If we’re not going to do this, I’m going to need something else very soon—”

“Yeah,” Alex says before he can convince himself not to. “I’m good.”

“So you’ll…”

“Sure.”

Sure. No biggie. Alex swallows down a slightly hysterical laugh and goes to get the Vaseline out of the kit. When he returns, Henry’s lying on his stomach on the bed, a pillow under his hips that he’s already grinding against, even though that alone won’t give him any relief. He looks over his shoulder as Alex takes his place between his spread thighs again, closing his eyes with a sigh when Alex smooths his hands up the back of his legs.

“Do you want to, uh, get yourself ready?” Alex asks, holding up the jar.

“Think it’s better if you do, no?” Henry mutters into his arm. “Just warm the jelly up a bit in your hands first, it’ll thin out some.”

Alex nods and scoops out a generous portion with his fingers, then starts spreading it around in his palm. It’s going to get everywhere and stain the fuck out of the sheets, but he doesn’t really care at the moment. Once the Vaseline has loosened up some, he scoops up a glob with his finger and brings it to Henry’s hole. Henry sucks in a breath then moans loudly as Alex smears it around his rim, pushing back against his touch immediately.

“Have you done this before?”

Henry cocks an eyebrow at him. “Have I been fucked? Frequently,” he answers with a little puff of laughter. “Have I used petroleum jelly as lube for inadvisable barebacking?” He looks away, staring at the headboard. “Not commonly, no. But I have. A misspent youth, one might say. I was lucky. Your fingers, please.”

Alex almost laughs at the dry politeness of the request, as if Henry was asking him to pass the salt. Instead, he complies, pressing a finger in and marveling at how Henry opens up under him. “Is that how you ended up a spy?” he asks despite himself. “A misspent youth?”

“Mmm,” Henry hums in a way that’s neither a confirmation nor a denial. He wiggles his hips, shuddering as he pushes back against Alex. “Another, and faster. Come on, Alex. I won’t break.”

“Rather not hurt you,” Alex mutters, though he adds a second finger and starts working them more vigorously.

“You needn’t concern yourself with such things,” Henry retorts blithely, and there’s an inscrutable expression on his face when he looks back at Alex again. “Let me make something clear. I want you to fuck me hard. I want to be pounded into the bloody mattress. I need it to be completely overwhelming and yes, for there to be pain along with the pleasure. Something to pull me out of this fog of this fucking drug and make me feel something.” There’s a beat of silence, then Henry asks, low, “Can you do that for me, Alex?”

Alex swallows. “Yeah, I can do that.”

“Good.” Henry looks away again and arches his back, pressing against Alex’s fingers. “Then I’m ready.”

“Are you sure—”

“Your cock, now, before I actually fucking expire,” Henry says, somewhere between demanding and begging, the steel of it weakened by his increasing desperation.

Alex generally avoids fucking people without a condom if he can help it, and certainly hasn’t done so recently, so he might have underestimated how intense it would be when he’s this fucking keyed up already. The slide of his skin against Henry’s is nearly overwhelming as Alex presses in on one long stroke, faster than he normally would, though you wouldn’t know it by how Henry opens up under him. He shudders and moans, trying to fuck himself on Alex’s cock before Alex even has a chance to take a breath, and Alex has to push him down hard into the mattress with both hands on his back.

“If you don’t stop that, this is gonna be over a lot faster than you want,” he huffs.

Henry whines in response, still trying to wriggle under him, until Alex lays flat on top of him. He pulls Henry’s arms down from where they’re pillowed under his head, enough so he can wrap his own arm around the front of Henry’s shoulders and pull their bodies tight together. Then, finally, Henry melts into his embrace with a shuddering exhale as he goes slack under Alex.

“I got you, ok?” he murmurs in Henry’s ear.

Henry nods shakily, then whispers, “Please. W-what I said.”

Alex makes good on his word, snapping his hips hard into the impossibly tight heat of Henry’s body, driven on by the constant litany of more, harder that falls from Henry’s lips. He drives forward, onward, using every shred of his concentration not to come, to hold himself back until Henry falls apart first, but it’s a fucking trial. He almost loses it once, has to stop, which makes Henry keen until Alex hauls him up on his knees with Alex’s forearm pressing into the base of his neck. It’s not enough to cut off any blood or air, but the pressure seems to settle something in Henry, something that Alex probably shouldn’t know about.

“Not gonna be able to keep this up much longer,” Alex grits out as he takes deep breaths through his nose and tries not to lose himself in the way that Henry fills every one of his senses. He reaches around with his other arm to wrap a fist around Henry’s cock as Henry’s back bends in a graceful arch away from his body. “You gotta come for me,” he breathes against Henry’s neck, snapping his hips hard again, “come for me, baby.”

Henry comes with a broken cry at the words, fucking his hips into Alex’s grip and back on Alex’s cock, and Alex tumbles over the edge almost immediately after him. It’s insanely intense after all that waiting, blanking out everything in his mind so that the only thing that’s left is pleasure so fierce it makes his entire body ache. The feeling of Alex coming seems to set Henry off as much as his own orgasm, and he moans loudly as he reaches back and digs his hands into Alex’s ass, holding their hips flush together as Alex pulses inside him. A moment later he slumps forward onto the bed, sprawling out heedlessly into the wet spot, and Alex has to go with him or else pull out entirely too fast for anyone’s comfort. They lie there panting in the aftermath, Alex’s broad shoulders a near match for Henry’s, enough to have Henry sighing contentedly into the pillows, fucked out and boneless under him.

“Gonna go get something to clean us up, ok?” Alex murmurs after a little while, smoothing a hand over Henry’s hair, across his shoulder, and down along his side.

Henry just hums his agreement, not bothering to open his eyes even when Alex finally pulls out and peels himself off of Henry’s back. He hasn’t moved a muscle by the time Alex returns with a damp wash cloth and another glass of water, nor does he react much when Alex gently wipes him down, cleaning up his own come where it’s leaking out of Henry’s ass. It’s quite an incredible fucking sight, actually, and Alex sends up a silent thanks to whoever’s listening that Henry’s not currently lucid enough to see his reaction. As insane as this entire night is, as much as has changed already between them, there are some things that are still much better kept to himself.

He wakes Henry up enough to insist he drink some water, then polishes the rest off himself before he lays back in the bed. The fucking seems to have helped even more this time, though Alex doesn’t kid himself that it’s over. For one, Henry rolls over and clings tightly to him, like he’s desperate for Alex’s body heat, and for two, his still-hard cock is pressing into the side of Alex’s hip. At least one more orgasm to go, if Nora’s information was correct. Maybe more. Alex is already fucking exhausted, not sure he has the stamina for it, frankly, but it’s not like he has any other option.

“It was my family,” Henry says, nonsensically, after a stretch of time long enough that Alex thought he’d fallen asleep.

“What?”

“How I became a spy.”

Oh. The question he hadn’t answered before, the one that Alex hadn’t expected an answer to.

“Wait,” Alex says as something occurs to him. “Arthur Fox…”

Henry smiles, just a little, against his chest. “My father.”

“Fuck,” Alex breathes. Arthur Fox was legendary, the spy who left the game to have a family and then went on to write a bunch of bestselling spy novels, at least until cancer claimed him. He’d kept his family carefully out of the press, always joked he had too many enemies left out there. All this time, his son was right there in front of Alex, and he never realized… Fuck. “I’m gonna be honest with you, I thought ‘Fox’ was just an alias you used.”

“Most people do. It’s convenient.”

“Huh,” Alex says. He wants to ask more, wants to know about what Arthur Fox was really like, if the stories were true, but something holds him back. He should take advantage of Henry’s lowered inhibitions, see what else he can learn. Never miss a chance to gather intel on another agent, even one of your allies.

Henry’s not just another agent, though. Not anymore. Alex might not be ready to think about how this has irrevocably changed them, but he can’t deny that. He looks down at Henry curled against his side, naked and vulnerable, and feels a dangerous protectiveness take root in his chest.

It’s fine. It’s just… endorphins or something. He’ll get over it.

“How are you feeling?” he asks Henry, letting his hand sink into Henry’s hair—just because it seems to make Henry feel better.

“A bit like I’ve been run over by a lorry, to be honest with you,” Henry huffs softly, unconsciously nuzzling into Alex’s touch. He must be really far gone if he’s seeking such comfort from Alex. “Can’t imagine what they thought they’d get from me in such a state.”

“I don’t think it was you they were trying to coerce,” Alex tells him. Henry tips his head to look up at him, a frown creasing his brow. “They thought they’d get to me by torturing you.”

Henry snorts. “If only they knew how wrong they were.”

“If only,” Alex agrees weakly, something unpleasant twisting in his gut. It’s true, he wouldn’t have given up any intel for Henry’s sake, just as Henry wouldn’t have if their positions had been reversed. But Alex also scuttled his chances of getting critical intel on the targets in order to drag Henry out of there, not to mention the whole added risk to his life part. Not that he’s going to point any of that out to anyone, least of all Henry.

“So… do you think they meant to watch us?” Henry asks after a pause.

“I’m gonna be honest, I do not want to think about whatever the fuck they had planned,” Alex says bluntly. “The fact that they would use this method to extract information…”

“Fair enough,” Henry concedes. He shifts a little, hardly notable except for the way it’s accompanied by a tremor running through his body and tensing of his muscles. Except that by now Alex knows what’s coming. He tightens his hold around Henry’s shoulders, knowing that the closeness will help, at least temporarily.

Alex splays his other palm over Henry’s hip, slides it up to the dip of his waist and tries not to think of how perfect the fit feels. Has to remind himself that Henry’s shudder of pleasure at the contact has very little to do with Alex, intoxicating as it may be to think otherwise. Henry’s full lips are parted, his face tipped up toward Alex’s, and the temptation to kiss him, to seal their mouths together and feel the cut of his teeth, is nearly overwhelming. That’s not what this is, though. Not what they agreed to.

Henry’s pale eyelashes flutter as his eyes open again, and his pupils are so huge and dark with lust that they seem to have their own gravitational pull, twin black holes that drag Alex in until their noses are nearly brushing. He’s moving more deliberately now, grinding against Alex’s hip, his breaths becoming ragged as the color concentrates once again on the apples of his cheeks and he starts shaking more violently.

“Please, Alex,” he breathes.

The words raise goosebumps where they wash over Alex’s skin, and Alex closes his eyes, clinging to the shreds of his own sanity. “What do you need, baby?” he asks, the endearment spilling from his lips again, less excusable than something uttered mid-coitus.

“Christ,” Henry moans as he ruts desperately against Alex. “I need t-to— to fuck something, m-maybe your thighs? H-hopefully that will be— enough.”

Alex hears the unspoken but it might not be as clear as if Henry had said the words aloud, understands the implications well enough. There’s no point in worrying about it now, though.

“Ok,” he agrees, “how do you want me?”

Henry’s only answer is to shove him over so that he’s facing away and immediately start grinding against the backs of Alex’s thighs. He’s not leaking much anymore, though, most likely all of his semen spent at this point, and Alex is very aware of how fucking hairy he is, what it must feel like on Henry’s already oversensitive cock. He can barely move in Henry’s grip, but he manages to fumble for the Vaseline, discarded somewhere on the bed, and shove it back over his shoulder.

“Here,” he grunts, “make it slick before you rub yourself raw.”

A second later, Vaseline is being slathered between his thighs and up along his taint, the touches making Alex’s spent cock twitch in interest again, and then Henry is groaning as he slides his cock along the same path until his hips are flush with Alex’s ass. There’s a beat of stillness as Henry presses his forehead between Alex’s shoulder blades, his breath blowing hot over Alex’s back, then he slides his arm around Alex’s waist, splays one large hand over Alex’s lower belly, and begins thrusting.

It’s slow to start, but the drag of Henry’s cock between his legs—rubbing on his taint, the head of it shoving against the back of his balls—is achingly good, and Alex finds himself pressing back against Henry’s thrusts, wanting more. His cock is hardening again, but he doesn’t reach for it, doesn’t help it along; instead he slides his hand over Henry’s, interleaving their fingers in a way that’s probably too tender for this.

Henry starts babbling again, the now-familiar extolments of how good Alex feels and the praise that makes tendrils of heat curl in Alex’s gut joined by something more feverish, declarations of how much Henry wants to fuck him, how he’s desperate to be inside him, to feel Alex tight around his cock. Alex is fairly certain Henry isn’t really aware of what he’s saying, that it’s the drug loosening his tongue, but it still makes something itch under Alex’s skin at the thought, particularly as Henry’s hips push against his and the base of his cock rubs so close to Alex’s hole. No one’s ever had Alex like that, and these are hardly the optimal circumstances, but that doesn’t stop him from wanting it anyway. Wanting Henry, specifically, to fuck him. Which is definitely not something he should want.

This time, Henry comes dry—it’s his teeth in Alex’s shoulder, the stuttering of his hips, and the way he relaxes like all his strings have been cut that give it away. His hold on Alex is the only thing that doesn’t really go slack; he doesn’t roll over, doesn’t pull away, just curls their fingers together where their hands are linked on Alex’s stomach and presses his face into Alex’s back as he breathes raggedly into the meager space between them.

Not even a full minute passes before he starts shaking again.

“It’s not over, is it?” Alex asks softly, squeezing his hand.

“No,” Henry nearly sobs. “I’m so sorry, Alex.”

Alex shifts a little so he can twist his neck to look back at him. “Get me ready,” he says before he can talk himself out of it. “It’s what you need.”

“I’m sure we can try something else,” Henry insists.

“I said you could have what you needed, and I meant it.”

Henry’s gaze skitters over every inch of Alex’s face, searching for something. “Have you…” he starts, then trails off. The question is obvious enough.

Alex hesitates a moment too long for it not to be an answer. Henry’s eyes are dark and wild with primal desire and something else, something more terrifying than even that, and Alex murmurs, “It doesn’t matter.”

“Alex—”

Alex turns in his arms and drags him into a kiss that catches like dry tinder, lighting such an inferno under his skin that Alex feels like he’s the one who’s been drugged. This is a fucking mistake, he thinks desperately, then his mind goes blissfully blank as Henry’s tongue slides into his mouth. It’s rough, demanding, as much as sparring match as a kiss, particularly when Henry sinks a hand into his hair and tugs hard, then bites down on Alex’s lower lip when he gasps as stars burst in his vision. Alex gives as good as he gets, though, finally getting his teeth on those sinful fucking lips and swallowing Henry’s answering moans.

“Fuck me, Henry,” Alex growls into the kiss. “You want it. I want it. Just fucking do it.”

“You—”

Alex cuts him off with another kiss because the last thing he needs is Henry interrogating that confession any further. He lets his thighs fall open when Henry pushes him back into the mattress, never breaking the kiss as he smooths one broad palm across Alex’s chest and down his abs, over the crease of his hip until his fingertips are gathering the Vaseline still coating Alex’s inner thighs and pressing back toward his hole.

Alex means to keep ahold of himself, maintain some semblance of control even during this, but all of his carefully constructed walls are in shambles after the onslaught of tonight. Henry’s broad shoulders, blanketing his body. Henry’s lips, kissing him senseless. Henry’s fingers, rubbing against his rim. Alex can’t stop the moan that’s pulled up from deep within him, can’t stop his legs from opening wider or his hips from pushing back against the contact. The teasing pressure leaves him desperate for more in a way that makes him feel fucking insane, and he’s seconds away from flat out begging before one of Henry’s long fingers pushes inside him. He gasps out of the kiss, tipping his head back against the mattress, and Henry wastes no time in transferring his mouth to Alex’s neck.

“Too much?” Henry murmurs against his skin, even as he starts working the finger in and out.

“No,” Alex breathes, shaking his head. He squeezes his eyes closed and forces himself to relax. Focuses on the slight burn of the stretch and the pleasure beyond that. “You can do another.”

“It’ll be better if you ease into it—” Henry protests, pulling his face back to frown at him.

“And I’d rather do this while you still have some shred of self-control left,” Alex shoots back. He wiggles his hips impatiently. “Now stop fucking around and get on with it.”

The look on Henry’s face—like he wants to argue back, like he wants to fight—is almost comforting in its familiarity, even if it is tinged with a kind of fond exasperation that he’s not sure what to do with. “You are a plague,” Henry tells him, then punctuates it by pushing a second finger in next to the first.

Alex groans, and it’s another couple of seconds before he manages to pant out, “And you’re a pompous ass, but we all have our burdens, sweetheart.”

Henry silences him with another kiss, one that Alex grins into despite himself and, Jesus, there’s no way this should feel so good. Not the fingers—whatever, he’s fingered himself before, and sure, Henry’s long fingers are so much better, that’s only to be expected, really—but this. Just being with Henry. He’s been fighting it this whole evening, writing off his desire as a purely visceral reaction, refusing to look head on at what it really was about Henry that’s always made something itch beneath his skin. What he really, truly wants; what he’s absolutely not allowed to have. Something that can’t be acknowledged or spoken aloud. Something that should have been left entirely unknown.

There’s no returning to that blissful ignorance, though, not anymore. This has stripped everything away from both of them—every alternate identity, every shred of falsehood, every scrap of armor preventing anyone from getting too close—and just for tonight, Alex isn’t going to fight it anymore.

“I’m ready,” he pants, moving his hips in time with the thrust of Henry’s fingers, “c’mon, just do it.”

Henry stares down at him, his sharp, perceptive eyes searching Alex’s face, no doubt reading everything he can no longer keep hidden. Alex closes his eyes anyway, like that will somehow mitigate the damage already done, at least until Henry sinks a hand into his curls, pushing them back from his forehead.

“Look at me, Alex,” Henry murmurs, and Alex can’t help but comply. “Are you sure?”

“Fuck, yes,” Alex breathes. There’s no point in holding anything back, not anymore. “Please, Henry. I want this. I want you.” He pulls Henry down until their foreheads are pressed together and their noses are brushing, until they’re breathing the same air, until he can forget that there’s anything else outside of this. Here. Now. Them. “Have me.”

Alex half expects that Henry will turn him over when he pulls back and starts slicking up his cock with jerky movements, but then Henry’s hooking his hands under one of Alex’s knees and settling between his thighs, folding Alex’s leg up as he guides his cock toward Alex’s entrance. The head of it presses against Alex’s rim, searing hot, and then Henry’s thrusting in on one long stroke, the grimace on his face telegraphing his losing battle to keep himself in check. Alex’s breath is shoved out of him in a low groan as he’s overwhelmed by a sensation that’s more pain than pleasure right now, and yet he can already feel himself adjusting, bearing down around the intrusion, shifting his hips in search of more. It draws a desperate, choked-off sob out of Henry, his fingers digging bruises into Alex’s hips and thighs as his entire body shakes with the effort not to chase his pleasure heedlessly in the clench of Alex’s body.

“Alex, I can’t—” he says brokenly, and Alex just pulls him down into another kiss.

“Don’t worry about me, baby,” Alex murmurs against the corner of his mouth. “Don’t hold back. Whatever you need, take it.”

It’s a near brutal pace that Henry sets, pounding into him relentlessly, which is not to say that it’s without finesse—even in this, Henry is annoyingly graceful, snapping his hips with an athleticism which is frankly just showing off. Heat builds rapidly in Alex’s gut, only helped by the way that Henry folds him up as he wishes, hooking one of Alex’s ankles over his shoulder as the other leg curls around his waist. He shifts Alex’s hips, adjusting the angle so that on the next thrust his cock slams into Alex’s prostate, and Alex nearly blacks out. He’s pretty sure he yells, his own blunt nails dragging furrows into Henry’s back, and then everything rapidly goes very, very hazy.

Every thrust knocks Alex out of his head a little more, until he’s floating somewhere nearby, watching Henry’s single-minded focus above him—the way that his skin glistens in the lamplight, the way drops of sweat roll down his neck and chest, the way he can’t seem to look away from where his cock is moving in and out of Alex’s body—until his is orgasm hits him out of nowhere and slams him back into the moment. Henry swears at the sight of Alex coming untouched between them, and it’s all Alex can do to hold on as he chases his own climax. He sits back, hauling Alex’s hips into his lap, then spends himself in a few deep thrusts that make Alex’s eyes roll back in his head.

Henry collapses on top of him in a heap, and Alex would be annoyed about his bad manners if not for how he can feel the change in Henry’s body, different even than after the time Alex fucked him. That, and the fact that Henry just liquefied his fucking brains, so he doesn’t really have it in him to be fussed about anything, really.

Then he feels it: Henry going soft where he’s still buried inside Alex.

“It’s over,” he murmurs, his lips brushing the shell of Henry’s ear.

He’s not even sure if Henry’s still awake, but a shudder runs through his body at the words and he melts even further against Alex’s body. Which would be fine, except Alex is starting to feel exceedingly squished under Henry’s not insignificant mass, especially now that he’s basically a dead weight. Somehow, Alex finds the strength to squeeze out from under him, rolling Henry onto his back into a relatively clean part of the bed before he drags himself off to the bathroom, wincing a little with every step.

Henry’s fully out by the time he returns, sleeping so deeply he doesn’t stir when Alex wipes the remnants of come and lube off his skin. Alex has the brief, absurd thought that maybe he should go sleep on the couch, that sharing a bed after all of that might somehow be a step too far, before dismissing it as ridiculous. Instead he finds the blankets where they lay on the floor and pulls them back onto the bed over Henry, then climbs in next to him. And if he has to cram close to Henry to avoid the wet spot—seeking out the press of Henry’s skin against his like some of Henry’s need for contact transferred to him—well, that’s just practical.

Alex doesn’t know the last time he was this tired, an exhaustion that aches, that he feels all the way to his bones.

It still takes him hours to fall asleep.

Henry’s first words when he wakes up and finds Alex next to him are, “You’re still here.”

Maybe it should be surprising. It probably would have been easier had Alex been able to just leave in the middle of the night, saving both of them from this conversation. Instead he’s been lying here, wondering what would happen when Henry woke. He hasn’t been watching Henry sleep, because that would be fucking weird. Even though Henry is stunningly gorgeous in his sleep. Strangely angelic—considering what he does for a living, considering what Alex has seen him do—with his full, pink lips slightly parted and his blond hair fanned out in a halo against the pillow.

All right, fucking enough of that.

“Well, you know. Had to make sure you didn’t die,” Alex answers bluntly. “Also, this is my safehouse.”

“Right,” Henry rasps, blinking slowly, his voice still rough from sleep. “I suppose that’s fair.”

“How are you feeling?”

Henry frowns thoughtfully. “Like I’ve been put through a wringer, but”—he stretches under the thin sheet, which is somehow ridiculously alluring even though Alex has now seen him buck naked—“still alive. And considerably better.”

“Good,” Alex says, forcing himself to turn over. Now that Henry’s awake, there’s little excuse not to get moving. Alex has reports to deliver and probably follow-up directives waiting for him. No rest for the wicked, and all that. He pushes himself up, makes himself put some desperately needed distance between them, and is unable to keep from wincing at the ache in his hips and ass as he swings his legs over the side of the bed.

Unfortunately, Henry doesn’t miss it.

“Did I hurt you?” he asks, his voice full of entirely too much concern for the cold light of morning.

Last night they were allowed to be just Alex and Henry. Last night they were allowed to be collaborators, confederates, partners, companions, lovers. Last night they were allowed to reveal parts of themselves better hidden. But Henry is alive, and it’s a new day, and such vulnerabilities can no longer be permitted. Not even after everything they went through. Maybe especially not then.

Alex shrugs. “It’s fine. I’ve been through worse on a mission.”

Not a lie. Not by a long shot.

Henry is silent, and when Alex glances back he finds him sitting propped up on one arm with the sheets pooling in his lap. You’d think Alex would have gotten his fill of looking last night, but Henry’s bare torso is still arresting, as pale and sculpted as marble, and something reaches into Alex’s gut and tugs. Not only physical—Fuck, it would be almost easy if it were, a potential source of stress relief without the threat of messy attachments—but something more dangerous. A desire to know, and be known.

Ruinous, actually.

Some of the same things must be going through Henry’s mind, because he doesn’t meet Alex’s gaze when he says, “I don’t know how to thank you for last night.”

“So don’t,” Alex tells him bluntly as he stands up from the bed. He doesn’t look back, but he can feel Henry’s eyes on him. “We did what we had to.”

“Some of the things I said—”

“Don’t worry, I’m not going to hold any of it against you,” Alex cuts in, throwing an attempt at a teasing smirk over his shoulder. As if he hadn’t said things just as bad, or worse. Jesus, he’d told Henry to have him. More than once. “When I said we can forget about it in the morning, I meant it.”

Henry’s staring at his naked body—openly, hungrily, as if he hadn’t spent the last night fucking Alex six ways from Sunday. Maybe he’d been too out of it to really take it in. That’s not really a pleasant thought, so Alex shoves it away and clears his throat so that Henry’s eyes will snap up to his. He watches Henry’s cheeks darken, follows the blush as it dips onto his pale chest, and grins. At least it’s still fun to fluster him.

“Right, of course,” Henry says, fidgeting with the sheets in his lap. “All the same, I owe you my life.”

Alex busies himself hunting for his clothes where he’d haphazardly left them on the floor. “Maybe keep that in mind the next time you’re about to fuck over one of my missions.”

“I don’t—” Henry starts, then cuts himself off in a huff and presses his lips into a narrow line. “Fine. I shall endeavor to remember in the future.”

“See, that shit’s how I know you’re back to normal,” Alex says as he tugs on his boxers and pants, pointing at him. Henry laughs softly at that, and it seems to settle something between them. A return to business as usual, despite everything that’s happened. “Hey, uh, you take the shower first, I’m gonna run out because I’m pretty sure there’s no food in this apartment.”

It’s not like Alex doesn’t desperately need a shower, but he also desperately needs to get out of here, at least for a little while. He shrugs his shirt on and buttons it as he starts walking toward the bedroom door, but Henry speaks again.

“Alex.”

He stops, hand on the door frame, and looks over his shoulder. Henry’s staring at him, his expression startlingly open. Not a shred of artifice between them.

“Thank you,” Henry says.

Alex lets a soft, honest smile tip onto his lips. Does his best to ignore the ache in his chest. “Any time, sweetheart.”

By the time he gets back to the apartment with a bag of croissants, Henry is gone. It’s to be expected, really, and yet he still feels… disappointed, somehow.

After he eats too many pastries and finally showers, Alex does a sweep of the apartment—because he might be an idiot, but he’s not that stupid. It’s bad enough he brought a foreign agent to a CIA safehouse; he’d be fucking toast if he left an MI6 bug here. But there’s nothing out of place, and nothing unexpected… except the watch in the nightstand. Patek Philippe (he does not want to know what it’s worth), leather band, gold face, and a tiny tracker tucked inside the rear case. Alex should send it to Vauxhall Cross with a note that says nice try, or drop the tracker in a flight attendant’s luggage and send it around the world. At the very least, he should destroy the tracking device.

The burner phone buzzes where it’s still sitting on the coffee table, and Alex takes the watch with him when he goes to check it. The text isn’t from Nora, as he might have expected, but from a local number, and it reads: Apologies for the hasty departure, but I was rather overdue to check in with HQ. Thank you again for everything.

So Henry had pulled the number off the burner before he left and acquired one of his own, it seems.

found your parting gift, Alex writes back. trying to keep tabs on me sweetheart?

Can you blame me? Henry replies. It was worth a shot.

Alex bites down on the grin that tugs at the corners of his mouth—shut up—and taps out, and how exactly were you planning on using this intel?

Henry’s answer, when it comes, is fairly predictable. Sorry, darling, I’m afraid that’s need to know. You can either get rid of the tracker, or wait and see.

how do i know you won’t use it to fuck me over, Alex asks.

You don’t, Henry answers immediately, and then: I suppose it comes down to whether or not you trust me.

Alex stares down his hands—watch in one, phone with the text messages open in the other—and tries to convince himself to do the smart thing. The only real option, if he’s honest.

Instead, he buckles the watch onto his wrist.

Chapter Text

I don't usually do this, but there are a lot of folks subscribed to this fic! So this is your official heads up that there's now a sequel: All the Chances We Took

For the future, it'd be best to go ahead and subscribe to the series to make sure you get all future updates! There are at least three more fics planned!