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Killing Phi.

Summary:

Because you guys voted for a new AU and because I want to play assassins. Challenging myself to execute a slow burn for the first time in my life and hope you can all come along for the ride. All of the usual warnings apply and beware, I may end up killing off some of your faves.

Inspired by the premise of Killing Eve but you can follow without having seen it!

Happy reading! *cackles in evil*

Notes:

(See the end of the work for notes.)

Chapter 1: killer shangri-lah.

Chapter Text

A tall young man sat in the corner of an ice cream parlour, spooning the occasional mouthful of a Belgian chocolate sundae between his lips. His server had recommended something with strawberries, but he didn’t eat fruits. He also hadn’t asked for her opinion.

She obviously fancied him, her eyes lighting up the second he’d walked through the door. The place was empty despite its quaintness, the lunchtime rush having been and gone. He’d bitten back a smirk, overhearing as she argued in French with a colleague. Eventually, after promising to hand over any tips his custom might offer, she had won the fight to wait on his table.

The man kept his eyes on her whilst he ate, licking chocolate from his mouth, watching as her own tongue subconsciously mirrored the action. It wasn’t ice cream on her mind.

“Excusez moi, mademoiselle,” he called to her.

“Oui!” She practically ran over, tripping over a table leg in her eagerness. “Oui, monsieur. Je suis désolé, comment puis-je vous?”

“Do you speak English?”

“Un petit peu,” she giggled nervously, toying with her brunette hair which was tied back in a single braid. “Only small bit, a little!”

He smiled at her, the expression so full of promise that the apples of her cheeks quickly tinted pink.

She was very pretty, and he liked pretty things.

Reaching into his pocket, the man pulled out his wallet and placed thirty euros on the table. A little generous but he didn’t think her colleague would object. He got to his feet, leaning in close enough that his lips brushed the girl’s earlobe. He felt her shiver.

The invitation whispered to her, in French, was explicit.

Not waiting to see her reaction, he spun on his heels and left her standing there, blushing and turned on in equal measure, only to leave the way he had come.

He didn’t go far, two left turns along cobbled streets and halfway up a narrow alley. A CCTV blind spot specifically chosen. Timing her on his watch, it was less than four minutes before she joined him.

“Salut,” she waved shyly from where the alleyway opened up to the side road, “étranger.”

“Hi, stranger,” he grinned, extending an arm in her direction and beckoning for her to come closer.

He watched her with interest as she hesitated, glancing over her shoulder back to the safety of the main road.

“Ma mère m'a mis en garde contre des hommes comme vous.”

He offered her an innocent smile.

“Your mother has never met a man like me.”

The girl advanced a few steps towards him. “What makes you so sure?” she asked in her thick French accent.

Because she died three years ago, he was tempted to say.

“Come here and find out.”

The seduction in his voice did the trick. Abandoning any principles she might have been trying to uphold, she quickly closed the distance between them.

Her mouth was shameless, kissing him greedily and grinning at the same time. God, he loved the French. They were always up for an adventure in depravity.

“D'où êtes-vous?” she managed between kisses.

Slipping his tongue into her mouth, he let her taste the chocolate still lingering on his taste buds before answering. “Thailand.”

He pressed her back against the brick wall, nibbling at her neck to hide his smirk. His hands ran over her body, cupping small breasts and thumbing her nipples whilst he pretended to like the way she arched against him.

“S'il vous plait, Monsieur,” she moaned, taking his hand and placing it between her legs without him even having to ask.

She was soaking wet.

“You are so sexy,” he said, pulling her drenched panties to the side. He found her swollen clit without any trouble, eyes open as she gasped against his mouth.

“Comment tu t'appelles?” she asked, “what’s your name?”

For his own amusement, her lover slid both his middle and index finger inside her.

“My god,” she choked, her hips grinding down on his hand. “Viens à la maison avec moi? Come, ma maison, to fuck me.”

The man chuckled, stroking her silkiness slowly, her juices dripping over his hand.

“Merci, but no.”

She opened glazed eyes, his rejection unexpected. The sight that met them filled her with fear, darting back and forth between him and the blade now held between his teeth.

He felt her womanhood tighten around him.

Her blue orbs grew wide in horror. The last thing they did before the life left them. She opened her mouth to scream but before she could make a sound, the man plunged the pocket knife straight into her left carotid artery.

He observed the girl with intrigue as blood gushed from her neck, sliding down the wall, pressing her hand to the wound as if that would prolong her life any longer than ten seconds maximum.

He always had liked to watch.

“I’m sorry for lying to you,” he told her casually, “you’re mother, I mean.”

The girl’s eyes started to roll back in her head, trying to focus, desperate to understand.

“I did meet her once.”

The last smile she ever saw was warm and wicked, teeth perfectly straight. Her hand fell from her neck, all remnants of strength deserting her as the blood flowed freely from the spot that was moments ago being kissed.

“Thanks for today,” he sighed happily, “I had fun.”

The man then turned and began to saunter in the opposite direction, the same way he had done in the parlour, only this time he was whistling.

Using her last breaths, the dying woman managed to repeat her earlier question.

“C-comment tu, tu t'appelles?”

The man stopped in his tracks, circling elegantly on the spot.

“My name is Phiravich,” he winked, “but my friends call me Mean.”

*

How was it only Thursday? Plan wondered.

He had needed three coffees just to get him out of the house. He was paying the price for the evening before alright, having stayed out way after midnight celebrating his boss’s birthday. Hazy fragments from last night kept flashing back to him. Unable to face any breakfast, he’d spent most of the morning trying to piece their chronology together.

I’ll have just one more and then I’m heading home, he’d said. Famous last words.

Tapping his security pass in the lobby of the Bureau, he joined the huddle of people waiting for a lift with one earphone still in and bracing himself for the walk of shame. At least he hadn’t been the worst, definitely not, that honour went to Perth. Plan thanked god that he’d retained enough sense to turn down karaoke.

“MORNING!”

The jaunty greeting was shouted down Plan’s left ear.

He whipped around, half tempted to punch the owner of the voice straight in the face. He rubbed at his potentially forever damaged eardrum, only to be met by a bright smile.

Talk of the devil.

“Jesus, d’you mind?! My head is already pounding,” he scowled, “how can you be so chipper this early after the amount we drank last night?”

“Practice.” Perth shrugged with a grin. “You need to get out more.”

“I’ll pass thanks, I think another night like that would kill me.”

“I thought that pretty little thing you were eyeing all night was going to do a good enough job of that,” said Perth, piling alongside Plan into the busy lift.

“Thirteenth floor, please,” Plan told the woman manning the buttons before turning back to his colleague, “nothing happened, I went home alone.”

“No way! How come? She was so down for you!”

The honest truth was Plan didn't know why. He’d flirted with her most of the night, even danced with her after his fourth whiskey and coke. He liked her attention so he took advantage of it yet when they’d stumbled out of the bar together in the early hours of the morning, he’d somehow gone off the idea. She’d pressed herself up against him, trying to kiss him on the mouth but he felt nauseous. Too much to drink. Thankfully one of her girlfriend’s had come looking for her, relieving Plan of babysitting duties and allowing him to escape in a taxi without further questioning.

“I dunno man, just wasn’t to be I guess,” he said dismissively as the lift made its third stop at the ninth floor, “I’ll get over it.”

“True, true, plenty more fish and all that!”

Plan grimaced, he always had hated that expression. He changed the subject. “This meeting is the last thing I need right now. Remind me again why we work for the Special Branch?”

“Work in intelligence, they said, it’ll be glamorous, they said.”

Plan returned Perth’s knowing grin with one of his own. “There was nothing glamorous about last night.”

“Don’t remind me.”

Finally, the lift doors opened to reveal floor thirteen and the instant both men stepped out they were pounced upon by their boss, affectionately known as P’New, responsible for last night’s endeavours and yet another voice whose volume was far too loud for Plan’s thumping headache.

“Ah Plan, Perth! Good, I’m glad you’re here! Boardroom please, quickly!”

“Can I at least make a drink first?” Plan’s eyes rolled. “I’m dehydrated thanks to you.”

“If you must,” P’New exaggerated, “but jump to it, there’s been another one!”

That woke Plan up a bit. He and Perth exchanged a mutual glance before ditching any ideas of hitting the kitchen and quickly followed to the boardroom as instructed.

Most of the gang was already seated, the majority of them looking very worse for wear.

“Morning brother,” Prim scoffed, her attention mostly on the laptop in front of her, “you look fucking grim in case you didn't already know.”

“Thanks for that sis, not exactly looking like Thailand’s next top model yourself,” Plan picked an empty chair and collapsed into it, massaging his temples.

“At least I was home before midnight.”

“At least I was home before midnight,” Plan mimicked, “when exactly did you turn into our mother?”

“Pack it in will you, you two,” Gun groaned, “I still feel like I might hurl into a bin at any second and you are not helping.”

Before the siblings could continue bickering, P’New linked his laptop to the projector screen and addressed them all.

“Morning everyone, apologies we have to do this now, I know none of us are feeling at our best after yesterday,” a collection of hungover grumbles sounded around the room, “but unfortunately crime doesn’t stop just for my birthday.”

P’New flicked to the first slide of his powerpoint presentation. An image of an attractive girl flashed up on the screen. Plan put on his glasses. Slim, early twenties, blue eyes, long brown hair. They all immediately recognised her.

“Late yesterday afternoon, CEST, one of our markers was murdered in Lille. As you know,” P’New gestured to the image of the victim, “this is Annabelle Durand, the illegitimate daughter of the influential politician, Enzo Mercier. Three years ago, her mother was assassinated for threatening to expose her affair with the father. We believe a follow up hit was ordered on Annabelle due to her own investigations into her ancestry since her mother’s death.”

“Was the hit ordered by our lot?” Prim queried.

“No,” P’New confirmed, his face solemn.

“Duh,” Plan sighed, “otherwise we wouldn’t be here.”

“Quite.”

“So we can assume she’d been digging a little too close to home?” Gun piped up. “The Europeans got the heads up that she was about to discover the truth so they’ve got rid of her. Why’s that our problem?”

“Not exactly,” P’New sighed. “It was the French that called to inform us this morning. They are pleading not guilty, protesting innocence and instead seemed to think it was us.”

“Us? What’s given them that impression?” Prim raised confused eyebrows, “she’s only a marker, politically it would make no sense for us to take her out.”

“Precisely the argument I’ve been reiterating all morning.”

“So what then?” said Gun.

“Annabelle was on the rota at work yesterday. A little place serving ice cream, sorbets, desserts, that kind of thing. She arrived for the lunch time peak as expected, served all afternoon, all fine, but for some reason she suddenly had to rush off after things had died down. One of her colleagues is testifying that shortly before she left, a customer came in, a man who she seemed determined to serve -”

Plan’s ears pricked up.

“A tall young man of Southeast Asian descent.”

“Our shadow,” Plan grinned.

“No need to look so happy about it,” scolded his sister, “a woman is dead.”

“I’m not happy about it, just interested as to what’s encouraged him out of the woodwork. You got to admit, it’s been a while.”

“Six months in fact,” P’New nodded, “and yet our assassin with no name seems to have come out of his early retirement.”

“Maybe he’d stashed up some annual leave,” Perth joked, earning himself another fierce glare from Prim.

“That might be the least of our worries,” said Gun, thinking aloud.

“What d’you mean?” Perth asked.

“Well think about it, if he’s not working for the Europeans, and he’s not working for us, then who the hell is he working for?”

Everyone was expecting P’New to disband that train of thought immediately, so when he answered truthfully, his tone deadly serious, everyone was surprised.

“I must admit, I’ve been asking myself the same question.”

Conversational murmurs around the room fell silent, each member of the team stealing glances at each other. Plan felt a shot of adrenaline kick in. Whoever this guy was, he’d had their team of supposed intelligence experts stumped for nearly three years.

There had been whispers about his existence ever since Plan had been recruited. Whispers which turned to rumours, rumours which turned to theories and theories which turned to investigations. None of their leads ever materialised and three years on, they were all still clueless as to who he was. A ghost in the system.

An unspoken air of hope had settled over the team six months ago when he seemed to disappear. His approximate kill count halted in its tracks, all traces of his work vanishing into thin air. There were no more victims. No witnesses or testimonies. Most of the team had assumed that the assassin’s murderous past had finally caught up with him.

Plan hadn’t been hopeful. He’d been bored ever since.

“Ideally, we need to get a lock on this guy as soon as possible. He’s starting to get us into trouble. I need one of you to lead the operation, use whatever resources you need, but just give me due warning in advance if you're breaking any rules so I can get our excuses ready. Any volunteers?”

“I’ll do it.”

All heads spun towards Plan.

*

Mean chucked his keys down on the coffee table of his Central London apartment. Sleek, spacious and overlooking the city it was furnished very much to his expensive taste. Plus, he wasn’t the one paying for it, so that was always a bonus. The perks of his job.

Although there was the odd downside too. Not owning the only set of keys being one of them. He exhaled on a deep sigh, eyes rolling as they scanned the sitting room. In his mother tongue, Mean spoke out loud.

“I know you’re here P’Zaanook. I can smell that god awful cologne.”

“You,” came the reply, revealing his chosen hiding place behind the velvet curtains, “are no fun sometimes.”

Zaanook peeked out from between them and if it had been anyone else, the smirk on his face would have been creepy. Suddenly he clapped his hands together, jumping forward into full view of the occupant who was actually supposed to live there.

“So, how does it feel, being back from the dead?”

Mean grinned, eyes coy and sparkling. “She felt very good.”

“You look pretty good yourself,” observed Zaanook.

“I know,” said Mean, running a hand through his side bangs, “do you like the blonde?”

“Not really,” Zaanook screwed his face up before looking him up and down, “but I like the rest. Incarceration suits you.”

“Not much to do in a jail other than work out,” Mean shrugged, reaching for an apple from the full basket on the glass table and tossing it between both hands. “Why do you bring me these things, you know I won’t eat them.”

“They’re good for you, full of vitamins.”

“You say it like you care,” Mean cocked an eyebrow.

“You know I care.”

Mean scoffed. “Are you here to apologise to me?”

It was Zaanook’s turn to chuckle. “Apologise? Now why would I do that?”

“Oh, I don’t know,” Mean said casually, menacing eyes narrowing on his handler, “maybe for leaving me to rot in a French prison for six months?”

“I prefer to think of it as a secondment,” Zaanook told him, “and that was the least you deserved. I did warn you not to get creative, the higher ups don’t like it.”

“I’m freelance, I can do what I want.” Mean said coolly, imagining what might happen if he were to throw a couple of literal daggers instead of metaphorical ones.

“And it’s exactly that attitude that got you locked up there in the first place.”

“You gave me a job to do, which I did, and you were supposed to collect me the next fucking day!”

“And next time, you won’t misbehave, will you?” Zaanook shrugged. “Don’t be naive, Mean. You know as well as I do that freelancers don’t exist in this industry, not if you’re actually good at the job anyway. When I next ask you to exercise discretion, I do not expect you to shoot someone in the middle of a concert!”

Mean drew his gaze away, arms folded stubbornly. “He had it coming, that singing was about to shatter glass. I couldn’t help myself.”

Zaanook couldn’t suppress his fond smile, moving forward to embrace his protégé in a hug.

“You know you are my favourite, but you must learn to display some self control.”

Remaining rigid and still in his hold, Mean didn't return the gesture.

“I suppose I’m back in the good books now that I’ve offed that little French.”

“They were very happy with your work,” Zaanook said, releasing him. “Nice touch, referencing the mother.”

“You didn't deserve something original.”

“Dead was the only criteria,” the elder shrugged. “Was she enchanted by you too? I bet she offered herself up on a plate in that dark alleyway.”

“You wouldn’t believe,” Mean said, irritatingly smug.

“Hang on to that charm, you’ll need it for your next job.”

“You can pay me for this one first.”

Zaanook reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a brown envelope. Handing it to Mean, the younger took a quick peek at the notes inside.

“It’s all there, with a bonus for your troubles.”

“Six months of my life back?”

“With that amount of cash I’m sure you can make up for it.”

Mean patted him on the chest twice in friendly warning. Discarding both the cash and the apple he was still clenching down on the sofa, he walked to the open kitchen and poured himself a glass of water.

“Who's my next job?” he asked, taking a long gulp. “Are they local?”

“Not quite,” Zaanook shook his head, “and don’t be mad but, well, you’re going home for this one.”

Mean slammed the glass down so hard that it cracked.

“I just got home,” he said through gritted teeth.

“I meant actual home.”

“No,” he said immediately, “no goddamn way!”

“You haven’t got a ch-”

“I am not going to Thailand.” Mean reiterated, punctuating each word.

“You won’t want to miss it, Mean. This one’s all about you.”

“What do you mean?”

“Special Branch have taken a keen interest in your endeavours, they’re fronting an operation to catch you. We can’t let that happen.”

“They won’t catch me.”

“No, they won’t,” Zaanook said sternly, staring him down. After a few tense moments, Zaanook broke the deadlock, fixing his jacket and heading for the door. “It’s not up for discussion, Mean. Get some rest, I’ve texted you the code.”

“How do you want it done?” Mean muttered.

With a hand on the door knob, Zaanook looked back at him over his shoulder. “Put that overactive imagination to good use, just make sure they get the message and do not, whatever you do, be reckless.”

Mean smirked to himself, at least there was one silver lining. “I suppose I am ready to kill for some proper Thai food.”

“That’s the spirit.” said Zaanook, tapping on the door as he exited.

“Next time you come to my apartment you better have an invitation.”

“Well see!” Zaanook called. Suddenly, his head poked back around the doorframe. “Oh, and Mean?”

“Yeah?”

“There’s a present for you in the bathroom.”

With that the door banged closed.

Grabbing his phone, Mean pulled up his messages and copied and pasted the code he’d been sent into his work app. Strolling towards the bathroom, he took a closer look at his next target.

Captain Kongyingyong Chonlathorn, 22.
Cousin of Siwaj Sawatmaneekul, the Head of Special Branch.

He was handsome, Mean thought nonchalantly. He’d have some fun with this one.

Switching on the bathroom light, he took a quick glance around.

Zaanook’s present, a single box of black hair dye, sat on the edge of the sink accompanied by a note.

To match your heart.

*

Plan spent all weekend getting nowhere.

On the Friday he’d been sent the audio transcription of the interview with Annabelle Durand’s colleague at the parlour. He knew little French, but their built-in translation technology had done a decent enough job at making it understandable.

For a man, his description of their suspect had been pretty romanticised. He used a number of adjectives that Plan had heard from witnesses before. Taller than your average Asian guy. Good-looking. Charming. Well dressed. Bewitching.

Apparently he’d tipped big, paying the bill three times over.

The only detail that really stood out to Plan was that the witness quite clearly used the word ‘blonde’. Not that it made much difference, their shadow had been many different colours in the past. Most often brunette, sometimes black, occasionally fair. Long, short, bangs, no bangs, side parting, middle parting, styled, unstyled. There was even one kill where he’d strangled a Spanish diplomat sporting a mop of blue curls.

They still didn't have a clue as to what he really looked like. His features seemingly both generic and distinctive at the same time.

Every testimony Plan had listened to told him nothing, describing your typical oriental characteristics. Small eyes, clear skin, strong jawline, which helpfully narrowed it down to about half of the world’s population. Plan had spent most of Saturday and Sunday night trying to visualise him without any real conviction behind the composite in his head.

He burst into the office on Monday with a fire in his belly, heading straight for the whiteboard which he and Perth had decorated with images of all of the unsolved international murders from the last three years. International, because for some reason, none of his suspected victims had ever been killed in Thailand.

“Plan!” shouted Perth’s unmistakable voice from the kitchen. “Coffee?”

“Yes please!” Plan nodded, he needed all the caffeine he could get.

Looking up at the board, Plan observed for the umpteenth time the one hundred and sixteen deaths that remained unaccounted for.

Assassins usually had a certain style, a flare. They were attention seekers and they liked to take the credit for their hard work. Often they would kill using the same method, some would leave a memento, others would take one away. During Plan’s first week at the branch, his superiors had pinned down a notorious killer working for the British. He used to pluck the right eyeball from his victims and make mosaics out of them. The image of his bathroom was one Plan was never going to forget in this lifetime.

“Any strokes of genius yet?” Perth asked, nudging Plan with an elbow to get him to take his coffee.

“Nothing,” Plan sighed. “Absolutely zilch. I just don’t get it. Look at them all, no method in the madness. No consistency. Every single one is completely different.”

“Maybe that’s the point.”

“What d’you mean?”

“So, I’ve been thinking right,” Perth took a sip of his drink, “that maybe there is no connection. Maybe he wants each one to be unique, like paintings almost? You’d never paint the same portrait again and again would you? Even if the subject was the same, if you had a muse, you’d position them differently or capture a different expression each time. You’d change the medium, use different lighting, tell a different story. Maybe he doesn’t want to be seen as a killer, but as an -”

“An artist,” Plan finished for him.

Perth nodded. “Exactly.”

Plan looked back at the photos of each crime scene. The fire in the tower block in Dubai. The shooting at a stage show in Warsaw. The poison administered in Barcelona. The drowning on a cruise across the Mediterranean. The car crash in Vietnam, to name but a few.

“If that’s the case, how are we ever going to find him?” Plan wondered aloud.

“That is way too hard a question for a Monday morning,” Perth joked, the smile falling from his face when he realised Plan was in no mood for laughing. “If it helps, Captain’s already ordered doughnuts for elevenses. I get the feeling we’re going to need a sugar rush for this one.”

“Any excuse for a raspberry glaze, yeah?”

“You know me so well brother,” Perth smiled, draping an arm around Plan’s shoulders and giving him a squeeze. “We’re gonna get him you know, I’ve got a good feeling.”

“You better hope you’re right,” Plan replied, deep in thought, “if we keep getting outsmarted by this prick we’ll be out of a job before you know it.”

“Better get cracking then hadn’t we! You keep hunting for a connection between this lot, and I’ll get on the phone to MI6, see if I can get any more out of them. Something’s telling me they know more than they’re letting on.”

“You and your gut feelings!” Plan called after him.

“Like a dog with a bone!” Perth grinned before his attention was stolen by a rumble of his stomach. “Oi, Captain! What’s the ETA on these doughnuts?”

“What’s the rush bro? It’s still early!” answered Captain, checking his watch.

“And your point is? Some of us haven’t had any breakfast yet you know!”

Plan found himself chuckling when Captain caught his eye and puffed his cheeks out, miming that Perth was getting chunky these days.

*

Plan’s biggest mistake had been forgetting that after a sugar high, always followed a sugar low.

He sat slumped at his desk, chin in hand, playing noughts and crosses with himself after exhausting every inspired train of thought that he’d been blessed with that morning. Not that there had been many.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Captain head into P’New’s office before he closed the blinds to prevent layabouts like him exercising their powers of lipreading.

It was well into lunchtime now but after two custard doughnuts and an iced ring, Plan had lost his appetite. Just as he was about to die of boredom, he was copied into an email from the French government. The photos from the scene in Lille.

He clicked on the attachment immediately, the zip file taking a few moments to load. Plan’s jaw dropped upon opening the first image. He had seen this scene before.

“Perth!” Plan beckoned, “come here, quick!”

“If your search history is full of explicit material, I promise it wasn’t me,” Perth grinned, meandering over. His eyes stole a glance at Plan’s screen. “Oh, shit, when did these come through?”

“Literally just now,” Plan confirmed, “are you seeing what I’m seeing?”

Both boys stared at the images, taking in the scene presented to them. They eyeballed the lifeless corpse of Annabelle Duran, the empty eyes and crumpled, blood-drenched clothes. More importantly though, they observed the cause of death.

A single stab wound to the neck.

“The same as her mother,” Perth whispered.

“But why?” Plan thought aloud, “why would he do that? Why would he break his pattern? One hundred and sixteen potential victims, none of them the same. What makes this one different?”

“Well they are related I guess,” Perth said, matter of factly.

“Why would that matter to him though? In his mind, surely she’d just be another target?”

Perth just shrugged. “Maybe he’s sending a message to someone.”

“Almost definitely,” Plan nodded, “but who?”

*

By two in the afternoon and after his fourth coffee, Plan was dying for a piss.

He headed for the bathroom, only to find that it was currently being serviced. Sighing, he took the exit to the stairwell, intent on using the facilities of the floor below and muttering curses as to why the cleaners coincidentally always seemed to work in accordance with his bladder.

Luckily for him the toilets on the twelfth floor had been empty, so at least there had been no one around to throw evils at him for being a stranger using their urinals.

He washed his hands in a hurry, drying them on his jeans before leaving the way he had come. Impressed by his own stealth, Plan found himself grinning as though he’d just been shoplifting without being caught. Who would have thought taking a leak could be so thrilling?

Too busy riding on this mini-victory and feeling much less weighed down without a full bladder, Plan wasn’t looking when he turned the corner of the stairs back to his own floor and crashed straight into an unsuspecting stranger. Punishment for taking two at a time.

As they clattered into each other, an armful’s worth of files went flying down the stairs.

“I’m so sorry!” Plan quickly bent down, collecting the papers that were within reach, “my fault, I didn't see you.”

When he next stood straight, holding out the retrieved and now disordered files, he got a good look at the man whose day he’d ruined. Early twenties, dark hair that had been blown back away from his face, almost unreal.

“Wow,” Plan breathed.

The man quirked a sharply defined eyebrow, and Plan realised he’d said that out loud.

“Sorry, erm, here you go,’ he stammered, placing the stack of paper back into the man’s arms. He took them, his sparkling eyes amused and locked on Plan who offered an apologetic wai which he could not return because his hands were full.

“Is that all of them?” Plan asked, scanning the stairwell for any he may have missed only to find none. He answered his own question, blabbering. “Yes, I think so. That’ll teach me to look where I’m going next time!”

The other boy said nothing so Plan gave him a smile which he hoped made him look like less of an asshole, shifting from foot to foot. Maybe he worked in the Korean department and didn't speak Thai. He had a look of them about him.

“I should, erm,” Plan pointed over the man’s shoulder, moving to brush past him. “Better get back to work.”

He only advanced three steps before he felt firm fingers close around his wrist, tugging him back.

Plan turned on the spot. The tall boy, now balancing the files in one forearm, looked him over for a few moments before stepping up one stair and making them a similar height. He leaned in close, very close, his full lips grazing the shell of Plan’s ear and murmuring in their native language.

“Your flies are undone.”

Plan glanced down, seeing that he was right and feeling his cheeks colour. He affixed the zipper, keeping his eyes averted from the one’s burning through him.

“I, I, um, thanks.”

He smiled sheepishly before continuing on to his own floor as fast as his legs would carry him without looking back.

If he had, he would have seen the way magnetic irises followed him with interest until he was well out of sight.

*

Plan’s head was spinning as the clock ticked over to seven-thirty. Most of his colleagues had gone home, having real lives to get back to and people to see. Even his sister had left on time for once.

He, however, had no reason to rush off. If he went home he would just spend the night hours mulling over the same things he was in the office. He wasn’t going to stay much later, but that was only because he had no one else to feed the cats.

His desk was a mess, hard copy prints of forensic photos, police reports and witness statements scattered everywhere. He released a frustrated sigh, annoyed that for some reason beyond his usually very quick-thinking brain, none of the pieces seemed to fit.

Their assailant liked playing dress up, he’d established.

A few descriptions detailed him sporting a pierced ear, in another a tattoo down his neck. One person had even spotted a wedding ring. None of the mugshots Plan had looked at today came close, something off about every single one of the scumbags that might have been potential suspects. Escaped prisoners and missing troublemakers and most wanted criminals. None of them felt like the chameleon he was after.

Beginning to tidy the chaos in front of him and ready to give up for the day, Plan’s train of thought was interrupted by P’New on his way out.

“Don’t work too late, will you?”

“Just about to pack up,” Plan told him, “no point anyway. Can’t seem to get anywhere.”

“Don’t beat yourself up about it, come back in the morning with fresh eyes.” P’New empathised, “tomorrow’s a new day.”

Plan forced a smile, wondering how exactly a new sunrise was going to make him any better at his job.

As the lift doors opened for P’New, he suddenly turned back to Plan, holding them open with his right hand.

“You don’t know what time Captain left do you? He was supposed to be at a meeting this afternoon but never showed.”

Plan thought back, trying to remember when he’d last seen him. Sharing out the sweet treats at eleven was the last memory that sprung to mind. He shook his head.

“No, sorry. If he was heading out he never told me.”

“Alright, no worries.” P’New frowned. He shook it off, stepping inside the elevator and selecting the ground floor button.

Plan watched the doors close before turning his attention back to his desk. He gathered everything together in a disorganised pile, shoving it in a drawer to be a problem for tomorrow. If only he was able to compartmentalise that easily in his head.

Grabbing his coffee stained mug, Plan walked to the kitchen and placed it in the dishwasher as they were supposed to. Gun was the worst on that front, the cup he religiously used forever stained with a dark ring around the rim from where Plan didn't think it had seen water for the year and a half since he’d joined.

On his way back, Plan’s attention was drawn to the door of the gents, still guarded by a wet floor sign and a notice which read:

Cleaning in progress.

Plan thought it odd, considering that the cleaners had already been and gone for the evening. He’d been disturbed by them around six when they had come vacuuming around his chair.

For reasons Plan would never understand about himself, his curiosity got the better of him. Approaching the door, he removed the barrier blocking his way and braced his eyes for an unwelcome sight, flooded tiles or a dirty protest at the top of the list.

The floor was bone dry as he stepped inside. He walked a few paces, everything seemingly normal.

Until it wasn’t.

Plan saw him reflected in the wall length mirror first. His knees went weak, legs threatening to crumple underneath him and clamping a hand over his mouth to muffle a scream. He reached for the ceramic row of basins, clinging to them white-knuckled and trying to stay on his feet.

Captain was dead.

Dead and hanging, suspended by his necktie from the second cubicle. There was no blood.

Plan sucked in lungfuls of air, unable to breathe and heartbeat pounding in his ears.

Steeling himself, he took a few shaky steps forward. Captain’s eyes were glassy, bulging wide open and full of fear. Plan could not locate a wound other than the bruising that had formed around his neck from his noose. His cheeks looked swollen, as though full of gobstoppers.

Plan glanced down at the floor below where Captain hung, a smattering of what looked like crumbs decorating the grey tiles. Steeling himself, Plan looked back up at his deceased colleague, his friend. He reached up and tentatively inserted a shaking index finger into Captain’s packed mouth.

Plan gently rooted around inside, trying to clear his throat of the soft substance it was full of. It felt sticky. Removing the digit and upon closer inspection, the selection of rainbow coloured sprinkles that coated his finger helped Plan pin-point what it was.

He couldn’t have been more grateful to be in a bathroom as his whole stomach turned. Plan pushed past the swinging Captain, emptying its contents into the toilet bowl.

Doughnuts.

Chapter 2: one way or another, i'm gonna find ya.

Chapter Text

Plan stood outside the temple, dressed in black and half tempted to find a secreted corner where he could light up his cigarette without being seen.

He discarded the thought for two reasons. Firstly because he couldn’t think of anything more disrespectful and secondly because he didn't smoke. Still, toying the filter between a forefinger and thumb somehow made him feel better.

The funeral felt like a charade.

He’d sat through the bathing and the chanting and the cremation, all the while quietly fuming as other people gathered to pay their last respects. They had told Captain’s family it was suicide, the story fabricated by P’New. Plan knew he was grieving in his own, private way, but that didn't make him any less angry about it.

What is there to gain from telling them the truth? His boss had said.

Plan had reluctantly agreed to go along with it, even though he couldn’t quite shake the feeling that they were doing Captain an injustice. His killer was free, roaming the streets and living their life whilst that of his friend had been cut so cruelly short.

Maybe that was what happened when you worked in intelligence. Their lives reduced to nothing, their deaths reduced to clean-up operations. Maybe all of them were destined to end up as just another name on a murder file.

“You got a spare one of those?” a voice asked, a voice Plan did not want to hear.

He looked down at the cigarette in his hand, crumpled but still intact before handing it over resentfully.

P’New took it, eyes on Plan who was refusing to look at him.

“Take a walk with me,” he said calmly, although to Plan’s ears it sounded more like an order rather than a request.

He followed anyway, walking silently next to his boss until they were well out of sight of the temple. The Thai traffic was heavy and they moved at a faster pace than most of the cars. P’New put the cigarette between his lips twice, turning a lighter over in his hand but he didn't spark it either time. After the second, he sighed wistfully before taking it from his mouth and breaking it in half.

“Hey!” Plan objected.

“Temptation is always better kept out of sight.”

“Says who?”

“Our lungs?” New shrugged.

Plan didn't have a smart remark to reply with, so he shut his mouth and carried on walking. He observed the city as it buzzed around them, Bangkok bright and busy and beautiful. The street vendors selling tourists fast foods, the modern buildings which loomed above them and the business makers commuting from A to B, blissfully unaware of their grief. The sun was strong, burning down and colouring Plan’s cheeks. He needed the vitamin D, his skin pale and blemished from not having slept a full night since he’d found Captain hanging.

“Management wants us to shut down the operation,” P’New informed him, breaking the silence.

“What?” said Plan, his voice incredulous.

“The safety of the building has been compromised. The safety of all of us has been compromised,” he explained, “whoever he is, Plan, he walked into the Bureau completely undetected and murdered one of our team. We can’t risk that happening again.”

Plan could feel the rage boiling his blood. “He was your cousin, P’New.”

“I know.”

“Don’t you want justice?” Plan challenged, a look of disdain written all over his face. “Don’t you want to find out who did this and stop them from doing it again?! It’s more important now than ever!”

“I don’t disagree,” his boss nodded.

“So what, we just stop? We just let this guy keep playing God and pretend like what happened to Captain never happened? He thinks he’s untouchable, P’New! Am I supposed to just sit back and let it stay that way?” Plan practically frothed at the mouth.

“Captain’s death was a warning,” P’New said, as though Plan hadn’t already worked that out for himself. “A warning specifically designed for me. If they find out that you are heading up this operation Plan, you will be the next on their list.”

“I don’t care!”

“Oh no?” P’New cocked a knowing eyebrow. “What about when they come for the people you love? What will do you if Prim’s the one we next find?”

“Prim can take care of herself.”

“You’re missing the point.”

“No, P’New, you’re missing the point,” Plan corrected him, determination resonating in every word. “It’s our job to be in danger. This is what I signed up for. I know the risks and I know the consequences, and either way, I can’t let this go. So you either let me do my job and nail this bastard or you fire me, it’s up to you.”

“I’m not saying we pull the plug, Plan.”

“Huh?” Plan frowned, confused. “But you just said -”

“I’m saying they are on to us. I’m saying this operation has to become a more secret affair. We need to make them think we have given up on catching this guy.”

“How are we going to do that?”

New looked at him full of pride, the same resolve in his eyes mirrored in Plan’s own. He offered him a half smile.

“How do you feel about moving to London?”

*

Mean lay in his king sized bed, chewing on his favourite seaweed thins that he’d brought back from Thailand with him. He was pretty sure that he’d made a literal dent in the luxurious silk covers he’d been sprawled there so long. He hadn’t hung about once the job had been done, stopping only to pick up some home comforts before catching his return flight.

Something about being back home unnerved him, it always did. It was too familiar, reminding him of memories long since buried. Memories that he needed to stay that way.

Now back in his Kensington apartment, he was so bored. He’d been allocated a few days to kill Captain but he’d executed the task at hand in a matter of hours, the Bureau having been easier to infiltrate than expected. All he’d had to do was charm one of the security guards into thinking he was a lost Korean official. Hiding in plain sight, they’d literally directed him to a floor that was only one above his designated target.

The mundanity of waiting for his next job already eating at him, he now regretted rushing off so fast. He could have easily spent at least one night with the fetching Thai boy who’d been eyeballing him on the staircase. That would have been time much better spent than consuming his weight in snacks for the entirety of the two spare days he’d accumulated.

Still, at least he was able to relax here.

*

Plan had never disliked flying, but after wasting nearly an entire day of his life making the trip from Bangkok to Heathrow, he certainly wasn’t in a rush to do it again in a hurry.

The flight itself had been just under thirteen hours, however, the commute to the airport, the wait at the airport, and the delay taking off from the airport had resulted in the longest all-round journey he’d ever made in his life. Even though the UK were six hours behind, Plan accepted that he’d never get those hours back. He’d arrived just in time for the Friday morning rush. Joy of joys, more gridlock traffic.

In the back of black cab, he could barely keep his eyes open.

Originally, he had protested about the whole thing. Mainly because his English was broken and rusty and although he could hold a basic conversation, hello, how are you, my name is, that sort of thing, he certainly didn't know how he was going to navigate finding an assassin in a foreign language. P’New had talked him into it, informing him that Gun and Perth were going too, the first practically fluent and the latter had been taking lessons.

Prim would be their eyes and ears from home, off the record of course.

The plan was a sneaky one, typical of P’New really. Their operation scaled down and relocated to London, all traces of it being wiped from official databases and any paper trails destroyed. That way, there would be no evidence of their ongoing investigation. They were going undercover and whether or not Plan would admit it, he found the whole idea completely thrilling. It hadn’t taken him long to agree.

As he was driven through Central London on the way to his new hideaway, Gun and Perth already there to meet him, Plan was too tired to take in many of the sights. There was only one which really caught his eye.

The London Eye.

Plan stared up at the observation wheel from where his head was resting against the window, wondering what the world must look like from up there.

*

Mean sat on a bench in Hyde Park, killing time rather than people, eating a box of sushi and watching two dogs fight. A huge black labrador and a white chihuahua which somewhat resembled a pet he’d once had.

The chihuahua was winning. It chased the other round in boundless circles, growling if it came too close and bearing vicious teeth. They had been at it for about fifteen minutes, the two female owners chattering to each other, talking pointlessly about pointless things in the way that only women do. The labrador seemed to think it was playful, rearing its hind legs happily and barking for more. That was until the smaller dog sank teeth into its right leg and drew blood. The owners jumped in then, tearing them apart, whilst Mean both chuckled at the spectacle and cursed them for ruining his fun.

His entertainment over, Mean felt a weight sit down on the other end of his bench. Begrudgingly, he tore his attention away from the dogs and looked to see who had picked the wrong seat for themselves today.

A young couple sat together, sharing an ice lolly in efforts to cool down under the pathetic excuse for rays that the British called sunshine. She was fairly average to look at. Plain, with dark blonde hair and a smattering of freckles. He, on the other hand, perked Mean’s interest. He looked somewhat oriental, maybe just half. He had dark feline features that matched his ruffled hair topped off by bowed lips and silver rimmed glasses, reminding Mean of the boy back home who he should have gotten to have.

He supposed he would have to make do.

*

Plan had made Perth and Gun keep him awake for his first afternoon in the country, hoping to shake his jet lag quickly. They also had a fourth housemate, an English man called Harry who spoke perfect Thai and had been drafted in from MI6 to assist them because P’New had called in a favour. Eventually, after being awake for the best part of two days, Plan finally crashed out at about six o’clock that evening and had slept for twelve long, glorious hours.

Dawn was on the verge of breaking when he finally stirred the next morning. At first, in his hazy state, he wondered where the hell he was. Remembering, he swung his legs out of bed, reinvigorated and ready to explore. To get closer to finding out who killed Captain.

The food was very different here, Plan soon discovered. He eyed the contents of the kitchen cupboards, scanning across boxes of cereals and jars of spreadable jams that he didn't recognise.

“Try the Frosties,” came a voice behind him in English.

Plan looked between him and the cupboard, confused.

Harry quickly caught on.

“These ones,” he said in Thai, leaning over Plan’s shoulder and retrieving the recommended box. “Add milk. They’re my favourite.”

“Thank you,” Plan gave him a grateful smile.

Harry watched whilst he poured himself a bowl, getting the milk from the fridge and filling it about halfway. He looked in three drawers before finding the cutlery, eyeing the meal at hand before deciding on a spoon.

Harry gave him an encouraging nod as he brought the spoon to his lips, so Plan ate a small mouthful, chewing slowly.

“It’s sweet!” Plan exclaimed, somewhat surprised as to why this would constitute breakfast food. It wasn’t unpleasant. “Tastes like dessert.”

The other man chuckled, untying a loaf of bread and placing two slices into the toaster.

“Welcome to the West,” he said.

*

Mean had been woken early afternoon by a loud clearing of the throat.

“Ahem.”

Squinting his eyes open, he found Zaanook perched at the end of his bed, a look of disapproval etched upon his face as he glanced between the three people under the covers, two of them still asleep after a very, very long night.

Dark eyes rolled skywards. “I don’t remember inviting you,” Mean muttered, voice hoarse with sleep.

“Would you mind dismissing your guests?”

“Would you mind getting out of my bedroom?” the younger countered.

Mean met the severe eyes of his handler, releasing an exasperated sigh. “Fine! Just give me a minute.”

The other man in Mean’s bed, whose name he couldn’t remember, curled tighter against his body, sated and sleepy whilst his fiancé lay on Mean’s left side. The young assassin looked up at Zaanook wearing an arrogant smirk.

He shrugged casually. “What? I’m still naked,” he teased, “unless you want to see?”

Zaanook moved like a fire had been lit under his ass when Mean moved to throw off the covers, sprinting through to the living room.

“You’ve got ten minutes. We’re going out.”

Mean buried his face back in the pillow, feeling the morning glory of his male lover digging into his hip and not really in any mood to go anywhere.

*

With everyone in their new Brixton residency now awake, Plan felt giddy with excitement.

The four of them sat in the lounge, mulling over crime scenes, potential suspects and compiling information together to help build a bigger picture. A package had arrived this morning, courtesy of P’New back home, containing a wide and expensive range of surveillance equipment. Plan had never seen some of the items in the case before, but he was keen to use them all the same. There were tiny microphones, spy cameras, fake identities and unexpectedly, a range of weapons for self defense purposes only.

The note which came with it said two things:

In case of emergency.
Ask Harry to get you into MI6.

“Okay,” Plan said, pinning his notes to a large cork board on the far wall. “Let’s consolidate what we know about this guy, try and get into his mind.”

“So, an experienced assassin, cold blooded, unfeeling,” Perth began.

“Like a snake,” Plan finished, adding a few descriptors himself. “Asian, tall, young, dark eyes and hair although open to disguises.”

“Realistically he’s going to have sophisticated tastes. Expensive. You wouldn’t do a job like his without getting a kick out of money,” said Gun.

Plan nodded, brainstorming these traits down in messy scrawl.

“Probably been in trouble before, a disturbed kid who was headhunted young.”

“Definitely,” Plan agreed, “you don’t just decide one day you’re going to be an assassin. This guy was recruited. He must have displayed a talent for it that caught the attention of those higher up in the black market.”

He then turned to Harry. “Do your guys at MI6 have any idea who he’s working for?”

“None whatsoever,” Harry admitted, “and the not knowing is starting to piss them off.”

“They’re not the only ones,” said Gun, frowning.

“Usually each of his kills is entirely different, however, his last suspected victim was the exception, killed in exactly the same way her mother was three years ago,” Plan looked back at the group, “any theories?”

“He’s been off the radar for the past six months, maybe he’s hit the assassin’s equivalent of writer’s block?” suggested Perth.

“Nah,” Plan shook his head, brow wrinkled, “I don’t think so. That’s not him. This guy loves what he does. He’s meticulous, care given to each of his kills, an execution planned to suit the target. Captain was the prime example of that. Annabelle was purposeful, he wanted it to be the same.”

“What if,” Harry said slowly, struck by an epiphany. “What if that six month break was involuntary?”

“What d’you mean?” asked Plan.

“Well, what if he was given no other option? Maybe he’d pissed off someone higher up, a kill count of this scale, he’s got to have a network of people monitoring him. Maybe he got too big for his boots and they decided to teach him a lesson. He’s served the time and now they’ve got him back to work, well reminded that he’s on a leash.”

“So you mean that maybe he didn't see Annabelle as a kill, but a protest,” Plan reiterated, impressed. The argument made sense, made him feel as though they’d filled in another blank. Goosebumps snaked over his skin.

“He wants to be at liberty to kill who he wants, how he wants,” Gun nodded.

Perth summed it up. “He wants to be a freelancer.”

*

Mean stood in their privately hired pod at the tallest point of the ferris wheel, about four hundred feet up and fifteen minutes into their ride, jumping on the spot and freaking the hell out of his handler.

“What a way to die!” he cackled, punctuating each word with another jump.

Zannook clinged helplessly to the window. “Can you fucking STOP IT?!”

Holding his ribs with laughter, Mean ceased his fun. He found it exhilarating, unafraid of heights and certain that they were in no real danger.

“Such a killjoy,” Mean grinned, “you’re the one that wanted to come here.”

“My mistake,” Zannook said, calmer now that Mean’s feet were firmly grounded and had given up testing the mechanism holding their pod in the sky. He wiped the sweat from his brow, breathing finally evening out. “I forgot that you enjoy behaving like a damn child.”

Mean just scoffed, looking out to admire the view. At its peak, The London Eye lent itself to sights which overwhelmed the senses. It was the perfect height. Not too tall that everything below became just patches of indistinguishable colour lacking in details, which were the best bit. From here, Mean could see everything the cityscape had to offer. The stylish tall buildings reminiscent of home, the old fashioned architecture preserved from centuries past, the swirling bends of the murky Thames river. London was a city of juxtaposition, it had no consistency and wasn’t ashamed of it.

Mean liked that, he could relate.

“So come on then,” he said, pirouetting on the spot to face Zannook. “What’s all this in aid of?”

“There’s something you need to know.”

“Well? Spit it out.”

“There’s a rumour travelling down the grapevine,” Zannook said carefully.

“Oh?” Mean raised an intrigued eyebrow. “Tell me more.”

“Taking out Captain did the trick,” Zannook started, “they got the message. The operation to find you has been shut down.”

“I told you they wouldn’t catch me.”

“Or at least that’s what they want us to think.”

Mean’s eyes narrowed in suspicion. “Go on.”

“We’ve been reliably informed by an inside source that that’s just how it has been made to look. Apparently, the operation remains ongoing but has been moved out of Thailand.”

“Moved to where?”

“We don’t know,” Zannook frowned, “they wouldn’t say.”

“So why are you telling me this?”

“I’m telling you because you need to watch your back. We will find them, but it’ll take time. Until then, well, you better sleep with one eye open.”

Mean rolled his eyes.

“I mean it, Mean. Word has it that an agent from MI6 has been taken off the books, there’s every chance they could be here, in London.”

This news excited the young assassin, grin stretching from ear to ear.

“I’m flattered.”

“Don’t be,” Zannook replied sternly, “this is not a game. If our cover gets blown it’ll be my neck on the line.”

“You need to chill out more,” Mean told him in the most patronising tone he could manage. “Can I have my next job now?”

Almost reluctantly, Zannook pulled a slip of paper from the inside pocket of his jacket and handed it to Mean. It was a theatre ticket.

Phantom of the Opera, Her Majesty’s Theatre, 19:30pm.

“Top left hand corner for the code,” Zannook pointed, “and for god’s sake keep it subtle.”

“How much?” Mean asked.

“Enough.”

Mean nodded, smiling to himself. He always had intended to catch the show sometime.

Neither man said anything more, turning back to the glass as their descent began to soak in the sights. Mean felt the kick of adrenaline that coursed through his blood, his reason for living. A new target to aim for and a thrilling game of cat and mouse on the cards? This was a good day. He interrupted the peaceful silence, mouth working faster than his brain.

“Do we know who’s heading up the operation? A name?”

“Not yet,” Zannook shook his head, “I’m working on it.”

Mean bit back an electric smile, full of anticipation.

“Tell me when you know.”

*

Plan got the green light from P’New to attend the scene of the murder at Her Majesty’s Theatre in under ten minutes. He’d taken Gun with him for help translating if needed.

They walked into the auditorium together because everyone knows that playhouses are creepy as hell at night. Row upon row of empty seats sat next to each other in elegant curves, upholstered in red. The Stalls, Royal Circle, Grand Circle and Balcony, all evacuated by police and abandoned.

The victim, the male lead, lay dead centre stage where forensics were still working. The cause of death: crushed by a chandelier.

The scene was part of the play. An climatic point of the second half that was usually choreographed through robotics, special effects and lighting trickery. Not tonight. In this evening’s show, the wires suspending the chandelier had been cut and it’s five hundred pound weight had fallen directly on top of its target from a substantial height. The internal hemorrhaging had been massive and he’d died before paramedics could reach the scene.

Plan’s empathy lay mainly with the audience who’d witnessed the event. They’d interviewed one of the ushers who’d sobbed the entire time, blowing her nose long enough to tell them that for the first few minutes, the audience had refused to move, thinking it was all part of the play. Then they closed the curtains.

That was when the screaming had begun.

Both Plan and Gun jumped up onto the main stage with ease, approaching to address the British detective appointed to the case.

Gun spoke first, hands together in a wai even though they didn't do that here.

“Evening sir, we’re from the RTP Special Branch.”

The detective, a short and portly ginger man who looked like he hadn’t slept in weeks extended his hand for them to shake. They took it, both making a mental note to sanitise later.

“Williams. Osian Williams, they told me you were coming.”

The man had a difficult accent. The strange way he sounded out his vowels making him tricky for Plan to understand. He guessed it was Welsh.

“I’m Gun Napat and this is my colleague Plan,” Gun gestured, “any leads so far?”

“Not much,” Detective Williams sighed, “no one knows what happened, wires assumed snapped but on closer inspection looks like a swift cut to me. There are no frays to the wires that you’d expect from a snap or an electrical burn. Looks more like scissors. Straight through and clean. The director claims they were down a few members of technical crew tonight so a few reserves were brought in last minute. There was only one he’d not employed before.”

“Did you get a description?”

“East Asian descent. He couldn’t be more specific, I don’t think he even looked at him properly to be honest. There’s hundreds of staff working on this show, I think the faces just blur after a while.”

Plan watched the man’s mouth as he spoke, concentrating on deciphering the words and then translating them in his head. He caught most of it himself, but Gun reiterated for his benefit anyway.

“Does it look like your guy?” Detective Williams continued, gesturing to the murderer’s work which sat in the middle of the stage like an exhibit in a museum.

Plan took a closer look at the scene. His eyes stared at the victim, crushed under the weight of the huge chandelier, bones broken and organs punctured by the impact. A trail of blood that had trickled from his mouth was now dry.

He pictured the circumstances in his head, their assassin exercising patience, maybe even enjoying the show. He’d have been dressed in the standard uniform for theatre staff, black camouflage. No one would have thought to look at him. Behind the scenes he most likely sat, waiting for his moment with a knife in hand, more his style than scissors, and ready to slash the rigging. Plan could almost feel his exhilaration as the scene built to it’s precipice, heart thumping loud in his ears. Then, right there, the wires were cut, the chandelier fell and a man died. The phantom of his own opera.

It was fitting.

It was theatrical.

It was in London.

Plan looked up from the corpse trying to contain his exhilaration. He met the eyes of the detective and Gun in turn, forcing his face to look solemn.

“It was him.”

*

Mean hadn’t gone far.

Now wearing a svelte navy blue tux, he sat in a little restaurant opposite the theatre by a window. It was one of his favourites, the à la carte menu, embroidered seats and Indian artwork decorating the pink walls a treat for the senses. He had demolished his lobster cocktail starter and was now finishing a main of braised ox cheek accompanied by a bottle of chardonnay.

Before he was able to swallow his last mouthful, his phone rang for the third time in the last half an hour. Again he ignored it, not prepared to have his meal ruined by Zaanook calling to give him a rollicking. This time though, shortly after the call rang off, it was followed by a text message which displayed itself on the screen without him having to open it.

I said SUBTLE.

Mean turned his phone face down, his gaze returning to the theatre entrance.

He’d been watching all night.

The police had arrived first, accompanied by three ambulances which Mean thought excessive for only one corpse. Forensics came next, decked out in their white overalls and on a mission to find evidence that hadn’t been left behind. Mean had focused on his food at that point, he wasn’t interested in them. About twenty minutes ago a black cab had pulled up, peaking his interest. Bingo.

Mean knew that if the operation to catch him had been moved to London, they would be notified of this most recent kill and visit the scene of the crime. He hadn’t been wrong. Annoyingly though, they had taken the side entrance and Mean hadn’t been able to get a good look at their faces. He’d only seen two men in plain clothes and the backs of their heads. He ordered dessert too, they had to come out sometime.

The young assassin had ignored Zaanook’s instructions because he was a thrillseeker. Knowing that there might be special agents navigating London undercover just to find him made his skin tingle, in a good way. Not because he wanted to be found, but because he liked the idea that there were people trying.

Mean’s phone buzzed again, he chanced a quick glance.

Call me, there’s been a development.

No chance, Mean thought, returning his phone to its previous position.

A delicious to look at and still warm sticky toffee pudding was then set down in front of him. Mean looked up at his waitress and flashed her a wide smile.

“Thank you.”

She wasn’t his type, but she didn't need to know that.

Sectioning off a forkful of the oozing dessert, Mean tasted it and marvelled in the way his taste buds exploded. He dipped his second bite in clotted cream and thought he might die. If he believed in heaven, he would imagine this was what it tasted like. Picking up his glass, Mean went to take a sip to wash it down and see if the sugar complimented the crisp sweetness in the wine.

He never got to find out.

Fixating his attention back on the theatre doors, he dropped it.

He saw the two young men he was waiting for exit the building, only one of their faces making his heart skip a beat. It was the face of someone he couldn’t believe was there, a face that hadn’t left his mind since his eyes had first landed on it.

The shock made his chest constrict, made it hard to breathe.

Mean remained frozen and unmoving as his waitress scurried around him to clear up the spilt wine and razor-sharp crystal shards. He stared and stared, taking in every detail of the boy he’d never expected to see again. The slim legs shaped by black jeans, the dark green jumper and the circular rimmed glasses. His raven hair pushed back away from his face, his delicate features soft and sexy at the same time, illuminated by street lamps whilst he tried to hail a cab.

Without thinking and compelled by instinct, Mean pulled a wad of notes from his wallet and chucked them on the table. He grabbed his phone, maneuvering past the waitress still trying to salvage the carpet he’d ruined and darted for the door. Seeing the two men climbing into a taxi, he looked left and right trying to locate one of his own.

It didn't take long, London theatre’s a prime spot to pick up fares.

“Follow that car,” Mean ordered, pulling the backseat door shut in haste.

“Give me an address mate,” said the cabbie.

Mean pulled a small, loaded handgun from his pocket and disengaged the safety, making sure the driver could see every move in his rear view mirror. His expression quickly changed from one of bored indifference to that of sheer terror.

“Jesus! I’m sorry! I’ll do anything you want okay just please, please don’t shoot!”

“Follow that car,” Mean repeated calmly, met by a frantic nod this time instead of a smartass reply, “and don’t make it obvious.”

Fear filled the eyes of the cab driver as he pulled away in pursuit of another.

Another whose fare, in stark contrast, included two polite Thai men in the back asking for advice as to the best places to eat in London. God clearly wasn’t on his side tonight.

Mean’s eyes glittered as he sat in the back, giving instructions as to when to pick up speed and when to hang back until his phone distracted him, vibrating again in his pocket. He retrieved it, ready to switch it off, Zaanook the least of his current problems.

Then he read the message.

Plan Rathavit Kijworalak.

*

Despite their taxi driver having whittled off a number of potential options where they could dine for dinner, Plan and Gun decided to order in.

It was fast approaching midnight, with Harry and Perth already tucked up in bed after being debriefed upon their return.

Plan lay outstretched on the living room floor, rubbing his temples and staring at the ceiling. He looked over at Gun who was already half asleep in a leather armchair.

“Why don’t you head up?” Plan suggested, that position did not look comfortable.

Gun awoke from his nap with a startle, yawning as he straightened his crooked neck. “I think I will, we’ll need to be well rested for tomorrow.”

Plan nodded, still having not quite comprehended the evening’s events. The fact that the man who had eluded them for three years was here, unsuspecting, in the city and soon to be caught. Plan didn't quite know how he was going to switch off in time to sleep, his mind on fire.

He watched as Gun hauled his ass out of the armchair, tummy satisfied and grinning lazily.

“What are you so happy about?” Plan queried.

“The same thing that’s had you biting back a smirk all night.”

That told Plan. He pinned his bottom lip with his teeth, lolling his head to one side to hide said smirk in the carpet. He heard Gun chuckle as he reached the stairs.

“Goodnight, P’Plan.”

“Night,” Plan called back.

Plan stayed where he was for another hour, enjoying the silence as thoughts ricocheted around his brain unfiltered. He contemplated how funny life was sometimes, about the theories surrounding coincidence, destiny and fate, wondering how they’d been so lucky as to have walked straight into the path of the villain they sought.

Plan wasn’t going to let him slip through his fingers this time. Three years of searching and a higher power had thrown them a bone. Now they were closer than they ever had been and Plan wouldn’t take that for granted, planning to capitalise on life’s little gesture of goodwill.

Unconsciously, he found himself smiling, toes curled against the floor.

The bubbling cauldron which was his mind was suddenly interrupted by a faint knock at the front door, so faint that Plan was unsure whether it was real. His head whipped in the direction of the noise, checking the clock on his phone and confirming that it was now ten to one in the morning. Who would knock at this time?

Hesitantly, Plan got to his feet, all of his senses alert and on edge. He crept to the living room window, slowly pulling back a curtain to peer outside.

Nothing.

Just in case he hadn’t imagined it, Plan walked through the hallway until he reached the front door. He removed the chain, steeling himself before opening it a fraction. He spied left and right but there was no one there, only a fox rummaging around by the bins at the front gate. Plan put the interruption down to that, scolding himself for being irrational. He could hear his mother’s voice in his head, the same voice that had despaired when he still hadn’t gotten over his fear of ghosts by his late teens.

About to pull the door shut, Plan’s eyes landed upon the ground. Or more specifically, a white, rectangular shaped box left upon their doormat.

Plan frowned at it, the hairs at the nape of his neck stood on end. Surely a delivery at this time would be unusual in any country...

Unlatching the door, Plan opened it properly. He reached down and picked up the box, holding it at arms length whilst examining the stamped logo on the front. He only understood one of the words, written in spiralled typography.

It made his blood run cold.

Bakery.

Swallowing hard, his mouth bone dry, Plan flicked the top of the box open.

The contents shook him to the core.

Inside the box were twelve freshly glazed doughnuts of a variety of types and flavours. Iced rings, chocolate sprinkles, custard fillings and cherry frostings, all deliciously arranged so that no two of the same sat next to each other.

Plan stood stock still, not blinking, not moving, not breathing. His heart fluttered behind his rib cage.

With a trembling hand, Plan removed the note that was pinned to the inside lid, his own initials stamped on the side presented to him. Turning it over, Plan’s eyes widened on a gasp.

The personalised message had been handwritten in Thai and comprised only three words, carefully selected just for him.

Game on, Phi.

Chapter 3: if boys are a crime then i'm under arrest.

Chapter Text

Four sleep deprived men stood eyeballing the box of sweet treats as though if they touched it, they might just burst into flames.

Plan had roused all of them from their slumbers, Gun on the border of dreams and the other two dead to the world. All eyes looked on in silence, now wide awake and trying to comprehend this new, unexpected development.

“Well,” Perth spoke first, hesitantly clearing his throat, “we don’t know for sure it was him…”

Plan fixed him with a death glare.

“Who else is it likely to be?” Harry countered, expression a picture of seriousness and raking his fingers back through blonde curls.

“Jesus,” Gun muttered under his breath, “he knows where we live.”

“He knows my fucking name!” Plan reiterated, gesturing to the note delivered with the untouched doughnuts, all twelve still sitting pretty in their casing.

“This isn’t good guys,” Perth said, chewing the inside of his cheek.

“Isn’t it?” Plan replied sarcastically. “Gee, thanks Sherlock, I hadn’t noticed.”

“We’re gonna have to tell P’New,” Gun cut in calmly, the voice of reason amongst the tension, “maybe he can have us transferred to a safe house or something.”

Plan observed the sombre nods both Perth and Harry gave, his blood curdling at the thought. He wasn’t going anywhere, not even if they tried to drag him out kicking and screaming by his ankles.

“What are you talking about?! We can’t go to a safe house now, we’re so close to actually finding this guy!”

“Maybe too close!” said Perth. “Our safety is compromised if we stay here.”

“Our safety is always compromised,” Plan reminded them, arching a challenging eyebrow. He took exception to the fact that they seemed to have forgotten that this was their job, the very reason for their undercover operation in the first place.

“Point taken,” Harry muttered, “but this might be a step too far even for us, don’t you think?”

Plan shook his head defiantly. “Isn’t this exactly why we came here?”

“We came here to find him, Plan,” Gun said quietly, counteracting the elder’s increase in volume, “not to have our names added to his hit list.”

Plan met the three pairs of eyes staring at him as though he’d lost his mind. Maybe he had, judging by the amazement written across their faces. It didn’t matter either way. All he knew was that leaving was not an option. Not when the bastard that had kept him awake at night for the past three years was practically on his doorstep, begging to be caught. He wanted him punished for his crimes, for justice to be served by whatever means necessary. However, Plan was not foolish enough to overlook the fact that here, in a foreign country halfway across the world from home, speaking a language that wasn’t his first and trying to adjust to Western formalities, he needed his friends on board for the ride.

“Just hear me out a second, alright? Let’s give it a few days, play it by ear. It’s not like we haven’t got a shedload of weapons to defend ourselves with if he comes knocking again,” Plan motioned to the half-unpacked suitcase New had sent their way, “and honestly, I really don’t think he will. Trust me. He wants to scare us, that’s all.”

“Well he’s done a damn good job of it,” Perth muttered, unconvinced.

“Seriously guys, think about it, he’s an assassin for god’s sake! He’s only going to take us out if he’s given the order by whoever is in charge of him.”

“There is no one in charge of him, he’s a freelancer, remember?” came Harry’s rebuttal. “He’s a serial killer, Plan, let’s not start acting as though this guy refers back to some kind of moral code.”

“Look at the note,” Plan sighed, frustrated and wishing he’d left them all in bed snoring. He retrieved it from the table, holding it at arm’s length for them all to see. “Read it. Go on. It’s not exactly murderous is it? It’s bored, he’s bored and if we can capitalise on that then we might just get him this time!”

“So what do you suggest we do then?” Perth asked, arms folded.

“I don’t want to sound like a teacher’s pet, but we definitely have to tell P’New,” Gun repeated tentatively, “he’ll kill us himself if he finds out we’ve kept this from him.”

“Leave P’New to me,” Plan nodded reluctantly, “I’ll speak to him.”

A heavy silence fell over the room as they all looked between each other, deciding whether the thrill of the chase was worth putting their lives on the line. Plan wondered why it was even up for debate. Whether they would admit it or not, none of them would be in this job if they didn’t get a kick out of danger.

“Fine, fine I’m in,” Harry sighed, the first to relent with his hands up in defeat.

“Fine!” Perth piped up, quickly following suit, “but if I die on the back of this decision, I swear to god I’ll come back and haunt you and I won’t be one of those fun ghosts either.”

The thought made Plan shiver but he nodded all the same. “Deal.”

“So,” Gun said, taking a deep breath, “what’s the plan?”

Plan grinned, a cunning look in his eye as he glanced between his reluctant team and the fresh doughnuts unconsciously making his mouth water. He approached the box and selected one, a ring smothered in strawberry icing and sprinkles. Putting it to his lips, he took a huge bite of the sugar rush before offering them all a sticky, devious smile.

“Boys, grab yourself a snack and buckle up. If this guy wants a game, then let’s show him how to play.”

*

Mean squinted weary ears open on a groan, almost certain it was too early. He’d been buzzing with so many endorphins last night that he hadn’t drifted off until the birds had started singing just before dawn.

Before he could roll over and catch a few more hours sleep, the source of its interruption in the first place became all too evident. The metal barrel was cold against his temple. Tensing instinctively, he focused his gaze on the holder of the gun to his head.

“You wouldn’t,” he croaked, voice still hoarse.

“Give me one good reason,” Zaanook said through gritted teeth, pushing the weapon hard into his skull, “give me one good reason why I shouldn’t blow your brains out right here.”

“Erm, because without me you’d have no friends?”

Zaanook disengaged the safety.

“Because you’d miss me too much?” Mean smirked.

“I explicitly asked you to keep it low key and you casually disobeyed me, AGAIN.”

Mean observed the genuine rage colouring the face of his boss crimson. The way the folds of his eyes wrinkled with stress, the irises blazing with fire and the gun shaking in his hand all proof that he was indeed furious. He still had the audacity to grin, knowing that he wouldn’t shoot. He never did. Mean decided to throw in a sweetener all the same. Just because he was nice like that.

“Because you won’t want to pull that trigger when I tell you what I found out last night.”

Zaanook’s head cocked in suspicion, lowering the gun just a little. “What?”

“Plan Rathavit Kijworalak,” Mean said gleefully, elongating each syllable of his name and relishing the way it rolled off his tongue.

“Oh so you do read my texts then?!” Zaanook exclaimed. “Yes, the agent who is out there somewhere hunting you down as we speak, which is precisely why what you did at the theatre last night justifies these bullets I’m gonna lodge in your stupid, reckless head!”

“Not out there somewhere,” said Mean, pleased as punch with himself. “Right here, in London. You won’t believe it P but I found him.”

“You did what?!” Zaanook asked, voice incredulous as he carelessly discarded the loaded gun down on the bed and shifted to sit cross-legged next to Mean.

“Not on purpose. It was a coincidence I swear. He came to the theatre to investigate after the hit last night, I recognised his face.”

“How?”

“We’ve met before. Sort of. He was in the Bureau the day I took out that Thai kid. I told you sending me home was a bad idea, you literally sent me straight into the path of the guy leading the operation to trace me. Thanks for that.”

“Does he know who you are?! Did he see you?!”

“Don’t be stupid P, give me some credit.”

“So what happened?”

“I followed him home - ”

“Don’t tell me you slept with him?!”

“Of course I didn’t! What do you take me for?” Mean scolded, thinking better of confessing that he had, however, left a little gift behind for him. “They’re staying in Brixton. Shabby looking place. There’s at least two of them. You’d think Special Branch would have given them somewhere a bit more glamorous to stay.”

“They are supposed to be undercover.”

“Supposed being the operative word,” Mean said, clicking his tongue.

“Look at you,” Zaanook shook his head, “you think you’re so bloody clever.”

“I am,” Mean said, accompanying the shrug of his shoulders with a cheeky wink. “So, are you going to let me get dressed now or do you still plan on shooting the best assassin on your books?”

“This is a good development,” Zaanook said, voice reluctantly impressed, “and it almost makes up for your foolishness yesterday.”

“Almost?”

“I’m not giving you any kills for a while. I want you to lay low, d’you hear me? I’ll put my feelers out for information to see if we can find out who else is part of their team, see what more we can find out about Plan. The source at Special Branch who told us his name might be convinced to spill a few more details when I put this gun to good use.”

“So what do you want me to do until then?”

“You go back to Brixton, stay out of trouble and for Christ’s sake don’t kill anyone. For now, I just want you to watch him.”

“Don’t worry,” Mean reassured, stretching his arms out on a sleepy yawn, “I intend to.”

*

Plan wandered around a local supermarket, filling a basket full of unhealthy snacks he was unaccustomed to. Branded bars of chocolate, packets of chips and gummy sweets all mixed in with some fruit to make him feel better about it. He needed brain food.

Discussions back at the house had been tense.

So much so that he could almost smell the heady combination of fear and excitement as it radiated off his friends whilst they conspired together, always ending up back at square one. Some of the theories banded about had sounded outrageous even to his ears, Perth’s suggestion that their taxi driver home should be a suspect being one of them. Plan had never seen a whiter man in his life.

They had trawled through the events of the evening before, retracing their steps and reminding each other of every new face they had come into contact with. None of them had matched the description they were working to and Plan couldn’t hide his irritation. Why were they always one step behind? This guy knew about their mission and now also their whereabouts, yet still Plan and his team knew virtually nothing. An echo of a man.

It must be nice, Plan thought, to feel that god damn comfortable leading from the front in this race.

As Plan navigated the aisles in the store, he felt different from everyone else there. He couldn’t relate to them as they went about their daily lives, grocery shopping just another chore before they went back to families, office jobs and mundanity in general. He felt almost superior as walked amongst them disguised as a normal person, hiding his exhilaration in plain sight.

Plan had left the house because he’d been physically unable to sit still, tapping his foot, biting his nails and pacing the room even once the others had crashed out, cat napping to make up for the earlier hours they had lost. Arriving at a fridge full of canned refreshments, Plan chucked a pack of four energy drinks into his basket. To him, sleep currently felt like an unnecessary hinderance to the progress, or lack thereof, they were making.

Spying the long queue he was forced to join, Plan sighed, politely standing in line to wait when his phone began vibrating in his back pocket. He grimaced upon seeing the caller ID, this not a conversation he particularly wanted to have. Begrudgingly, he answered all the same. Best to get it over with.

“Hello P’New.”

“So I hear there is something you’ve got to tell me?” his boss said, cutting to the chase.

“Jesus, does good news travel fast or what? Which one of those snakes back at the house told you that?”

“Gun texted to say I should call, so you better spill and make it good because there’s a mountain of paperwork on my desk that I desperately need an excuse to avoid looking at.”

“Our man is in London,” Plan confided, biting his lower lip upon hearing the sharp intake of breath at the other end of the line, “and he knows where we’re based. Don’t ask me how cause’ I haven’t got a clue, but he knows.”

New remained silent for a few moments.

“Not bad for under three days work,” he eventually muttered, sounding deep in thought. Plan could almost see the dilemma painted across his face. “What do you want to do?”

“What d’you think? I want to sit tight and catch this fucker.”

“And the others?”

“They are less convinced.”

“Hmm. I can have you moved if that’s what you want?”

“That’s the last thing I want,” Plan said hurriedly, “I just need you to reassure the others, make them see that it makes sense to stay and wait it out, see if he comes to us.”

“I can’t force them to stay Plan, not if they don’t feel safe.”

“I didn’t say force, did I? I mean work your magic and put them at ease. Seriously P, if I thought it was that risky then I wouldn’t ask but honestly, the more I think about it, the more I get the impression that you lot back home might be in more danger than us right now anyway.”

“What makes you say that?”

“He knows my name, P’New. Who could have told him that, huh? Whoever he works for must have sources inside HQ and that means we’ve got a problem. I think… ” Plan took a deep breath, preparing to divulge the one theory he had yet to speak out loud, “I think there might be a mole inside the building.”

“Everyone here thinks the operation has been shut down.”

“Call it a hunch. Just look into it, yeah?”

“Of course I will. You guys stay where you are for now, if the situation changes, call me immediately. Use the equipment I sent and don’t try to be a hero, okay? You know as well as I do that this guy has no mercy.”

“I will,” Plan said, “we’ll keep working. Let me know if anything new comes to light.”

“Will do, catch you later and don’t forget, you’re one of my best men and I want you back here in one-piece d’you hear me?”

“I’ll do my best. In a bit.”

No sooner had Plan put the phone down, advancing slowly towards the cashier as the queue moved at a snail’s pace in front of him, did it ring again still in hand. This time, Plan grinned upon seeing the caller.

“Hi sis, thanks for calling back.”

“What do you want brother? I’m right in the middle of de-coding a hacking programme.”

“Geek,” Plan teased, rolling fond eyes, “I need you to do me a favour.”

“Go on…”

“Can you organise a graphology analysis for me?”

“Sure, not usually your style though. Something up?”

“Sort of,” Plan admitted, deciding against revealing too many details at this stage. He knew what Prim was like. He could practically see her barging straight into management offices to demand his immediate return home. “I was sent a note last night and I need to know as much as I can about who wrote it. Gotta be worth a shot.”

“Send me over a snap and I’ll get it sent off.”

“Thanks sis, I owe you one.”

“How’s it all going down there in the Big Apple?”

“I’m in London, the Big Apple is New York.”

“Whatever, you know what I mean.”

“Erm,” Plan hesitated, choosing his words carefully, “well there’s definitely a lot going on, I’ll give it that.”

“Have you checked out any of the bars yet? I hear the nightlife there is worth a look.”

“I’m here to work Prim, not party.”

“I didn’t think that would stop any of you lot!”

Plan smiled to himself. She had a point, their department always had upheld a notorious reputation for their mid-week late night antics. Plan himself rarely attended, preferring to bow out early and spend a few hours working from home. It was always fun hearing the stories the next day though, the only fresh face in the office amongst a sea of hungover colleagues.

“Can’t say I’m not tempted right now, I really need to unwind. It’s been all work and no play here so far.”

“Well I’m sure if you take Perth with you he’ll show you how to have a good time. I must admit I’m a little jealous, I’ve always wanted to see London.”

“I think I’d rather work than go out with Perth again any time soon.”

“You’re always such a fun sponge.”

“Well, I learnt from the best.”

“Hey! Just because I take my job seriously that doesn’t mean I don’t know how to let my hair down once in a while. I’m almost certain that I have more fun than you after dark.”

“I don’t even wanna know what you’re implying by that.”

“Well lucky for you I’m not planning on telling! Listen, I gotta go, but seriously, take the night off and I’ll get this analysis back to you by the morning.”

“That’ll be great. Thanks.”

“See you soon, bro!”

“Oh, and Prim?” Plan hesitated.

“Yeah?”

“Stay safe, won’t you?”

“Ugh, don’t be soppy! Have a good night, don’t do anything I wouldn’t do!”

When Prim hung up, Plan wondered what options that left him with. He thought about her suggestion, eyeing the full basket he held in hand and the queue which had only served two customers throughout both of his conversations.

On a sudden whim of spontaneity he abandoned the groceries on the ground, feet carrying him straight out of the supermarket and in the direction of the nearest glass of something strong.

*

Mean had found himself the perfect surveillance spot.

He sipped an overpriced cappuccino, pretending to read a newspaper whilst waiting for Plan to reappear from the store he had entered. The independent coffee shop was modern, decked out with furniture made from varnished wood and serviced by hipster baristas desperately trying to fool people into thinking they were something they weren’t. Paintings by local artists hung on every wall and the cocoa beans were Fairtrade, which was perhaps why they were also extortionate. He had managed to blend in seamlessly amongst them, just another repressed inner-city office worker willing to pay the extra for their caffeine rush just so long as it meant not switching the kettle on themselves. God forbid.

Just in case Plan happened to glimpse him, the assassin had made sure that he looked unrecognisable from their brief meeting in Thailand. That day he’d been sporting a fresh face and a white overcoat, not dissimilar to the scientists based at the Bureau who spent their days running tests and matching prints and analysing DNA samples.

Normal had always been his best disguise.

Today was a little different, his appearance a careful balance between chic and metrosexual with just a hint of edgy thrown in for good measure.

Waiting for Plan to emerge from his Brixton residence had taken up so much of his afternoon that at one point he had almost given up, assuming that he would not be leaving the house today. Probably too scared after receiving his present last night, Mean had thought, the corners of his mouth upturned with delight at the idea. Before he could get too cocky though, as if only to prove that he wasn’t a coward, Plan had suddenly swung the front door open.

Mean had sprung into action, sliding down in the front seat of his Mercedes even though it had tinted windows and spying through the windscreen. Plan hadn’t hung about, jogging in the direction of the high street and completely oblivious to the man who quickly began to tail him on foot.

Mean had worked out now exactly why Plan fascinated him.

Over the years, people had always tried to track him down, those who wanted to hire him and those who wanted him behind bars both constantly competing for his attention. This was different. His interest in Plan did not centre around the manhunt he was heading up.

The casual clothes he was wearing today had helped the penny to drop. The plain white tee and the denim jeans that reminded the assassin so much of memories back home he’d long since displaced. It wasn’t because he was an agent, or because he was attractive, or because Mean was a sucker for a dangerous game.

It was because Plan reminded him of someone.

Someone who had once been his world.

The very first someone that Mean had ever killed.

*

Plan sat at the bar nursing a whiskey and coke on the rocks.

Taking a sip, he kept his eyes on the large cabinet of alcohol bottles behind the bartender to avoid attracting any unwanted attention. Naively, he hadn’t thought to check before he’d entered. Acutely aware that he looked an easy target, the dimly lit space was full of single men eyeing each other up between casual conversation. There was something immoral about it, an unspoken understanding between them all. Three of them had already approached him, offering to buy him a drink to which he’d replied that he already had one, thank you very much. The second had even left his card behind, his ulterior motives perfectly clear.

Plan had no intention of calling.

He didn’t even know why he’d come here.

He stared into his glass as though it was a crystal ball, looking for answers to a multitude of questions. What he was doing halfway across the world looking for an assassin who didn’t have a face, how he was ever going to get justice for Captain, what had possessed him to hide out in a dive like this, just a few of many.

He drained the rest of his drink, slamming the empty glass back on the counter before slumping against it himself, head in his hands.

“Want another?”

Great. Fan-fucking-tastic. What did a guy have to do to get a little peace around here?

Plan sighed, turning to look at the stranger pulling up the stool beside him without an invitation. Even though he had spoken in English, he looked Asian. Korean at a guess and most likely a tourist. There were lots of them around Central London and Plan liked to see it. It made this cold and dreary place feel that little bit more like home to see faces that looked like his every now and then.

“No thanks, I’m just leaving.”

“That’s a shame. There are a lot of guys in here hoping to leave with you.”

If Plan had been drinking, he would have spat his mouthful everywhere but as it was, he choked on nothing but air. He was pretty sure he hadn’t misunderstood.

“Excuse me?”

When the man smiled, Plan’s mind forced him to acknowledge that he was quite handsome. He couldn’t have been older than twenty-five, his skin clear and features sharp but there was something about his eyes that was exceptionally alluring. They were cold, almost shark-like and Plan couldn’t help but feel that he’d seen them somewhere before.

“Where are you from?” the man asked.

“Sorry, do I know you?”

“Not yet,” he shook his head, hair sprayed a metallic shade of silver, “but you can if you want.”

Plan eyed him in concentration, his face familiar but for reasons he could not place. Maybe he was famous and Plan had seen his picture somewhere, either online or maybe on television. Not that he watched much television these days. The clothes he was dressed in, a black suit paired with a white shirt, looked expensive. There was no tie, his first few buttons undone and exposing a strip of smooth chest.

“Are you going to answer my question?”

Plan’s wandering eyes swooped back up to his face. Clearing his throat, he hoped that he hadn’t been caught looking. “Uh… what was it again?”

“Where are you from?” the man repeated, not missing a beat. If he had noticed he didn’t say anything but Plan felt compelled to continue just in case.

“What makes you think I’m not from here?”

“Your accent,” he smirked.

Plan frowned. He had been trying to work on that. The man talking to him was perfectly fluent, colloquial as though he had been born here. Maybe he was half British.

“Sorry,” he muttered, eyes down on the fidgeting hands in his lap, “I’m from Thailand. I’ve not been here long.”

“Don’t be sorry,” the man said. To Plan’s surprise, when he continued, the next sentence he spoke was in a language he had a solid grasp on. “It’s sexy.”

“You can speak Thai?!” Plan asked in his mother tongue, excited at the prospect of being able to talk to someone new without worrying whether they could understand him.

“I can speak everything.”

“Woah, arrogant much?”

“Forgive me,” the man grinned. “Can I get you that drink?”

Plan weighed up his prospects, deciding the offer more attractive than going home to either argue with his frazzled housemates or spend the night staring at the ceiling again. He nodded once, watching with interest at the man switched seamlessly back to English and ordered him another whiskey as well as one for himself. Maybe he was a model, his face perhaps subconsciously scored into Plan’s mind after seeing it on magazine covers.

“So,” he said in Thai, turning his attention back to Plan, “what brings you here?”

“To the bar or the country?”

The man chuckled, flashing perfectly straight teeth. “Either. Both.”

“Work brought me to London. To the bar, I still don’t know.”

“Did you get lost?”

Plan shook his head.

“Looking for company?”

“No,” Plan said hurriedly, “I’m not gay.”

“Ah, well then you really are in the wrong place.”

“Are you?” Plan found himself asking, his lips moving before his brain had permitted it. “Sorry, you don’t need to answer that if you don’t want to.”

The man’s smirk lit up his eyes and sent a shudder down Plan’s spine. He waited a few moments before replying, feline eyes smouldering, outlined in black kohl. Very few men in this country wore makeup but this one’s face made no attempt to hide its application. His eyeliner was thick around monolids and his full lips were stained with a strawberry red balm yet somehow, he still managed to look masculine. He stood out like a sore thumb amongst the crowd and judging by the way he carried himself, Plan got the impression that it was intentional.

“Sometimes.”

“What does that mean?” Plan queried, “you’re bisexual?”

“It means I fuck whoever I want.”

Plan took a swig of the fresh drink that had been placed in front of him, his mouth suddenly dry. Why did people in this country have to be so impolite?

“I see,” he muttered.

“I like people who make me feel good, it’s irrelevant to me what they’ve got between their legs.”

“Yep, okay I got it. No need to elaborate.”

“You asked,” the man grinned.

“I know. My bad.”

Plan sensed the eyes boring into him out of the corners of his own, looking him up and down like a cat with a mouse dangled in front of it. The other man was the first to speak again.

“So if you’re not gay, then what are you?”

“I’m nothing,” Plan shrugged, hoping his voice sounded nonchalant, “I just needed a drink.”

The man let out a knowing sigh. “You do know it’s okay, right?”

“What is?”

“If you’re a little… curious. You aren’t the first straight guy to have wondered what it’s like and you won’t be the last.”

“Wondered what what’s like?”

“What if feels like to get hit on by other men.”

“If this is what it’s like then I won’t be back,” Plan said sarcastically, “and please don’t pretend like you know anything about me because you don’t.”

“Ouch!” the man laughed, holding a hand to his chest as though Plan had sunk a dagger into it. “Well that’s me told huh? Who says I’m hitting on you anyway?”

Plan took another gulp of whiskey, feeling a little light-headed as it was. He looked up through his lashes at the mysterious stranger who didn’t seem the lightest bit offended by his rudeness.

“Are you not?”

The man pinned his lower lip with his teeth, biting back a smile. “I’m still deciding.”

“Were you going to?”

“Well, you are very hot.”

“Flattery won’t work on me,” Plan scoffed.

“I’m not trying to flatter you. I’m just calling it as I see it.”

“Maybe you should buy yourself some glasses then.”

“I appreciate the concern but I’ll have you know I’ve got 20/20 vision.”

Plan wondered why this man was wasting his time on him, almost certain that he could have his pick of the entire bar if he wanted. Even when he didn’t reply, he seemed content to sit there with him in silence, taking an occasional sip of his drink. Plan’s skin grew warmer as he watched him, the whiskey flush heating his blood a welcome sensation. He began to feel less uptight, tense muscles relaxing the more units he consumed. Sneaking glances at the man’s attire, he eyed the designer labels whose names meant nothing to him.

“What do you do?” he asked, wondering how he had made his obvious fortune.

“I work in business,” the man replied, tilting his head coyly, “preying on other men’s weaknesses and all that.”

“Any big deals coming up?”

“I wouldn’t know, I’ve been on a break for a while. What about you?”

“Government,” Plan replied, hoping he wasn’t asked for specifics. It wasn’t exactly a lie.

“Do you enjoy it?”

“Does anyone enjoy work?”

“That depends.”

“On what?”

“On the profession, obviously.”

“I don’t think you should ever make your hobbies your job, it takes all the fun out of it.”

“Oh I don’t know,” the man said, his smile flirtatious, “I can think of a few hobbies I’d be happy to make a career out of.”

“You mean like converting straight guys to the dark side?”

Plan had intended it to be a joke but even to his own ears, its delivery had been poorly executed. The man’s magnetic eyes raked over him slowly, smirk turning them into crescent moons. Plan felt his cheeks burn scarlet. Crossing his legs awkwardly, the feelings that stirred within him were unfamiliar.

“I’ve never converted anyone in my life,” the man informed him.

“Pfft, yeah I believe you,” Plan said, rolling his eyes.

“I don’t!” he grinned, “I just talk to people and they convert themselves.”

“Wow. Who was it that blessed you with an ego that size?”

The silver-haired man downed the rest of his drink, shrugging innocently. The look on his face was playful, a mischievous glint in his eyes. Plan liked it, it made them look warmer.

“The converted?”

As the man’s smile slowly stretched from ear to ear, revealing gleaming white teeth, Plan’s cheeks hurt from where his own face unconsciously mirrored the expression.

*

Mean couldn’t believe how easy it had been.

He’d charmed many a secret agent in his time but this one had been exceptionally forthcoming. Getting Plan to talk had been like taking candy from a baby. He knew pretty much everything about him now. Where he’d grown up in Bangkok, the university he’d studied at, the music he liked and the name of his sister. He preferred cats to dogs, didn’t eat fish with bones in and his favourite colour was green.

He’d also disclosed what Mean already knew, that he was in London looking for an assassin.

I could get fired you know, just for telling you that.

Don’t worry, your secret’s safe with me.

You know you kind of match the description… haven’t killed anyone lately by any chance have you?

Not yet, although maybe I should start soon! You got any tips? Definitely sounds more fun than the office!

The way Plan had opened up had convinced Mean that he was lonely as hell, married to the job and in dire need of someone to talk to. He’d taken advantage without needing to use the emergency rohypnol stashed in his inside pocket as a back-up plan, a more than willing pair of ears. By the time Plan was done telling his life story, Mean was half tempted to tell him that the assassin he sought was sitting right in front of him just to see the look on his pretty little face.

He had refrained. Somehow.

The only disadvantage to plying Plan with alcohol was that now Mean was practically carrying him out of the bar, an arm wrapped around his waist to support his slim frame. The night air was chilly which Mean approved of, hoping it might sober his little problem up as he walked them towards a quiet side street. Plan kept giggling foolishly into the crook of his neck, and Mean couldn’t deny that it turned him on a bit every time his lips accidentally grazed the sensitive skin there.

“I think I’m drunk,” Plan slurred.

Mean chuckled, holding him back when he tried to walk out into the middle of the road. The driver of the car that nearly made mincemeat out of him honked their horn loudly, shouting obscenities as they drove past.

“Oh, you think?”

“You’re really tall,” Plan said absent-mindedly, hazy eyes looking up at him as Mean glanced left and right, making sure any oncoming traffic had passed before he crossed with Plan in tow.

“Or maybe you’re just short.”

“Hey!” Plan said between hiccups which rather took the impact out of his insulted expression, “you’re supposed to compliment me back.”

“Commenting on my height is not a compliment.”

“Yeah it is! I wish I were taller, you should be more grateful.”

Mean then rescued Plan a second time when upon finishing his sentence, he tripped on the curb and nearly fell face first into concrete. He pulled him back up into a vertical position, Plan’s arm loosely wrapped around his shoulders.

“Jesus, are you always such a lightweight?”

“Do you always make a habit of getting unsuspecting guys drunk?”

Mean scoffed out loud, not missing it when Plan placed his hand over the one of his own strategically situated on his hip, swaying as they walked.

“Don’t make it sound like I forced it down your throat.”

Mean came to a stop at a darkened corner where there were no streetlamps, the young man under his arm badly humming a pop song in English that had been playing in the bar.

“Give me your phone,” Mean said, holding out his hand.

“What for?” Plan asked, looking up at him curiously through long lashes.

“So I can book you an Uber.”

“Hmph,” Plan relented, the look on his face one of a man who didn’t know what was good for him. “S’in my back pocket.”

Mean retrieved it for him, restraining the urge to grab a handful of his pert backside and instead using his fingertips to pull it out by a corner. Never let it be said that he wasn’t a gentleman. He tapped the black glass with his thumb, bringing the device to life and observing his lock screen background.

“Did you draw this?”

“Yup! Sometimes my head is so full of shit, so wired,” Plan rambled, “helps me to relax.”

“Nice work,” Mean nodded, his tone genuine, “password?”

Plan’s face pulled into a comedic frown, thinking desperately. Mean watched him through rolling eyes as he held up an imaginary phone in his own hand, tapping out the numbers from muscle memory.

“One, nine, zero, two.”

Mean entered the digits, banking them for future reference. Sighing internally, he wondered if these were the poor specimens Special Branch recruited these days. He had hoped for better.

“Your birthday.”

Suspicious eyes narrowed. “Yeah, how did you know?”

“Educated guess,” Mean lied. “You told me you were a Pisces.”

“I don’t remember telling you that.”

“I’m not surprised, you won’t remember any of this by the morning.”

“True,” Plan laughed.

He had a nice smile. A smile that twisted Mean’s heart.

“God, you really remind me so much of someone.”

“Should I be flattered?”

“I thought flattery didn’t work on you?”

“Hasn’t stopped you from trying though.”

Mean only smirked and pulled up the Uber app, setting their location and entering Plan’s address without bothering to ask him for it, highly doubting that he would question it given his current state. Whilst Plan wasn’t looking, attention focused solely on trying to kick an empty coke can up the street, Mean pulled up his settings and made a quick alteration to his account. Reopening the app, just to be on the safe side, he changed the subject whilst waiting to be assigned a driver.

“I’m still waiting for my compliment.”

The assassin liked the way Plan’s face changed, the intoxicated glee plastered all over it suddenly replaced by a devilish twinkle in his dark irises. Mean waited patiently whilst Plan pressed his lips together, looking over his face as though mulling over his options. Mean already knew what he was going to say.

It was always the eyes.

“You have a good mouth,” Plan suddenly answered, emphasising his point by pushing an index finger against it.

“Erm,” Mean tried, his attempt to speak muffled. “I’m sorry?”

“Fleshy,” Plan explained, pouting his own into a smooch. “Like a fish.”

Mean stared at the puckered mouth of the young Thai agent whose inebriation had become his problem because it was his fault. He glanced down at the phone in his hand, memorising the number plate of the driver on his way. Three minutes and counting.

That would do nicely.

Plan made a sound that Mean loved when he shoved him back against the brick wall they were waiting by. A sharp intake of breath that was taken by surprise except Plan didn’t push his advances away when Mean crowded him there, an arm either side of his head. Wide eyes looked down to where their hips were pressed together before locking bravely back on his own.

“Are you gonna kiss me?” Plan whispered.

Mean almost purred, a hunter with his prey cornered. “Thought you didn’t do guys?”

“I don’t,” Plan shook his head, “but if I want you to, does that make me not straight?”

“No,” Mean replied, voice low, “it makes you like everyone else.”

“Cocky son of a bitch,” Plan said, his laugh a little shaky. “It’s… it’s just the whiskey, right?”

“Mhmm,” Mean hummed, inclining his head so that his breath ghosted over the shell of Plan’s ear. He felt the young man shiver, yet another victim under his spell. “You can tell yourself that if it makes you feel better.”

“I - I don’t even know your name,” Plan pointed out, arching back a little when Mean’s lips almost touched his neck.

“What do you want it to be?”

“I don’t… I’ve never…”

Mean enjoyed watching him squirm, Plan’s body and brain at war with themselves, shaking his head whilst pushing hips against him at the same time. Mean was pleased to discover the growing erection between his legs seemed bigger than the rest of him.

“Yet you’re still hard.”

The assassin assumed his prey had lost its voice when no response was offered to him. He kept his eyes glued to Plan’s face, observing the way he stopped blinking, breathing soon following suit. Their lips millimetres apart, Mean purposefully glanced down at Plan’s mouth to tempt him. Just for his own entertainment.

When it worked, Plan pushing up on his toes, Mean nudged him back against the wall.

“Uh uh,” he murmured sensually, “I don’t kiss drunk boys.”

Plan dismissed the rejection, leaning in again only to be halted by a firm hand against his chest. Mean watched the smile fall from his mouth.

“Are you actually serious?” he asked in disbelief.

Mean almost took pity on him, the look of disappointment that wrote itself across his sweet face so childish. A toddler whose ice cream had just been stolen.

“You’ve been chatting me up all night,” Plan accused incredulously, “flirting, gawping, buying my drinks and you aren’t even gonna kiss me?!”

Mean just shrugged, letting the arms that had Plan trapped fall to his sides. “Maybe next time.”

“Fucking dickhead,” Plan muttered hotly, pushing him hard by the shoulders in a feeble attempt to hide his embarrassment, “and you had the nerve to call me a tease?”

Mean stumbled back, still grinning as Plan began to storm off in the direction of nowhere and nearly walked into a lamppost.

“Don’t you want your phone?” he called after him.

Reluctantly, his face a picture of stubbornness, Plan turned on his heels and walked back toward him, snatching it out of his outstretched hand before resuming his dramatic exit.

“Oh, and Phi?”

“What?!” Plan yelled, pinning him with a fierce stare.

The assassin pointed to a car that had pulled up along the sidewalk, a black Toyota Prius flashing its headlights at them. Mean pinned his lower lip with his teeth, biting back his excitement.

“That’s your cab by the way.”

As Plan climbed into the waiting car, the kiss Mean blew his way in farewell was returned only by the angry extension of a middle finger.

Chapter 4: all you've got to do is say my name.

Chapter Text

Plan didn’t remember actually getting home but somehow he’d made it there.

He woke in his own bed, collapsed on top of the blankets still fully dressed. His head was pounding when he finally braved daylight, squinting his eyes open. Vague snippets of the night before flashed back to him, reddening his cheeks even in the privacy of his own room. He could still make out the man’s distinctive face as if it had been scored into the backs of his eyelids. The heat of his gaze in the bar, his touch in the alleyway. Plan quivered. He could remember the desire that had swept him up in those moments, a sensation he’d never been so overwhelmed by before. His stomach turned over twice, the first time upon remembering his own misplaced confidence and the second, reliving the humiliation of being rejected on the spot.

Swinging his legs out of bed, he tried sitting upright before thinking better of it when the whole room spun and made him feel nauseous. As his battered liver debated whether or not to empty his insides out onto the carpet, Plan tried to recall what he had told the handsome stranger whose company he had enjoyed far more than anticipated. The details of their conversation remained hazy but Plan still couldn’t shake the feeling that he had revealed way too much, praying that it wouldn’t come back to bite him in the ass.

Reaching for the phone still safely tucked in his back pocket, Plan groaned upon discovering that it was half past eleven already, a whole morning’s work wasted. Sighing, he tapped in his password.

Incorrect PIN entered.

Assuming his thumb had slipped, he inputted the numbers again.

Incorrect PIN entered.

“Huh?” he muttered to himself, brow wrinkling into a frown.

He tried a third time, the warning only re-appearing as though he was a fool. Beginning to panic, Plan continued hastily entering the four numbers that made up his birthday, expecting a different result each time. It wasn’t exactly a code he could forget, hungover or not. So why wasn’t it working? After his fifth attempt, the device temporarily locked him out for thirty seconds.

Plan swallowed around his confusion, casting his mind back to the previous evening. He hadn’t changed it himself, that much he knew. He had no reason to and had been far too distracted by the man pursuing him to pay any attention to his phone. It had remained in his pocket throughout the duration of their time spent in the bar. The only time he remembered seeing it was…

Oh shit.

The memories flooded back to him in fragments. Standing on that street corner together, the way the man had complimented the background Plan had sketched before booking a cab on his behalf. Plan cursed himself for being so stupid, remembering how he’d given the code out himself.

Plan sucked in a gulp of air, trying to concentrate as well as calm his racing thoughts. The man had known it was his birthday even though he didn’t recall mentioning that at any point throughout the evening. In fact, they hadn’t touched on birthdays once.

He closed his eyes, straining to remember those last few moments for which he had been at the peak of his drunkenness. He mentally retraced their steps, being pushed against the wall, leaning in for a kiss that he had been denied, running off to avoid his embarrassment. That had been the moment, the stranger calling after him and offering his phone back with a grin plastered all over his face.

Suddenly, the exact words he had used echoed around Plan’s mind.

Oh and Phi? That’s your cab by the way.

Plan’s blood chilled at the memory. He hadn’t thought about it at the time.

Looking at them both, he never would have guessed that he was the elder of the pair.

With the liquid contents of his stomach forcing its way up his throat, Plan bolted for the bathroom where he was one hundred percent sure he was going to be sick and ninety-nine percent sure that he had never told the man his age.

*

Mean sat in a skatepark in Central London under the Westway, locally known as BAYSIXTY6. He was dressed like one of them, loose fitting jeans hung low on his hips accompanied by an oversized hoodie patterned with a graphic design. The walls were covered entirely with graffiti, multi-coloured and artistic in its own way.

He leisurely pushed the skateboard he had borrowed to and fro with his foot, his eyes pinned to a handsome Chinese looking boy who was practicing dropping in to a particularly steep ramp. Mean had watched him fall twice, the second time grazing his elbow badly, the blood still trickling down his arm. Skateboarders were fearless, the odd injury expected and welcomed as the inevitable. Mean had always admired their bravery. The boy he was watching had better luck on his third try, not quite landing the drop but managing to remain on his feet this time when he jumped back onto solid ground.

Deciding to take a break before he became frustrated, the boy picked up the un-cooperative board when it rolled back to his feet and tucked it under an arm, sauntering away to join his group of friends on the half-pipe. Mean stood up then, placing his left foot on his own board and pushing off with the right before he could get too far.

“Hi,” Mean said cheerily, skating to a halt beside him. He pushed his toes against the tip of the deck, raising the far end vertically to grab it with his fingertips.

The boy looked around, eyeing him with uncertainty. “You talking to me?”

“Yeah,” Mean nodded, beckoning back to the ramp his new friend had just left. “You want me to show you how to land that move?”

The dude only scoffed, his face a combination of arrogance and surprise. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen you here before…”

“And?” Mean grinned. “This isn’t the only skatepark in London you know.”

“Maybe not,” came the reply, “but I know all the boarders in London.”

“Nearly all,” Mean corrected.

“So it seems,” the boy smiled warily. “Who are you then?”

“Just a traveller passing through,” Mean shrugged, deciding that he liked his tattoos even more up close. The ones on his neck were especially interesting, made up of jagged edged shapes that looked like runes. “One who can land that drop if you fancy a lesson?”

It took Mean less than half an hour to convince the guy, whose name he soon discovered to be Hai, that there was something he fancied more.

Once back at his apartment, Mean let him discard his skateboard down on his expensive hardwood flooring without complaint, too busy kissing him compliant against a wall in the hallway.

“God, I…” Hai managed between Mean’s persistent mouth, groaning when the latter palmed him hard between the legs, “I’ve never done anything like this before.”

Mean snickered against his lips, having guessed that himself. “You’re really putting my teaching skills to the test today, huh?”

“I think I can work it out,” Hai murmured sensually, parting his lips to let Mean lick between them. “What d’you like? You want me to suck you off?”

Mean let out a low moan when inexperienced hands found the zipper on his jeans, pulling back just out of reach and pinning Hai’s arms.

“I’m going to call you Phi, okay?”

“Okay,” Hai chuckled, “what for? Like a role-play thing?”

“Sort of,” Mean smirked, “are you any good at hide and seek?”

“Haven’t played since I was a kid,” Hai said breathlessly, shaking his head.

“Well we’re going to fix that,” Mean told him, “if you can find me in under five minutes, I’ll give you the night of your life.”

Hai looked him dead in the eye, dark orbs glazed and completely oblivious to Mean’s desire to rid them of their vitality. “What happens if I can’t?”

Mean’s sinful smile stretched from ear to ear. He leant forward, slowly trailing his tongue down Hai’s inked neck and letting it settle against his racing pulse.

“Then,” Mean whispered, nipping there lightly, “I might just have to kill you.”

*

By late afternoon, an unnerved Plan had crawled his way out of bed to join Perth, Gun and Harry downstairs for lunch. They’d had KFC delivered, the offerings of which weren’t hugely different to back home. The fried food had helped cure his hangover somewhat, soaking up the toxins in his system and easing his headache. He had avoided every single one of their questions about what, exactly, he had got up to last night, palming them off with a pack of lies about taking a long walk along the Southbank to see some sights and clear his mind.

They each sat eating a selection of boneless fillets, hot wings and chicken pieces whilst conducting pointless research on their laptops. Research which saw Harry scanning through MI6’s list of most wanted vigilantes, Perth filtering through media archives of the unsolved killings and Gun analysing files of all the known escaped prisoners on record from the last ten years.

Plan himself was procrastinating, combing through his unread e-mails. His mind kept wandering back to his now permanently locked phone. The whole situation gave him the creeps but he wasn’t quite sure why, yet to share details of last night’s events with the group in case they thought his theories irrational or started making wild assumptions about his sexuality which, quite frankly, was none of their business.

Then, as he sat chewing his nails down to the bed, fresh correspondence popped up in his inbox.

From: Primrose Kijworalak
To: Rathavit Kijworalak
Subject: Graphology Analysis Results

His interest snatched, Plan quickly selected the e-mail, bypassing Prim’s joke about hoping his head wasn’t too sore and opening the accompanying attachment.

Graphology Analysis: Ref 184860

Despite the limited text provided, the author appears to depict an excitement in their note. The writing indicates a male hand, the small letters replicating more traditional scripture usually drawn with ink and a quill. However, the bold capital letters making up the recipient’s initials are large and embellished in contrast, seen especially on the curve of the ‘R’, a sign that the writer desires their full attention.

The writing sits on the right side of the paper which indicates a need to seek out the future, rather than hanging on to the past. The text is fairly rapid, right slanted and the pen pressure applied to the page is heavy, suggesting that the author is optimistic, progressive in their ideas and looks to the future with enthusiasm. The pace of the writing signifies a ruthless efficiency that is eager to complete tasks quickly to a satisfactory conclusion. The writer is a quick thinker and their script suggests they enjoy challenging others to keep up with them.

The letters are connected in places and broken in others, displaying a lack of ability to rationalise and a distaste for routine. The writer is clearly confident and no doubt gets along socially with others. Possessing a lively mind, the typographic writing shows they are imaginative and appreciative of visually pleasing aesthetics, although this can also indicate an inclination to act impulsively.

The writer communicates in their script a commitment to flights of fancy, with open ‘O’s and closed ‘E’s suggesting that they are excellent at talking but struggle in turn to listen, the views and opinions of others irrelevant. Areas in which the letters are broken, despite their height and width remaining the same, suggests a conscious decision to separate these. It is therefore possible they might be rebellious against societal norms and view themselves as something of an outsider who refuses to comply. However, it is important to consider how this decision appears purposeful and unapologetic, emphasised by the bold full stop ending their note which is included with the intention of achieving maximum impact.

Upon finishing a first read, Plan then recited it for the rest of the gang, not looking up to see the solemn looks written across their faces until he was done.

“Well,” Perth said with a sigh, breaking the silence, “it was definitely him then.”

“Without a doubt,” Gun nodded, “they’ve got him nailed.”

“It’s crazy how your handwriting can give that much away about your personality,” Harry said, his tone a little cynical. “I’ve never really believed in any of that stuff.”

“Whether you believe or not,” Plan said, “they haven’t told us anything we didn’t already know.”

“The way they’ve worded the analysis is interesting though…” Perth countered, deep in thought and wearing an odd expression. “Almost like he wants to impress you. Like he fancies you.”

“Leave it out!” Plan scolded, kicking a heel into Perth’s thigh.

“He’s right though P,” Gun smirked, “you’ve certainly made an impression!”

“Imagine that, Plan’s got himself a serial killer admirer!” Harry grinned, joining in the fun.

Plan rolled melodramatic eyes as the sound of teasing jeers and wolf-whistles filled the room, wondering when exactly their predicament had become a laughing matter. He curled in his legs, raising his laptop up on his knees until the screen blocked his blushing face from view.

“If that’s true then I hope he kills all of you and lets me watch!”

*

The following day, Mean sat in a restaurant on a date with a very much still alive Hai. Turns out he was excellent at hide and seek and, after a little practice, even better in bed.

Mean had expected him to leave after waking up late in a tangle together but instead his morning glory had only been swiftly attended to before Hai suggested they grab a little brunch. They had both built up quite an appetite and for this reason, Mean found himself agreeing.

That was one thing he had forgotten about skateboarders, they never had anywhere to be.

Not that he was exactly complaining. Beyond his innate good looks, there were things about him Mean found interesting. His enthusiasm and his fearlessness, up for anything regardless of the consequences. Despite never having slept with a man before, he’d let Mean do whatever he wanted to him the whole night and hadn’t complained once.

Mean thought he must be sore in all sorts of places.

The spot they had chosen to eat at was in London Bridge, right opposite The Shard. The tall, triangular shaped building was one of Mean’s favourites, a feat of architecture so impressive that people travelled from all over the world just for a glimpse of it. There was a bar in there on the thirty-first floor that was good for picking up company, it somehow always easier to seduce strangers when overlooking panoramic views of London at night. The glittering cityscape gave people ideas. Thrill-seeking ideas that worked to his benefit, unlocking their potential.

Both now digging in to the dishes they had chosen, for Mean, scrambled eggs on toast with a buttery sauce and Hai, a tower of pancakes topped with fresh fruit, the assassin was almost beginning to enjoy this lying low lark. That was until his eyes landed on a new customer entering the restaurant who he was pretty damn sure wasn’t there to eat. Hai looked up upon hearing Mean’s fork clatter to his plate in annoyance.

“What’s wrong? Is it not good?”

Mean ignored him, eyes rolling as the man sauntered up to their table.

“Well, well, well. Doesn’t this look cosy,” Zaanook remarked, the sarcasm blatant in his tone.

“Can’t you see I’m busy?” Mean said. “I don’t remember ordering you.”

He saw Hai glance between them, sensing the tension as Zaanook pulled up a chair.

“Aren’t you going to introduce me?”

Before Mean could say anything, Hai offered a hand out for him to shake which Zaanook took, the smile on his face a façade, the assassin could tell.

“I’m Hai, I’m Mean’s…”

“Friend.” Mean quickly finished for him.

“I see,” Zaanook nodded on a smirk, “and how long have you two been… friends for?”

“Erm, not long…” Hai said bashfully, glancing to Mean for help. “We met yesterday.”

“Right, right, say no more. I’m Zaanook, Mean freelances for me sometimes.”

“Ah okay! Did you need to talk to him about work? I’m sorry for keeping him busy the last day or so. If you need me to skedaddle for a bit just say.”

“You don’t need to go anywhere,” Mean cut in firmly.

Zaanook looked from Hai to Mean, eyes eventually settling back on the Chinese looking boy.

“Actually, would you mind? A couple of minutes for a quick business chat would be great.”

“Sure, no problem,” Hai nodded co-operatively, “I need to use the gents anyway.”

Mean waited until Hai was well out of sight before he turned his glare in the direction of his boss. He raised both eyebrows, practically daring him to speak.

“I see you’re having fun,” Zaanook frowned, “and how old is he?!”

“Old enough. What’s your problem?”

“You’re supposed to be keeping an eye on the Brixton operation!”

“I am!”

“It looks like it!” Zaanook exclaimed, gesturing to the plates of food decorating the table.

“What? Am I not allowed a lunch break now?”

“Better make sure that’s all it is! I want you back at that house within the hour. If you take the Victoria line it’ll get you there in ten.”

“In that case I’ve got time to finish my food haven’t I, so would you mind getting lost and letting me enjoy my meal in peace.”

“Don’t get distracted Mean. He might be pretty, but we’ve got bigger problems right now.”

“As you keep reminding me.”

“I’m serious. We haven’t got time for you to get besotted over a new boy toy.”

“Besotted?” Mean laughed callously. “As if I would ever.”

“Prove it then. Get rid of him and get back to work.”

Having said his piece, Zaanook grabbed a spare slice of toast from the rack and took a bite out of it, getting to his feet as Hai reappeared from the bathroom. The elder gave him a wave goodbye which Hai returned, oblivious to the mockery behind it as he came back to the table. Re-taking his seat, Hai looked at Mean who was busy watching Zaanook exit the premises the way he had come.

“Is that really your boss?” Hai asked.

“He likes to think so,” Mean replied, sighing to himself.

The grind never stops.

*

MI6 didn’t quite live up to expectations, Plan had to admit.

Their headquarters in Thailand was actually more luxurious. In reality, MI6 was sleek, walls white, floors tiled and security as tight as to be expected but, all in all, it was a typical London office building not dissimilar to those businessmen frequented on a day-to-day basis back at home. The technology wasn’t as fancy either, the desk cubicles manned by old fashioned computers unlike the lavish up-to-date models he was used to.

Harry had granted them access into the building even though they were forced to wear lanyards around their necks exposing them as visitors at all times. He had led them up to the eleventh floor, the lifts large and spacious which was a relief. Plan had never been a fan of tight spaces.

So far they had been introduced to six people and counting, which had proved a tax on Plan’s still mediocre English skills. One had been a ginger-haired Irishmen who Plan hadn’t understood a word of, still hoping that all of his appropriately placed nods and smiles had been in the right place. He was grateful to have Gun and Harry there, both able to translate in hindsight.

Another had been Harry’s boss, a pale faced white woman who looked to be in her early forties. She had been easier to understand, her words clear and well-pronounced without being too fast. Her blonde hair was cut into a bob and she had a nice smile, even though the dark circles around her eyes made it look as though she hadn’t got a wink of sleep in weeks. Her name was Vivienne and when Gun had told her that they worked for Special Branch under P’New, her eyes had sparkled with recognition.

Ah of course! My goodness have we shared a few wild nights in our time! Do give him my regards the next time you speak and remind him that he still owes me after our poker game! I did warn him that I had a royal flush but he’d already convinced himself that I was bluffing.

The four of them were now gathered in a small meeting room that was partitioned by a glass wall with Harry’s laptop hooked up to the projector, maximising their view of his screen. Vivienne had spoken to the French government on their behalf, having traded some information for access to their confidential prison records for the last six months.

Many of the faces Plan had seen before and the task of flicking through them all had become gruelling, on his third coffee just to keep his eyes open. Perth was a similar picture of defeat beside him, slumped face first down on the desk. Mercifully, as they were staring at a mugshot of a Belgian serial killer with electric blue eyes, a knock sounded against the glass.

When Harry gestured for the source to enter, Plan was pleased to see a face that looked like theirs. The man who walked in was older than them, eyes kind and nature slightly effeminate in his blue jeans and black t-shirt. His smile was bright and welcoming, greeting them with a wai which Plan, Perth and Gun all returned instinctively, the gesture ingrained as a mark of politeness since childhood.

“Hello!” the man said in English, “Viv said you guys were here. It’s good to see you Harry!”

Harry offered the man a familiar grin. “And you Z! I’m here with some of your fellow countrymen!”

“So I see!” the man nodded, looking between them. “Great to finally meet you, I’m Zaanook. You’ll see me floating around here from time to time.”

“The world is Z’s office,” Harry informed them with a smirk.

“And don’t you forget it,” Zaanook beamed, “wherever I lay my hat is home. How are things back at Special Branch? It’s been ages since I’ve been back to Thailand!”

“All good thanks,” Gun answered for them, “did you use to work for RTP then?”

“Not officially but I became involved in a couple of operations with them back in the day, good times! So what are you guys doing over this side of the water?”

“We’re on the hunt for the Thai assassin everyone’s talking about,” Perth told him.

“Ah!” Zaanook nodded. “Aren’t we all. You had any luck?”

“We’re getting closer,” Plan said quickly, not wanting to give too much away. There was something about the man which seemed a little over-enthusiastic, the unfaltering smile on his face not quite meeting his eyes. “But his face remains a mystery.”

“He’s exceptional that one, he’s turned elusion into an art form.”

“Not for much longer,” Plan said, full of determination. “We’re going to get him.”

“I’ve no doubt! Just make sure that when you do you don’t let Harry here take all the credit! He loves being in the spotlight this one.”

Harry joined in with Zaanook’s fond laughter. “He’s just jealous because I got the promotion after disbanding a terrorist cell we were both working on nailing.”

“I still haven’t got over it,” Zaanook grinned, “I did all the legwork and then this guy comes along and gets all the glory!”

“That’s the way the cookie crumbles!” Harry shrugged, feigning innocence that Zaanook only shook his head at, obviously knowing him far better than they did.

“Sounds like you’re on the case so I guess I better leave you to crack on,” Zaanook said, turning his attention back to the others, “if you need anything, just get Harry to give me a ring and I’ll be happy to help.”

“Cheers Z,” Harry said, offering his own wai alongside Perth, Gun and Plan’s as Zaanook exited the room. Once the door was firmly shut, he spoke again. “He’s a good guy, a little power hungry sometimes but his heart is in the right place.”

“We’ll take all the friends we can get at this point.” Perth joked.

“Right, come on then boys, back to it!” Gun said, clapping his hands with false enthusiasm that was only met by a unanimous groan around the room.

“Fine, fine, someone press next,” Plan sighed, wondering how he could get away with sneaking in a nap without the others noticing, “I think we can agree it’s definitely not this Belgian.”

The notion of a quick forty winks was then immediately abandoned when the next face that flashed up on the screen was a face Plan recognised. A face that he had never expected to see again.

The man in the photo looked different to the version Plan had met in the bar but it was, without a doubt, the same man. Traditional to mugshots, the picture captured him in his natural state, make-up free and messy hair dark from root to tip but his eyes were the same. Narrow crescents that looked even colder than he remembered.

“Who’s that?” Perth asked curiously, all four men simultaneously leaning forward in their seats for a closer look, “he matches the description.”

“Phiravich Attachitsataporn,” Harry said, taking three tries to still mispronounce the latter half, “goes by his nickname, Mean. Originally from Thailand… definitely fits the bill.”

Plan swallowed hard, his pulse audible in his ears.

“Can you print me off that file?” he asked, clearing his throat when his voice came out shaky, “I’ll look into him.”

“Sure, I’ll do it now, printer’s just round the corner.”

Plan was up and out of his seat before the others had a chance to say anything more, leaving the room in pursuit of the records that were sure to confirm his greatest fears.

What he didn’t see though, too focused on the mission at hand, was Zaanook watching menacingly from his hot desk across the office, eyes fixated on the projector screen in full view through the glass partition wall.

*

“Mean? Mean?! Get your ass the hell out here!”

The man being sought looked to the bedroom door, conscious that he was wearing nothing but a smile and that the boy on his knees was in a similar position, except also sporting handcuffs. The assassin growled in frustration, he’d been enjoying that blowjob.

“Hold on a sec,” he muttered, tugging Hai off his cock. Grabbing the boxers earlier discarded, he put them back on and pulled the duvet from the bed. Chucking it to Hai, he reluctantly made his way through to the living room, looking back only to explain. “Cover yourself up.”

Zaanook’s face was a picture when he glimpsed him, nearly naked and the bulge in his pants still visible to anyone with working eyes.

“For god’s sake!” his manager admonished, averting his gaze as far away as was physically possible. “Put some fucking clothes on! Why is it whenever I come here you’re always barely dressed? It’s four o’ clock in the afternoon!”

“Because some of us actually have a sex life?” Mean wisecracked.

“I told you to get rid of him.”

“And I told you to stop showing up here uninvited, but I guess we can’t always get what we want.”

“You’ll wanna hear what I’ve got to say.”

“I highly doubt that,” Mean sighed, “but you’ve made it this far so go on, enlighten me.”

“I met your little special agent friend today, bowled into MI6 as bold as brass and do you know what I think? I think you’ve met him since he’s been here… I’d even go so far to say that I think you’ve spoken to him.”

Mean gulped, disregarding the accusation with a shrug. “I haven’t got a clue what you’re on about.”

“Don’t you lie to me, Phiravich. I saw him and his gang looking through a set of mugshots from the French and guess what? When your face flashed up on the screen, his went as white as a god damn ghost! He recognised you straight away!”

“That doesn’t mean anything,” Mean replied, chewing his lower lip.

“Do you think I’m stupid?” Zaanook asked, his expression livid. “Do I look stupid to you?”

“Do you really want me to answer that?”

“Enough! Your insolence is becoming a big problem, do you hear me? If the next words that come out of your mouth are anything but the truth, I swear on my life, your career ends today. I’ll wash my hands of you, right here and now.”

“Jesus Christ, alright! Don’t get your knickers in a twist, I was only doing what you asked and keeping an eye on him. I followed him to a bar and brought him a few drinks, got him talking. I was only trying to get a bit more information out of him.”

“There isn’t a single scrap of information you could have got, that would make taking that risk worth it! Don’t you get it, Mean? He knows everything now. Your name. What you look like. Your background. Everything!”

“So?”

“So my bosses are going to have my head when they find out that you have compromised the security of our operations!”

“And who exactly are your bosses?”

“That is none of your business,” Zaanook fired, “you are paid, handsomely I might add, to execute a job, not to ask questions and right now you aren’t even doing that successfully because you are too busy showing off! How long do you think I am going to keep protecting you?”

“I don’t need your protection, P,” Mean told him. “I know what I’m doing.”

“Just like you did with Kamon, huh?”

Mean sucked in a breath, the dark look in his eyes a firm warning.

“That’s not fair,” he ground out, “this is nothing like that and you know it.”

Zaanook lost the impromptu stare down that followed, eventually exhaling on a deep sigh. “Alright, alright, I’m sorry okay? I know you’re still touchy about it.”

“I’m not touchy. I’m fine.”

“You just cannot afford to get mixed up with this guy.”

“It’s a little late for that, don’t you think?” Mean said, arching an eyebrow at first before he too decided he would rather keep the peace under current circumstances. “I’m sorry as well though if it helps. I didn’t think the French were going to rat me out, I thought you had the situation there under control?”

“I was assured that I did,” Zaanook frowned, “I’ve got a call with them in half an hour, when I find out who betrayed us their side they will pay, don’t you worry.”

“So what are we going to do about Scooby Doo and his gang in Brixton?” Mean asked. “Want me to get rid of them?”

“Not yet,” Zaanook frowned, shaking his head. “We can’t have four special agents go missing in one day, it would raise too many eyebrows.”

“Then what?”

“When you spoke to him, Plan I mean, did you get along?”

“You could say that,” Mean smirked, “he fancied me.”

“Why doesn’t that surprise me,” Zaanook groaned, rolling his eyes.

“You know how it is,” Mean shrugged.

“I suppose it could come in useful…”

“What do you mean?”

“Go back there. Charm him. Seduce him. Threaten him. Whatever it takes, I don’t care. Just make sure he realises that if he messes with us, the lives of everyone he cares about are in danger.”

“He has a sister back in Thailand,” the assassin informed him.

“I know. Certainly a good place to start.”

Mean nodded, pleased with this new mission except Zaanook’s eyes were no longer on him, fixed upon something over his shoulder. He turned to find Hai standing at the now open bedroom door, hands still in cuffs and the duvet somehow wrapped around his waist like a towel.

“Any chance of you coming back to bed?” he asked with a smirk.

If only Hai had known those would be his last words, Mean thought they would have made one hell of a headstone for his grave. Zaanook pulled the trigger before Mean even had a chance to spot the gun, the back of the boy’s brains suddenly scattered across his bedroom with a loud, perfectly accurate bang. Mean looked upon the corpse with ambivalence, grateful for hardwood floors when the blood began to pool from his skull. He turned back to his boss, hand on hip and frowning.

“Do you always have to kill my toys?”

“I’m just making sure you get the message,” Zaanook said matter-of-factly, “I gave you the option of doing it yourself.”

Mean shrugged indifferently. “He gave really good head.”

“I’m sure he’d be thrilled to know he left behind a lasting impression.”

Mean’s mouth curled on a smirk, looking back and forth between the dead man and the live one.

“Well if you think you’re leaving here without cleaning that up,” he said, pointing down at Hai’s lifeless, wide open eyes, “then you’ve got another thing coming.”

*

Plan stood in the kitchen waiting for the kettle to boil, preparing himself a green tea as he debated whether it was now time to fess up and wondering how best to go about it.

He had the place to himself. Harry had recommended a bar in Shoreditch that specialised in junkyard golf and Gun had been up for night out. Perth had been harder to convince, conflicted when Plan had immediately said he wasn’t going. He’d reassured him of his safety, promising that he wouldn’t leave the house and that he would call at the first sign of trouble.

There hadn’t been any so far.

The loud click of the whistling kettle stole Plan’s attention. After filling the mug with hot water and leaving the teabag in to stew, he returned to the living room and sat it down on the table to cool. His eyes scanned the floor, littered with the equipment New had sent over, having finally taken the free time to examine the offerings which he had to admit, were quite an arsenal. Guns, ammunition, poisons, trackers, spy cameras, bitesize microphones as well as a myriad of other devices whose uses he hadn’t worked out yet.

Plan blew out his cheeks, having never even fired a pistol outside of basic training. He’d had to carry one a few times but that was the limit of his experience and on top of that, the thought of aiming at a human target was a whole different ball game. It was unsettling to think that the Mean he had met at the bar, who’d chuckled at his drunken jokes and flirted with him warmly like a normal person, had the capacity to be that ruthless. In a different life, he would have made an award-winning actor, Plan had no doubt.

Settling down on the arm of the sofa, Plan had another flick through Mean’s prison file, a document which by now, he must have read over a hundred times. The list of crimes recorded was never-ending and they were only the ones which had actually been traced back to him. Arson, manslaughter, grievous bodily harm, theft and murder all amongst a collection of other minor offenses. The most intriguing part though, the section Plan kept returning to, was the psychological assessment the prison had conducted on him. The conversations had been turned into transcripts and some of the answers Mean had given were chilling to say the least. Articulate and sickeningly proud.

The psychiatrist’s conclusion had been thus:

The inmate seems to be of sound mind, remaining unapologetic about his crimes and feeling no empathy or remorse for his victims. He believes he is soon to escape confinement, nonchalant when asked how he feels about spending the rest of his days imprisoned. He displays a lack of understanding regarding normal human emotions such as happiness, sadness, anger, love and hate, unable to reference any of these back to a point in his history. He is highly manipulative and talks very easily, yet somehow manages to avoid giving truthful answers. However, where he cannot or will not answer he does not tell explicit lies, either changing the subject or remaining silent. Although quite evidently a sociopath, when branded with this term he fiercely denies it, dismissing the very notion that he is any different from other people. He is highly dangerous and should remain under observation at all times. No improvement in his condition is shown.

Plan couldn’t help but feel a little bit impressed that even under constant observation, Mean had still managed to escape not long after, the murder of Annabelle Durand carried out only days later according to the timestamp. Plan let the file slip from his fingers, resting his head back against the sofa cushion and closing his eyes. He couldn’t believe that he’d had him, right there in front of him, and somehow missed his chance.

His despair was then interrupted, hearing the backdoor creak.

Plan sat up dead straight, his ears peeled for the sound of any intruder. He heard nothing but the clock ticking away on the mantle. Certain that all the doors had been locked, he got to his feet, grabbing a shotgun from the selection he’d loaded across the floor. With it held against his chest, Plan took a deep breath, heartbeat on hold as he crept forward into the hallway.

“Hello?” he called, peering through to the kitchen.

Advancing down the narrow corridor, he saw no signs of forced entry, the backdoor firmly shut.

“Mean?”

Met by no response, he took another few wary steps.

“Mean?” he repeated tentatively, now fully inside the empty kitchen. Reaching the backdoor, he pressed the handle down only to find it still locked. Still suspicious, he haphazardly turned the key in the hole, pulling the door open to stare out into the deserted backyard. He stepped outside, the space little more than a rectangle of concrete. There was nowhere to hide.

“Mean?!” he yelled, pointing the gun at thin air and half-expecting the assassin to jump out of the leafy bushes surrounding the house.

Except he didn’t. No one did.

Plan exhaled on the breath he was holding, shaking his head as he gave his overactive imagination a ticking off. Paranoia really was a little bitch. Letting the gun fall to his side, he spun on his heels and re-entered the kitchen, locking the door again behind him. He walked through the hallway, stopping dead the second he reached the threshold of the living room.

The sight which beheld him nearly killed him by itself.

“Say my name three times and you’ll summon me,” Mean grinned.

Plan’s eyes grew wide in horror.

“Uh, uh,” Mean said coyly, pressing a finger to his lips. “Don’t scream.”

Plan heeded Mean’s warning, closing his O-shaped mouth on a gulp. He raised the gun, gripped tight with both hands and aiming at the man perched cross-legged on the arm of his sofa.

“You,” he choked out, voice barely a whisper.

“Me,” the trespasser echoed, his devilish grin undeterred by the weapon aimed his way. Glancing around at the many others strewn across the floor he only tutted, seemingly impressed. “Quite a set of arms you got here, it looks sexy on you.”

“W-what are you doing here?”

“I’ve come to see if you want to go on a second date.”

Mean looked the way he had in the bar, wearing a grey shirt and high-waisted black trousers, facial features enhanced with dark makeup. He leant back against the cushions with a wicked look in his eyes and his hands in his pockets.

“You lied to me,” Plan choked out, adrenaline coursing through his veins.

“I didn’t,” Mean said, shaking his head, “not really, you’re just not very good at your job.”

“All those people,” Plan thought aloud, “Jesus, you killed all those people.”

“And yet,” the assassin drawled, getting to his feet and slinking towards him, “you still haven’t fired that gun.”

“I swear to god, come any closer and I will shoot you.” Plan warned, his gun arm trembling.

“Say that again,” Mean snickered, taking another step. “like you believe it this time.”

Up for the challenge, Plan disengaged the safety but the second the click sounded, Mean was on him. The assassin grabbed his arm, the force making Plan’s fingers release their grip, and tugged it hard behind his back. By the time the gun hit carpet, Mean had him pinned face-front against the wall, pushing him firmly into the painted brickwork. The elder tried to shriek, the sound quickly muffled by Mean’s free hand when it slammed viciously across his mouth.

“Listen to me,” Mean murmured, voice low and breath hot at Plan’s ear, “I’m pretty desperate to kill someone right now, so I suggest if you don’t want it to be you then you don’t threaten me again, do we understand each other?”

Plan nodded frantically against Mean’s hand.

“Now having you against a flat surface is incredibly tempting but I’d rather it on different terms,” Mean continued, and Plan could feel the push of his hipbones against him, his protested groans less impactful through his nose. “So when I let you go I want you to behave yourself. Keep your mouth shut or I’ll have to shoot you with your own gun and it would be a great shame to ruin that pretty face. Okay?”

Plan nodded again, whimpering in agreement.

“Good,” Mean said, releasing his grip and stepping away to give him some space.

Plan sucked in huge lungfuls of air, trying to steady his erratic breathing as he leant back against the wall for support, his knees half-tempted to crumple beneath him. He glanced down at the gun at his feet, thinking better of picking it back up. The assassin’s grip on his wrist would leave bruises there tomorrow.

“You got anything to eat?” Mean suddenly asked, turning to fix him with a wide smile, “I’m starving.”

*

After a few minutes of looking, Mean had decided that the interior of the house was just as displeasing as the exterior. There wasn’t anything wrong with it per-say, the rooms large and facilities all properly functioning. It was just tasteless and inconsistent, the décor retro in places and modern in others. It had good potential though, as did the man staring at him.

Now in the kitchen, Plan’s eyes flickered over to the countertop and when Mean’s own followed their gaze, his smile grew broader, saliva gathering in his mouth. Approaching the bucket of chicken, still half full of leftovers, he reached in and grabbed a piece, tugging a strip off with his teeth before he hopped up to sit on top of the cooker.

“You don’t like the drumsticks, eh?”

Plan gave a nervous shake of his head, staring at him like he had a wild animal loose in his house. “None of us do. My flatmates, they’ll uh… they’ll be back soon so you better -”

“You mean your colleagues,” Mean corrected, savouring the spices coating the chicken skin on his tongue before he swallowed. “The drumsticks are the best bit you know, meat on the bone always cooks better.”

“H-how long have you known about us?” Plan stammered.

“Since I saw you at the theatre. I recognised you from when bumped into each other back home,” Mean watched as Plan’s brow wrinkled with confusion, the delight almost making him moan. “Oh god, this is so good, you still haven’t worked it out have you?”

Mean gave him a few seconds to piece the puzzle together before deciding to show some mercy, the baffled look on his face almost endearing. Licking greasy lips, Mean framed the words on a whisper.

“Your flies are undone.”

Plan’s sharp intake of breath made Mean’s pulse race, the sudden recognition in the elder’s eyes burning into him which he matched, gaze for gaze.

“That was you! Oh my god, I fucking knew it! I knew I had seen your face before!”

Mean nodded on a smile. “It was a coincidence though, I promise, I had a different target that day.”

“Captain,” Plan whispered, his glare suddenly fierce, “he was my friend!”

“He was collateral damage.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?!”

“I needed to send a warning to your boss.”

Mean observed the flicker of surprise that crossed Plan’s face before he masked it, certain he was making a mental note of that snippet of information to run back to Special Branch with.

“And me?” the elder gulped, “am I going to be another warning?”

Mean smiled, cunning eyes raking over him from head to toe. “Not yet, we’re just watching you.”

“Then why are you in my house?”

“I wanted to find out,” Mean shrugged.

“Find out what?”

“Whether you’ve worked out the password yet.”

Mean couldn’t resist a smirk when Plan scowled at him, dark eyes smouldering furiously.

“I’ll take that as a no then.”

“Why are you doing this?” the elder fired, hands clenched into fists at his sides. “Seriously, right now, the other night, what is this all for? Why are you playing with me? If you’re here to kill me then just get on with it!”

“I told you, I’m not here to kill you. We’re - ”

“Watching me, yeah I heard you. Whose we? Who do you work for?”

Mean remained silent, grinning as he took another bite of chicken. He couldn’t deny that this man had a decent set of balls. It pleased him in fact. There was never any fun in intimidating people who cowered away in fear easily. He would have to work to scare him and he was only too happy to oblige. He kept his eyes fixed on Plan as he swallowed, bringing the drumstick back to his lips stubbornly. To his surprise, the agent then changed tact.

“I’ve been reading your prison file today.”

“I noticed,” Mean nodded with his mouth still full, he’d spotted the document back in the living room. “They could have used a nicer photo! Which one is it?”

“From your recent incarceration in France.”

“That wasn’t incarceration, I was on a break.”

“Funny place to take a holiday.”

“It wasn’t exactly by choice,” Mean admitted, curious as to what the French might have revealed about his history. “What does it say?”

“That you’re a sociopath.”

Mean giggled on impulse, almost choking on his chicken. “No such thing.”

“That’s not what your psychiatrist thought.”

“He wouldn’t,” Mean shrugged, “his profession revolves around drawing invisible lines and making other people believe they exist. Lines between good and bad. Right and wrong. Normal and abnormal. If the masses ever realise that it’s all a load of bullshit then he’ll be out of a job.”

“So you don’t believe in those things?”

“Nope. Not at all.”

“That’s how you live with yourself then, huh? You think that everyone has the potential to be like you, but that we’re all bound by rules and codes of conduct that you don’t adhere to?”

“Precisely,” Mean nodded. “And it’s not about living with myself, that’s easy, it’s just the truth. I have a job to do and I’m good at it. There are lots of professions where taking a life is just part and parcel of the employment package. Police, politics, the military, law, sometimes even medicine. Mine is no different, I just don’t feel bad about it.”

“The difference is the people whose lives you take are innocent! Captain was innocent!”

“See what I mean? More invisible lines,” Mean observed. “Who determines the innocent from the guilty? Am I supposed to feel different killing a supposedly innocent man as opposed to a guilty one?”

Plan’s mouth opened and closed for a few moments, seemingly unsure of his answer from a moral standpoint. Eventually he nodded slowly. “Some people don’t deserve the gift of life they’ve been granted. Some people deserve to be punished. ”

Mean arched an eyebrow, slim eyes feasting on him. “And who are you to decide that?”

Plan swallowed, skin flushing hot under the weight of his gaze if the blotchy red patches colouring his neck were anything to go by. Mean waited patiently, looking forward to his answer.

“Someone who’s seen enough evil.”

The corners of Mean’s mouth tugged upwards. Jumping down from his spot, he walked up to the special agent who immediately backed up, his retreat blocked by the fridge when his spine collided with it. Mean crowded him there, an arm either side of his head. Lowering his own slightly, he leant close enough to chance a sniff of his flushed neck, his natural musk mixed with a cheap masculine deodorant. His dark hair looked so silky that Mean took a strand of it in his fingers, rubbing it between them gently. Still the elder did not push him away, eyes locked on him the whole time even when Mean felt him shiver. It felt soft and in good condition. He liked it.

Mean held his unblinking gaze, feeling things he hadn't for a long time.

“Then I guess,” he spoke slowly, elongating every word, “you’re just gonna have to punish me.”

Chapter 5: welcome to a show about death.

Chapter Text

Plan wasn’t sure where the time had gone when Halloween suddenly rolled around.

He blamed the British weather, the temperature drop between September and October barely noticeable. The last remnants of summer had disappeared without his knowledge, the only sign that the seasons had changed the leaves which scattered the pavements across London’s streets, hence why it had surprised him when Harry invited the three of them to a house-party his colleagues from MI6 were throwing.

Of Buddhist faith or not, Plan had always loved Halloween. He enjoyed the dressing up and the fun of selecting a costume each year which, as an unwritten rule, had to be different from the last. This year though, he’d been unsure when Harry had first mentioned it. Something about rejoicing in darkness under current circumstances felt a bit like asking for trouble, having enough real evils to contend with as it was without dabbling in those rooted in the underworld. Still, after Harry’s reminder that they would be in a house full of MI6 recruits who if nothing else took security very seriously, Plan had soon agreed. In all honesty he’d been looking for an excuse, unwilling to live in fear of the murderous, psychologically dysfunctional and drop-dead gorgeous assassin keeping him awake at night.

Just in case he still was, Plan thought perhaps it time to give Mean something worth watching.

In the years previous he and Prim had always co-ordinated their outfits, turning up as characters from the same film or fairy-tale but this time the experience was shared with Gun and Perth, all readying their vampire ensembles whilst Harry, who was going as a to scale version of the wink face emoji, struggled to do his zipper up.

“Guys, can one of you give me a hand?” the British man appealed, turning on the spot to give them better access to the back of the novelty get-up, hung over his shoulders like a sphere-shaped pair of dungarees.

Perth crossed the room to help, Plan busy gluing his fangs in place whilst Gun made a mess of the fake blood dripping down over his chin.

“Did your mum not teach you how to dress yourself?” Perth joked, zipping the costume with ease. “Do they not do that in this country?”

“Haha, very funny. I didn’t realise you were going as a comedian,” Harry grinned, looking between them all as they finished applying gory final touches. “You lot are so good at makeup! You look great, I’m impressed!”

“You’ll stick out like a sore thumb arriving with us, you’re spoiling our visuals!” Gun teased.

“No fear!” Harry chuckled. “There’s a bunch of lads from the office all wearing their own one of these! So far we’ve got a laughing face, heart eyes, smirk face, high-five, prayer hands, the three monkeys and an eggplant!”

Erupting into a fit of giggles, Plan accidentally knocked his left fang out, the chemical taste of the sticky adhesive covering his real incisor potent in his mouth.

“Who’s going as the eggplant!?”

“That’s Jamie,” Harry said, “I’ll introduce you later.”

“I don’t think you’ll need to,” Perth piped up, “I’m sure we’ll spot him.”

“True,” laughed Harry, a wry smile lifting his bright eyes, “it suits him because he’s a dickhead!”

Plan observed the faces of his three friends with great fondness as he reached for his lost tooth, pleased that for the first time since he’d told them about his dalliance with Mean, they all looked happy. Young, carefree and normal, the way they should be.

For now at least.

Which was okay, Plan thought, because maybe for now was all that mattered.

*

Mean stood behind Zaanook, frowning at his elder’s reflection in the mirror.

“How come I never get to have any fun?” he said, arms crossed like a stubborn toddler.

“Because you kill people for a living,” Zaanook replied, “which means you don’t get to dress up like a monster for Halloween because you already are one.”

“So what does that make you?” Mean complained. “You created me!”

“I moulded you,” Zaanook corrected, “you had all the makings of an assassin before we met, I just put those psychopathic tendencies to good use.”

“I’m not a psychopath.”

“No?” Zaanook laughed, re-positioning the horns fixed in his hair so that they stood up straight. “What would you call it then?”

“Boredom,” Mean shrugged.

“Bored. Insane. Criminal. Whatever you want to call it, Mean, you’re still not coming.”

“Pretty please,” Mean whined, latching on to his boss’s arm and tugging on it petulantly.

“You can beg all you like, the answer is still no.”

“You’re so unfair!”

Zaanook rolled his eyes, the subject not up for discussion. Mean continued pouting at him all the same, annoyed that his manager’s costume looked too good for him to criticise. The devil attire was impactful, Zaanook’s skin covered in red body-paint paired with matching contact lenses and a sharp suit. His hair had been sprayed a deep scarlet that echoed its hue, a decent replica of the king of hell that haunted the nightmares of every sinner, or most of them anyway. Mean had always thought it sounded more exciting down there with the flames than up in heaven harmonising with angels.

He’d only come to Zaanook’s flat in the first place to report back on Plan and his movements, each of which were becoming more boring by the day. He hadn’t left that flat in over seventy-two hours now and Mean had become restless, beginning to wonder why his very valuable time was being wasted on an agent who he’d obviously scared off enough to stop him digging a deeper grave. Upon arrival, what he hadn’t expected was to find his boss getting ready for a party that apparently he wasn’t welcome at. The assassin had never known him to celebrate Halloween, not in all the years they had worked together.

“So where is this party then?” Mean asked slyly.

“As if I would tell you so that you can come and crash it.”

“But – ”

“But nothing, Mean,” Zaanook said, turning on the spot to pin him with a firm glare, “for once will you please just do as you’re told?”

“Why should I?”

“Because I pay your wages,” Zaanook reminded him, “and because I cleaned up the mess in your bedroom that your stubborn ass was too lazy to deal with.”

Not fast enough, Mean thought, remembering how he’d had to step over Hai’s lifeless corpse for two days before he was finally able to sleep in peace. He hadn’t questioned it when he’d come home on the third night and found that the body in his bedroom had finally been disposed of along with every trace of it ever having been there.

He’d just texted Zaanook to say it was about bloody time.

“I sincerely hope you’re not referring to the mess you made.”

“I could have just left it there,” Zaanook shrugged.

“If you had then I’d have just brought him here and left him in your front room.”

“So romantic,” came the sarcastic reply, “I thought you liked him.”

“Only when he was alive,” Mean smirked, “dead guys aren’t my thing.”

*

In the cab on the way there, Plan had claimed a back seat by the right rear window, Gun on the other side, Perth in the middle and Harry up front with the driver. A bit tipsy from the pre-drinks they had been necking back at their new apartment in Kings Cross, he focused his eyes on the pedestrians at each set of traffic lights, keeping them peeled for anyone even remotely Mean-shaped.

The boys with him were singing along to an English pop-song on the radio, their cabbie fairly laid back and smiling at them warmly in the rear-view mirror.

Plan thought back to the night Mean had broken into the house. After his remark about punishment, which had created so much tension between them that Plan wasn’t sure if he was about to be kissed or killed, Mean’s phone had rung. To Plan’s surprise he had taken the call, speaking a few words in a language he didn’t understand before swiftly hanging up, the smirk on his face full of so much promise that it made Plan shudder. The words Mean had left him with had lived in his head rent free ever since.

Until the next time, Phi.

Mean had exited through the front door, Plan’s knees collapsing underneath him the second it latched shut. He’d sat on the floor of the kitchen for hours, replaying the scene over and over again in his head until he’d been distracted by the sound of keys in the lock. He had leapt to his feet, staring down the corridor at his three housemates returning from their night out, each of which knew immediately that something was up. Perth had told him later that his whole face had been completely white.

Absolutely done playing with fire, Plan had sat each of them down in the living room and told them the whole truth from beginning to end. Bumping into Mean back at Special Branch, the night spent in the bar and the break-in that had occurred only hours hence all included in the story. The second he had finished, the fierce interrogation had begun. Why had he not told them all this before? How had he kept them all in danger for so long? What in the hell were they going to do now?

Plan hadn’t an answer to most of their questions so he’d followed Gun’s instruction and called P’New immediately. After relaying all of their recent discoveries and how they could now put a name to the mysterious face they’d spent so long in pursuit of, his boss had been ecstatic at first, crossing his heart that there was a promotion with his name on it the second he stepped foot back on home soil. Then Plan had dampened the celebrations, informing him that Mean knew everything about their operation and how, that very evening, he’d been held at gunpoint. P’New’s instinctive response had been to leave for Thailand there and then but Plan had talked him out of it. After a tense half an hour of negotiations, they’d eventually come to a compromise that they would move to a new location which they had done the very next day, packing suitcases as though their lives depended on it.

Their new apartment felt safer somehow. Situated on the seventh storey of a large tower block, the other residents and ground floor concierge offered greater security and stopped any strangers from being able to walk in and out whenever they fancied.

That had been two weeks ago and Plan hadn’t seen hide nor hair of Mean ever since. They’d spent the days compiling everything they knew to date and eating their weight in takeaways. Mean’s criminal history, pieced together in their closest estimation of a chronological order from his first GBH conviction as a young offender in Thailand to the most recent Phantom of the Opera murder. Plan felt soothed seeing it all set out in a rough timeline across their navy blue statement wall in the living room, dismissive when Perth had made a point of telling him that it was probably unhealthy to have started sleeping in there when he had a perfect good room down the hallway.

As they came to halt at a zebra-crossing, the chorus of Perth, Gun and Harry’s off-key singing continued as he observed two pretty girls walking along the pavement. They looked English, both sporting long blonde hair that fell all the way down their backs. Laughing together, they teetered forward side by side in huge heels that looked more like weapons than shoes. Plan wasn’t sure whether to blame the tequila from before or their skimpy dresses, but watching them turned him on a little, craning his neck back once the car started moving again. When they were well out of sight, he shifted a little in his seat, Perth’s leg pressing against him not offering much room to manoeuvre as he leant back against the headrest, deciding that if he couldn’t beat them, he’d just have to join them.

He began singing at the top of his lungs, the others cheering as Perth gave him an encouraging shake, dancing as much as he could within the constraints of his seatbelt.

Everyone looked more joyful than they had done for some time, the taxi driver’s joke about having three warbling vampires in his cab leaving them all in drunken hysterics just as they turned the corner to their destination.

*

Mean wandered the aisles in a supermarket nearby until he finally came across the one he required. The budget costumes were on sale, the demand for them drastically reduced now that the night in question had arrived. He eyed them up, debating the most appropriate option.

Wizard? Too childish. Werewolf? Too unoriginal. Ghost? Too cliché.

He ran a hand along the shelf, toying with the materials between two fingers before his gaze fell upon a mask made famous by the Scream movies. He hesitantly reached out, touching the cold, white plastic as a memory long since displaced flashed back to him.

“Hey babe, I’m home!”

The young man closed the door behind him, awaiting a response.

“K?” he called a little louder, still met by silence as he walked through the corridor. “Kamon? Where are you?”

Mean frowned at his phone, re-reading their last few texts just in case he’d misunderstood. He’d definitely said he was there, so where the hell was he? Heading deeper into the house, Mean pushed open the door to the lounge and ventured inside.

“BOO!”

The assassin made a sound unlike any that usually came of his mouth, jumping in fright as a masked stranger leapt out from behind the door, stuck between running for his life and punching the intruder’s lights out whilst he shrieked like one of his victims. Before he could commit any more murders that day, the man behind the mask began to laugh, holding his ribs in stitches before he revealed himself to be Mean’s long term boyfriend and partner in crime.

“Fucking hell, don’t do that!” Mean scolded, exhaling in relief, “you scared the shit out of me!”

“Your face,” Kamon managed between giggles, wiping a tear from his eye, “man I got you so good!”

“How long have you been waiting there?”

“About forty-five minutes,” Kamon grinned, “and it was worth it.”

“You are such an idiot,” Mean sighed, voice devoid of any real malice as the corners of his own mouth upturned. “Sometimes being with you is like dating a child.”

“That’s why you love me,” Kamon beamed.

“True,” Mean relented, his boyfriend wrapping arms around him and pulling him close. He noticed how Kamon’s hair looked wet, sticking to his forehead. “Was it hot in there?”

“Fucking boiling.”

“Well I’m sure there must be better ways to work up a sweat…”

“I don’t doubt it,” Kamon smirked, both on the same page as usual. “What have you got in store for me tonight, fiancé?”

Mean looked down at his other, better half, Kamon leaning into his embrace to press light kisses against the sensitive part of his neck. “Well I was going to remind you why you said yes, fiancé.”

“Only six days to go,” Kamon murmured, eyes bright and full of anticipation.

“Are you looking forward to being my husband?” Mean asked, his heart fluttering.

“Yes,” his lover whispered fondly and without doubt, “are you?”

Mean glanced at the matching tuxes that hung from their curtain rail, the pure smile on his face growing wider by the second. He leant down and pressed a soft kiss to Kamon’s bowed lips, a kiss which answered the question.

“More than you know.”

Mean stopped his reminiscing right there in its tracks. His shaking hand clutched the plastic disguise until he became conscious of it, suddenly releasing his grip as though burnt by a naked flame.

Taking a step back, he repressed the feelings the mask evoked, unsure why they even affected him at all considering how the version of him in those memories had long since been dead. Hastily picking out the first alternative he set eyes on, he headed straight to the cashiers to pay, unwilling to remember a moment more.

In hindsight, Mean thought perhaps it had been destiny because the costume in his hands was perfect.

*

Plan was drunk in record time.

He’d drastically underestimated the way British people partied. It was not in any way civilised and he loved it, greeted by a round of shots the second they had arrived. After four games of beer-pong, three of which his team had won, Perth could be found cutting shapes on the dancefloor before the first hour was up.

The language barrier had been less of a problem than he had anticipated, everyone he’d spoken to complimenting his English and seemingly able to understand him without too much trouble even over the loud music blaring out of the surround sound speakers. The more Jack Daniels he consumed, the less self-conscious he became, chatting happily with everyone Harry had so far introduced them to.

Harry himself was in the kitchen taking photos with the emoji collective, the unanimous cheer that had sounded when Jamie the eggplant had appeared already one of the evening’s highlights. Most of the men were stereotypical English types, lacking any decorum which was made up for by their enthusiasm and friendliness, eagerly including the three vampires in their raucous games and Snapchat stories. If Plan hadn’t have known, he would never have guessed that most of them were paid up members of MI6, their youthful faces and boundless energy more synonymous with a team of premier-league footballers. All too soon he became acutely aware that they were going to drink him under the table and frankly, he was one hundred percent cool with that.

The house itself was big, rooms large and ceilings high although by now most of them were full thanks to those who had arrived fashionably late. The only rule seemed to be ‘bring your own bottle’ which it looked like everyone had done, the counters of every room Plan stumbled into decorated with a myriad of spirits alongside mixers for the less hardcore. The fridge had been overwhelmed, people now filling buckets with ice to keep their offerings cool. No one seemed to mind sharing, beers being distributed to anyone in need and shots refilled automatically the second they were drained. Plan wasn’t even sure who the house belonged to but he could tell that whoever they were, they’d had the foresight to remove anything of value from each of the rooms. TV’s were missing, tables had been pushed back and paper plates replaced china whilst they drank from red solo cups.

The guys and ghouls in attendance were a sight to behold, everyone having made a considerable effort on their costumes. On any other day of the year, Plan would have thought himself hallucinating as he observed the myriad of supernatural beings who had flocked there. Fellow vampires, bony skeletons, full size pumpkins, comic heroes and villains, mythical creatures and scarecrows surrounded him from every direction and, amongst them all, Plan felt more at home than he had done in ages.

Having taken a break after the latest game of beer-pong, in which Gun had made him drink the cup marked with an X spiked with a double shot of vodka just for kicks, Plan retired to the garden for some air, leaning back against a cold brick wall and trying to focus his vision. There were a number of people outside smoking, a temptation he was still resisting, engaged in lively conversation with both old and new friends when his eyes landed upon a face he knew approaching him.

“We meet again!” the devil grinned.

“Hi!” Plan smiled, revealing his fangs. “Good to see you… erm…”

“Zaanook,” the man reminded him, his smile jovial.

“Forgive me,” Plan hiccupped apologetically, “I’m a bit gone.”

“No worries, everyone is, Violet sure knows how to throw a good party.”

“Violet?”

“This is her place,” Zaanook said, turning to point at a tall brunette woman laughing happily with a group of friends at the back of the garden. “She’s notorious for them.”

“I think this is the most fun I’ve had in forever,” Plan admitted, shaking his head when Zaanook offered him a cigarette. Wondering where he had found the willpower from, he immediately regretted the decision when the pack was pulled away from him.

“I’m glad to hear it!” Zaanook grinned. “You look awesome!”

“Thanks, so do you,” Plan said, gesturing to Zaanook’s red face, “did that take long?”

“Ages,” he grinned, “and it was messy. My bathroom looks like it has seen a massacre!”

“Ah well, you must be used to that at MI6!”

“Not so,” Zaanook chuckled, “I’m too old for all that, I don’t like getting my hands dirty! Speaking of massacres, any news on your assassin yet?”

Plan tapped the side of his nose, his smile coy, realising it had been a solid couple of hours since he’d even spared Mean a second thought. “If I tell you then I’d have to kill you.”

“Then say nothing,” Zaanook said hastily, “I’ve no plans on dying tonight!”

“Now that we can agree on,” Plan laughed, smacking their hands together in a high-five.

“Anything you need just give me a shout, yeah?”

“Oh, are you leaving?” queried the vampire.

“Just heading back inside,” Zaanook said, gesturing subtly over to Plan’s left, “that blonde has been giving you the eye since we started chatting and far be it from me to get in the way of true love.”

Plan’s eyebrows raised in curiosity, following the direction of Zaanook’s gaze to indeed find a fair-haired mermaid dressed in a shell bra and full tail sneaking glances at him. He thought she must have been freezing with so few clothes on but admittedly, he appreciated the view.

“Nah,” he muttered, shaking his head, “she’s gorgeous. There must be something wrong with your eyesight, how much have you had to drink?”

“Oh please,” Zaanook said, dismissing Plan’s modesty. “Trust me, she’s into you.”

Plan couldn’t say he disagreed when they both stole a glimpse at the same time, eyes locking on each other. The woman smiled, flashing white teeth between red lipstick and then suddenly, she was moving in his direction.

“Shit, she’s coming over!”

“That’s my cue,” Zaanook grinned, scooting inside the house, “best of luck!”

Before Plan even had a chance to compose himself, the woman in question was directly in front of him. He thought her prettier up close, the silvery blonde tresses cascading over her shoulders reminding him of the two women he’d seen walking together back in the cab. She was shorter than him, which was a bonus, pale skin complimenting ice blue eyes. Her face was round, cheeks plump and when she spoke, her accent was distinctly English.

“Hi,” she said, “have we met?”

“No, I-I don’t think so, I’m new,” Plan said, shaking his head, “I’m also quite drunk so sorry in advance.”

“Why are you sorry?”

“In case I say something stupid.”

“I’m sure I’ll beat you to it,” she smiled, “are you here by yourself?”

“No,” Plan answered, “my friends are inside. Do you work for MI6 too?”

“I’m just the receptionist.”

“In my experience,” Plan said, clearing his throat, “receptionists know everything.”

“You think so?”

“Definitely. Everyone talks to them.”

“Fair point,” she grinned, “they all think that we’re harmless and in my case, stupid too.”

“You don’t look stupid to me.”

“No?”

“Not at all,” he said bashfully, “I think you look lovely. I’m Plan, by the way.”

“April, and thank you, that’s very sweet.”

“Is sweet, good?”

“Yes,” April grinned, “just maybe not what I would expect from a vampire.”

Plan looked at her from head to toe, a smirk playing on his lips as he analysed the finer details of her figure. Her slim waist and small breasts, their fullness accentuated by the two shells strapped across them. The long eyelashes that fluttered at him, shadowed in enticing hues of silver and black. The way her green mermaid skirt hugged her bottom half, from pert behind all the way down to cute ankles.

“Maybe I’ll surprise you,” he replied, “can I get you a drink?”

*

Mean circled the house from the outside, absolutely fucking furious and restraining the urge to kill the next drunken waste of space that happened to pass him on their way out for more booze.

So this was why he wasn’t welcome. He hadn’t been invited because his so-called manager was busy fraternising with the enemy!

His enemy at that.

He’d spied Zaanook through a gap in the fence, hard to miss in his blood red suit and horns. At first he’d thought it a typical party, planning to slip in unnoticed and surprise him, looking forward to the disapproving look on his face until he eventually relented and let him join in the fun.

Then his eyes had landed on Plan.

Or, more specifically, Zaanook approaching Plan.

Mean almost didn’t recognise him, fully made up like a vampire for the festivities. The pale skin suited him, as did the eyeliner framing his small eyes. His dark clothes glittered under the garden floodlights and, as for the blood trickling down out the corners of his mouth, well, Mean couldn’t think about that too long without creating more problems for himself.

The assassin watched them with his jaw practically touching the floor, in shock and unable to believe his eyes as they laughed together. He’d been unable to make out the words exchanged but the conversation had looked friendly, smiles on both of their faces as they chatted. Scanning the garden, he found no sign of the other operatives that usually accompanied him yet Plan did not look concerned or uncomfortable. In fact, Plan looked inebriated, swaying back and forth where he stood and Mean didn’t like to see it, the sight too familiar from his memories of their own night out.

It really must be a fucking small world, he thought.

Despite knowing they had met before, seeing Zaanook cosying up to Plan pissed him off. There was a distinct difference between infiltrating MI6 for insider information and socialising with them on a personal, first name basis outside of working hours. Mean’s distrust for everyone around him grew stronger by second, unable to shake the feeling that somehow, somewhere along the line, he was being kept out of the loop.

His bigger frustration however, was that no matter which way he looked at it he could not fathom how Plan looked so carefree. Why was he not thinking about him? How could he not be obsessing over the next time their paths might cross? Was he that irrelevant? Did Plan really think he was done with him, just like that?

Then suddenly, almost as soon as it had begun, Zaanook was fleeing back inside the house, leaving Mean to watch as a scantily dressed woman sauntered up to the special agent whose life belonged to him. She kept her back turned to him but he saw the way Plan’s whole demeanour changed, the way he smiled at her like a lion eyeing up a steak. The expression sickened the assassin because the last time he’d seen it, Plan’s lust had been for him.

Mean added ‘fickle’ to the list of adjectives pertinent to describe him.

Even though he never did get a good look at the girl’s face before the pair retreated inside, Mean was determined to make damn sure she’d never forget his.

Both in this small world and the next.

*

“D’you uh… do you think we’re allowed to be up here?”

Plan’s voice came out a little hesitant, nervous as April pulled him by the hand into what he assumed was the host’s empty spare bedroom. He knew what she wanted, and so did Perth and Gun now after he’d had to drag them both off the dancefloor and explain his predicament. For the first time since coming to London he was grateful that English was not their native language when he’d reluctantly had to beg his friends for a spare condom. Once their hysterics had subsided Perth had produced the goods, ever prepared to get lucky.

“Don’t worry,” April giggled, closing the door behind him and turning the lock, “Violet is a good friend, I’m sure she’s won’t mind.”

“She might be your friend but she’s never met me,” Plan chuckled anxiously, “it would be impolite.”

“You really are wasted in this country, do you know that?” April said, slinking towards him with a sly smile on her face. “We don’t really do polite around here.”

Plan backed up against the wall as his mermaid admirer tossed her hair back behind her shoulders, pressing in close. April placed both hands against his chest, over his shirt, red lips parting as if in invitation.

N-no?” he stammered, clearing his throat. “Why’s that?”

“Because we’re all too used to getting what we want,” April whispered, trailing an acrylic fingernail down his sternum and over his stomach until it settled, poised at his belt.

Plan’s lifted his unfocused eyes back up to meet hers, glazed hot like steam on a mirror. He wasn’t given the opportunity to lean in himself before April captured his lips in a passionate kiss, sliding her tongue into his mouth. She tasted rich, alcoholic and bitter like an espresso martini. His hands automatically came up to cup her breasts, squeezing them softly over the skimpy bra that left very little to the imagination. Plan let his eyes drift shut, moaning into her mouth when he felt her nipples harden as a result of his touch.

“You’re so gentle,” April remarked, slightly breathless as she pressed open-mouthed kisses along his jawline, rolling her hips against his growing erection.

“Do you not like it?” Plan asked, hoping that wasn’t frowned upon here. He was used to women who took a little coaxing out of their shells and, truth be told, most of the time he did too.

“No, it’s good,” she said, arching her back when Plan slid his hands under the thin strip of fabric, holding the soft mounds of flesh skin on skin, “but I’d prefer it if it was your tongue.”

Plan’s smile broadened before he stole another kiss, only too eager to please.

*

At some point in time, it had started raining.

Mean stared on oblivious from the balcony of the adjacent house, feeling eerily cold as the wind picked up, becoming soaked through as he stood frozen to the spot. He wondered if they’d left the shutters open on purpose, whether Plan subconsciously wanted someone to see, almost as though he had a point to prove.

To the assassin’s experienced eyes, Plan looked like a sensual lover. His touches were instinctive rather than calculated. He kissed the girl seducing him like he wanted his tongue to make her wet. Watching made Mean regretful he’d missed his chance to experience it, wondering if he might have reacted the same way she did, falling back against the mattress and pulling him on top of her. Plan shimmied the long skirt she was wearing off her body, positioning his face between her spread legs.

What was this feeling making his flesh crawl?

Mean shivered when Plan kissed the insides of her thighs, nosing at her presumably soaked panties. He wondered what her scent was like, imagining it to be sweet and distinctly feminine and everything he himself wasn’t. Plan still looked like he was enjoying himself, quickly ridding her of them to tease her clit with his tongue.

Squinting his eyes to see better through the downpour, Mean searched Plan’s face for any signs of revulsion at the taste of her but found none. From his side on view, Plan’s own lids appeared shut, pressing his mouth between her legs with a smile on his face when her spine curled in pleasure. Mean saw her lips part, the girl’s moans inaudible to him but he could imagine them, quiet and meek and breathy, no doubt. The confidence Plan displayed informed Mean that he must have had quite a bit to drink, sliding both hands underneath her to hold her hips in place as they started to roll. Sober Plan was more reserved than that, or at least he had been with him.

What was this feeling making his head reel?

Perhaps he’d found his inner vampire, Mean wondered, the fake blood dripping from Plan’s mouth staining the girl’s white legs red everywhere he kissed. It looked messy and it made the assassin grimace, cannibalism one of the very few things that failed to turn him on. Mean didn’t like or dislike blood, ambivalent towards it thanks to his chosen career path. He could see it lost, drained or transfused but he’d never had a taste for it and as Plan kept working, his sharp incisors and ruby mouth satisfying her made Mean feel nauseous. Licking almost seemed an understatement, Plan lapping like a cat drinking from its milk bowl.

Mean watched entranced as her legs began to shake, draped over Plan’s shoulders as the grind of her womanhood on his tongue became more erratic. He stopped blinking, keen to see her orgasm. Plan’s reaction interested him the most but somehow he must have it missed it. All of a sudden the tables were turned, the girl abruptly sitting upright and framing Plan’s face with both hands. She pulled him towards her, kissing him deep in a way that made Mean’s own clench into fists as she tasted herself on his lips.

What was this feeling making his stomach turn?

As the couple continued to exchange bodily fluids, a crack of lightning shot down from the dark sky, quickly followed by a loud rumble of thunder. Mean’s eyes remained transfixed even as the rain lashed down heavier. His bones felt like blocks of ice, shivers shuddering through him as he stared on until the mermaid’s hands moved to undo Plan’s belt and the zipper of the ripped jeans exposing knobbly knees.

That was when Mean finally found the will to turn away.

If he ever were to see what Plan had between him down there, it would be because the privilege had been granted to him by the man himself. Jumping down from the balcony, costume drenched through, Mean knew what the feeling was.

It began with a J and ended with a Y.

*

Plan didn’t know why he panicked when, in an instant, all of the attention was on him.

He breathed in through his nose, the rise and fall of his chest laboured as she reached into his boxers and took out his faltering erection. He squirmed on the spot as she held it in one hand, licking her lips as though it looked appetizing. He couldn’t understand why he didn’t want her to touch him, why he’d felt more turned on just making her feel good.

April swiftly curled her elegant fingers around him, pumping him up and down, ignorant to his inner torment until she felt him softening in her palm. Plan refused to meet her eyes when she looked up in confusion, his face flushing visibly red despite the pale concealer he had used to lighten his skin.

“Am I doing something wrong?”

Plan quickly shook his head, “I’m sorry, I… really… I don’t know why…”

“Tell me what you like,” April murmured encouragingly, tilting her face slightly so that her mouth was only millimetres from his dick, “I can return the favour if you want?”

“No, don’t,” Plan objected, pushing her back by her shoulders with more force than planned, the thought so unappealing that it completely killed the mood.

“Hey, watch it!” April complained, her forehead wrinkled with concern as she watched Plan quickly tuck himself back into his boxers and button up his jeans. “You don’t need to be embarrassed, it’s probably just the drink. Let me help.”

“It’s fine,” he said, coiling away when April reached out, fingernails spider-walking up his leg, “seriously, stop, please, that’s not what I want.”

“So what do you want?” came April’s huffed response, the frustration in her voice blatant as she awkwardly covered herself up with the duvet.

“Nothing, I’m sorry,” Plan gabbled, feeling stupid as he backed away, stumbling into the door, “I should go, please don’t tell anyone, I’m sorry.”

Unlocking it haphazardly, Plan then fled the room, leaving the almost naked siren completely clueless as to what was going on as she reached for the clothes that only minutes ago he had shed her of.

*

Mean stood in the bustling living room disguised as the Grim Reaper.

The hooded cloak shadowed his face, no one paying him a speck of attention as he mingled amongst the party, now in full swing and at the height of its intoxication. He spied Zaanook through the French doors, back in the garden and jumping around on a trampoline with two other nameless faces Mean had never met. A devil at large and apparently having the time of his life, the traitor. Plan’s colleagues were also still there, two on the dancefloor and one filling a round of shots at the makeshift bar which was actually the dining table.

Suddenly, Plan himself barged through the door, rushing in the direction of his fellow Thai operatives. He looked a mess, his hair ruffled from hands that had spent the last twenty minutes tugging on it and vampire makeup smudged all over his face, blended streaks of black, white and red all mixed together, heavily suggestive of what he’d just been up to.

Slinking back into a corner, blood boiling, Mean watched the three of them talk for a moment, Plan pressing an unidentified object back into the hand of the shorter of his friends. The pair were grinning whilst the elder spoke, Plan’s expression frantic and worried as a jumbled barrage of words poured from his mouth. Mean saw him beckon towards the door, alarmed upon realising that he seemed to want to leave, trying to tug his two friends along behind him. Luckily for Mean, said friends were having none of it, pulling free of Plan’s grip and shaking their heads in objection.

Before he could miss his chance, Mean made a swift exit, walking inconspicuously towards the door into the narrow hallway where a kissing couple blocked his way up the staircase.

Mean scowled impatiently, waiting for them to move but they were too lost in each other to even notice his presence. He wondered if they were strangers like Plan and his lover had been, inhibitions lowered as a result of the alcohol and unable to resist temptation except, the longer he watched, the more convinced he became that they were a real couple. Their lips caressed with intensity, a deep passion evident in the way the man held her, his hands framing her face as though he never wanted her to break away from him. Then Mean noticed the diamond on the woman’s finger. An engagement ring.

Repressing painful memories, Mean pushed past them both without warning, ignoring the dismayed curses that followed him up the stairs as he continued in pursuit of his target.

He tried the bedroom first, surprised to find it empty. The bed itself had been re-made, the crinkled duvet flattened out to conceal any signs of its recent use. If Mean hadn’t have known better, he would never have known, the only slight clue to Plan’s rendezvous the lingering scent of arousal still in the air which made the assassin turn up his nose. Before he left, Mean checked the wastepaper basket but his eyes found no evidence of a foil wrapper or used latex.

More fool Plan.

Pulling the door closed quietly, Mean crept along the landing until he stopped dead outside the bathroom, the door of which had been left ajar. Sensing movement within, he pushed it open to reveal the mermaid he sought, her open makeup bag sitting on the porcelain basin. Fully dressed and having already fixed her hair, she looked a damn sight more presentable than Plan had downstairs. She gasped when she saw him, red lipstick still in hand.

“Jesus, do you mind?!” she exclaimed, mistaking him for an innocent partygoer dressed as the figure of death. Assuming that he needed to use the bathroom, she went back to drawing on her lips. “You gave me a fright! Give me two minutes and it’ll be free.”

Mean’s grin widened under his hood.

He noticed how her eyes appeared red-rimmed in the mirror’s reflection, clearly the after-effect of an outburst of crying. Perhaps Plan really was that bad in bed.

Either way it was irrelevant.

He would give her something to cry about.

*

Plan sat in the corner of the living room sulking.

A night that had started full of so much promise had quickly turned on its head. One minute he’d been drunk, laughing with his friends, meeting new people, flirting with a beautiful girl and the next he’d been humiliated, the experience sobering enough to counteract the copious amounts of alcohol still flooding his system with toxins. He was already starting to feel hungover, the beginnings of a migraine making his head ache.

Perth and Gun had been no help whatsoever. He’d told them both he wanted to leave after answering Perth’s question about whether he’d done the deed by angrily thrusting his unused condom back in his palm. Both had flat out refused, saying they were having a good time and, by the looks of it, they still were.

Harry had joined them now, dancing with a buxom brunette. Plan had no desire to make it a fivesome, slumped in an armchair and surrounded by people who seemed to be making light work of getting laid, mostly having coupled off by this point. He watched them all with envy, wondering how they could make it look so uncomplicated.

Every time the door opened, people returning from the garden after a cigarette break or the kitchen with a refilled drink, he braced himself to see April. The wait was agonising, ashamed to see her face in case she had already told someone about his inability to keep it up. He still didn’t know what had happened. He’d been into it, or so he had thought. He’d liked kissing her, the softness of her skin and the noises she’d made. He’d even enjoyed going down on her, the aftertaste still stuck at the back of his throat.

Yet, for some reason, the thought of her touching him had been a turn off. His whole body had frozen, his dick suddenly unresponsive and his skin cold like someone had thrown a bucket of chilled water over him. His frustrated sighs inaudible above the music, he rubbed at his temples in efforts to soothe the pounding in his head, wishing he’d stayed at home.

What the hell was wrong with him?

Before he could solve the mystery however, his contemplations were interrupted by a shrill, piercing scream.

The room stopped dancing, the operatives it was full of all looking between each other as if to confirm they hadn’t imagined it. Plan’s eyes found Perth, Gun and Harry who’s own were wide with panic, all struck by the very same fear crossing their minds. Plan leapt to his feet before anyone else, exiting quickly in search of the shrieking that continued upstairs. He raced up them two by two, sensing his colleagues hot on his heels as he did.

Finding the source of the noise, Plan recognised her as the woman Zaanook had earlier referred to as Violet, the party’s host. She was trembling, her face a picture of horror as she pointed desperately in the direction of what Plan presumed to be the bathroom.

“Are you okay?” he asked. “What’s happened?!”

“S-she’s…” Violet wailed, “she’s dead, oh my god, she’s dead!”

Plan’s heart sunk in his chest, glancing back to the pale faces of his friends who had gathered behind him on the stairs. Swallowing, he sucked in a breath, bracing himself to witness the spectacle that had drained Violet of all her colour. He approached the door hesitantly, Perth at his shoulder as he let it swing open.

“Jesus,” Perth whispered, Gun and Harry peering over their shoulders to catch a glimpse.

Plan thought he’d never again feel as sick as the day he’d found Captain hanging but this came pretty close. April’s body lay lifeless in the bathtub overflowing with water, her fishtail legs hanging over the rim and eyes still open. They were entirely white, irises rolled back.

A drowned mermaid.

Eyeing the contents of her makeup bag scattered across the floor, Plan’s only hope was that she had put up a good fight, gaze affixed on her corpse and fearing that he would never sleep soundly for the rest of his life. He looked to Perth for support, his attention instead glued to a different focal point for reasons Plan could not comprehend. Following his line of sight, Plan’s heart ceased to beat when he saw what had drawn Perth’s gaze.

The message on the mirror, printed in red lipstick, made him want to starting running and never ever stop.

The two Thai words were meant for him and this time, Plan recognised the author on sight.

You’re mine.

Chapter 6: when death and I come eye to eye.

Notes:

@rathawish - this one is for you. Thank you again for your amazing trailer and I hope this chapter doesn't disappoint! xoxo

Chapter Text

It had taken Plan less than five minutes to discover why Vivienne had been appointed the head of MI6. She arrived in under half an hour, hair tied back in a short ponytail and wearing a suit cut for a man. On a first name basis with everyone and radiating an aura of calmness, she quickly took control of the situation which had by then descended into mayhem, barking clear and concise instructions whilst forensics went to work upstairs. Plan imagined she had the potential to be extremely scary, making a mental note never to cross her if he could help it, although perhaps that ship had already sailed.

Those who knew nothing had been given their marching orders, leaving a small remainder of the party’s guests gathered in the living room. They sat in complete silence, a hell of a lot more sober than they had planned to be as the clock struck one in the morning. Violet, now quiet in her shock, lent Plan a pack of cleansing wipes to remove his makeup, the three vampires still panda-eyed from where their eyeliner had stained delicate skin. Even though he hadn’t said anything, she had noticed him repeatedly rubbing at his lids, contact lenses beginning to itch. He’d smiled gratefully at her, pleased to have something to do as he began to wipe away his mask, offering the pack to Perth and Gun who quickly followed suit.

Harry had since removed his emoji dungarees, dressed only in the yellow onesie he had worn underneath it as he chewed down the beds of his fingernails one by one. None of them knew what to say so they said nothing, not a pin drop to be heard above the tick tocking of time that stood still for no one, merciless in its constancy.

To Plan’s relief, the hush was broken by the reappearance of Zaanook returning from the crime scene. The devil impersonator had lost his horns, heading straight for a half bottle of whiskey abandoned on the windowsill.

“Anyone else need a drink?” he asked, pouring just the one for himself when none of them took him up on the offer. “Vivienne wants us all to go in for questioning.”

“What for?” Gun replied. “We had nothing to do with it.”

“So MI6 can conduct an official investigation into how this happened.”

“I can save them the trouble,” Plan snapped, “Mean fucking Phiravich is what happened.”

“Excuse me?” Zaanook said.

Even though his voice remained level, Plan swallowed nervously, the hot glare in Zaanook’s eyes betraying his fury. Plan brushed it off, assuming that it was the scarlet hue to them making him appear so angry.

“That’s his name, the assassin we’re after, except now he’s also after us,” Plan continued, noticing the look Gun, Perth and Harry shared between each other before sighing. “Or me, specifically.”

“Why you?” Zaanook asked, brow wrinkled with curiosity.

“If I knew then I’d tell you,” Plan said honestly, “I can’t believe he was here and none of us noticed. I didn’t notice. How did I not notice?”

“You were preoccupied,” Gun muttered, the judgement evident in his tone.

“That’s not fair!” Plan said, “I didn’t even want to come out tonight, I knew this was a bad idea!”

“Don’t pretend like we dragged you out by your ankles,” Perth cut in, “besides, you can’t hide out in that flat forever. It was good that you came, you’ve literally been obsessing over this guy!”

“And now it looks like he’s obsessed with you.” Harry said bluntly.

“You haven’t got a clue what you’re talking about. None of you.” Plan fired back. “What exactly are you trying to say here, that this is my fault? Do you think I wanted this to happen?”

“None of us are saying that,” Perth said, gentler this time, “it’s just starting to feel a little bit like danger is following us wherever we go and it all seems to centre around you.”

“What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

“You need to tell Vivienne about this Phiravich character,” Zaanook interrupted, sensing the argument brewing between the four friends, “if he’s the assassin we’ve all been chasing for years, then MI6 need to know. They can help to protect you whilst you’re in London and stop this from happening again.”

“We’re under the protection of Special Branch.” Gun replied firmly.

Zaanook rolled his eyes, seemingly unconvinced.

“What a fine job they appear to be doing.”

*

When Zaanook swung his front door open, Mean was already there waiting for him, looming in the hallway and still in his Grim Reaper costume for a touch of added drama.

“Christ alive!” the elder exclaimed, holding his chest. “Are you trying to give me a heart attack?!

Mean pulled back his hood, revealing his face, the expression across it most unhappy.

“What the hell were you doing there?” he asked.

“What was I doing there?!” Zaanook repeated, tone incredulous as he slammed the door shut behind him, “I was working, what the hell were you doing there?!”

“I wanted to know what kind of party you so desperately had to be at that I could not attend,” Mean said coldly, “and now I know, because you were with them, laughing, joking, playing happy Thai families. I saw you talking to him. How could you?”

“You’ll do well to remember that everything I do is to keep us safe,” Zaanook said, pushing past the deathly figure in his corridor to enter the kitchen.

“Don’t lie to me,” Mean shook his head, turning his boss around roughly by the shoulder to face him, “what could we have possibly gained by you partying with the enemy? The enemy you explicitly asked me to keep under surveillance these last few weeks, what exactly was the point of that, when you seem to be doing such a good job of it yourself? Why waste my fucking time?”

“I’ll tell you what we have gained,” Zaanook replied, slamming down the empty mug he had retrieved from the dishwasher. “Their trust is what we have gained, you jumped up little shit, how can you possibly be so dense? They know you, they fear you, just like you wanted because you are so desperate for attention. What I am doing is more subtle than that. They think I am on their side, I am our fly on the wall and I am not the one who has just murdered an MI6 employee because I’m too immature to have a grown up conversation!”

“I didn’t kill her for you,” Mean snapped.

“Don’t I know it!” Zaanook laughed, thick with so much sarcasm it sounded more like a sneer. “You killed her for Plan Rathavit, because she had what you want, the poor girl.”

“You know nothing, absolutely nothing,” Mean hissed, “and please, spare me the act, don’t pretend like you cared about her.”

“No, I don’t. I care about you, you utterly impossible child. I care about the anonymity we have spent years building up being thrown away at the drop of a hat because you see the face of your ex-fiancé every time you look at Plan.”

Mean moved faster than Zaanook could have anticipated, pinning his boss hard against the kitchen counter, the blade in his pocket now perfectly poised against his neck. He pushed it threateningly against Zaanook’s skin, resisting the urge to draw blood.

“If you mention Kamon one more time, I swear I will cut the tongue out of your head.”

“Your little pretty boy told them all about you tonight,” Zaanook hissed scornfully, dismissive of the knife as he met Mean’s fierce eyes, “I listened in to his interview where he blabbered on and on and on, unable to keep his mouth shut. Your name, what you look like, the clothes you wear, the way you speak, everything. Your enormous ego would have loved to hear it, he’s been paying very close attention.”

“You know what I think?” Mean whispered, voice low as he teased the apple of Zaanook’s throat with the horizontal edge of the weapon in his hand. “I think that if MI6 wanted me caught, I’d have been in prison a long time ago.”

“You were.”

“Only because you wanted me there to punish me, in much the same way that I was snuck out when you finally gave the order. I think everywhere we go, right across the world and with a little convincing from you, all of these governments and bureaucracies and security services believe that I am of much more use to them on the outside.”

“You’re not wrong,” Zaanook shrugged, “but what you fail to understand is that those decisions, those people that I persuade of that fact, will take us down with them if they are ever to fall. The corrupt systems we manipulate to our advantage rely on discretion and, right now, your actions are spilling secrets louder than any mouth.”

“So you think the rats inside MI6 are going to squeal?”

“I think there’s every chance, thanks to you. They will do everything they can to cover their backs, even if it means sticking that knife in mine,” Zaanook said, gesturing down to the blade still in the assassin’s hand, “so you might as well do it, you’ll be doing me a favour.”

Mean pursed his lips together, feeling a little foolish that he had let his emotions get the better of him. Perhaps he had been irrational. Begrudgingly, he lowered the blade.

“What do you want me to do?”

Zaanook’s reply was swift as he switched on the kettle. “I want you to leave the country.”

Mean looked to the floor, a picture of a toddler caught red-handed drawing on the walls and trying to apologise to a furious parent.

“But, I – ”

“Just for a little while,” Zaanook interrupted, placing both of his hands on the top of Mean’s arms, giving him a light squeeze. “Head to the apartment in Berlin and let me handle things here. It won’t be forever, but I need time to make sure this all blows over.”

Mean contemplated the prospect of being shipped off to Germany whilst things grew more exciting in London, knowing it was the right thing to do but also the thing he wanted least.

“Will you give me work whilst I’m out there?” he asked tentatively.

“Yes, if it will keep you sweet,” Zaanook agreed, “just do it, it’ll be good for you to clear your head.”

“My head is clear.”

“Don’t kid yourself Mean, this guy has got under your skin and you know it. You’ve been manic lately, even by your standards.”

Pursing his lips together, Mean met his manager’s eyes and gave a reluctant nod.

“Thank you,” Zaanook said on a sigh of relief, “I’ll book your ticket tonight.”

“Make sure it’s a return,” Mean said, “I’ll give you two weeks and not a day longer.”

“Deal, now go home and pack some things, I’ll drive you to the airport tomorrow.”

“Make it an evening flight.”

“Why?” Zaanook queried, an eyebrow arched.

“There’s just something I need to do before I go,” Mean shrugged, keeping his tone casual when he saw the look of concern that flashed across the elder’s face, “nothing major, don’t worry, it won’t get us into any more trouble.”

Zaanook eyed him suspiciously before turning to pour himself a hot cup of tea. Mean watched the scalding steam erupt from the nozzle of the kettle, boiled to a point of metamorphosis from liquid to gas and back again as it left wet condensation behind on the cupboard doors.

“I hope for your sake that’s true.”

*

To his surprise, when Plan had arrived back home that morning, dawn just beginning to break, he’d fallen fast asleep.

In fairness, their interrogation had been tiring, Plan quickly becoming bored of answering the same ridiculous questions over and over again. No, he did not know that Mean had been planning on attending the party. No, he and the victim had never met prior to that night. No, he did not know why Mean had taken a keen interest in his whereabouts as of late.

In the end, a call from P’New had granted them early release but it came at a price. Plan’s boss was on his way to London according to the text he had later sent to Gun. He would be flying in that evening and he wanted them all there for a crisis meeting as soon as he landed. Plan wasn’t looking forward to it but as soon as they had arrived home he’d decided that it was a problem for the laterbase, sapped of all his energy and hungover without even having been to bed.

He hadn’t woken until half twelve, his rest undisturbed. Groggy, he’d eventually found the motivation to crawl out from under the covers and take a shower, scrubbing at his skin to rid himself of the feeling of dirtiness that clung to him upon remembering the events of the night before. No matter how hard he tried, apparently guilt was not something you could wash off.

Skin raw, he’d eventually gone to join his three fellow operatives in the living room, each one of them falling silent as Plan appeared at the door.

“Talk about a frosty reception,” he said, glancing between them.

“Not frosty man,” Perth shook his head, “sit down, I’ll make you a coffee.”

“How you bearing up?” Harry asked, looking up from his laptop.

“I’m alright,” Plan replied, “what about you? You knew her better than me…”

“Not really, she was just one of those colleagues who I saw most days but who I didn’t pay much attention to unless I needed something. Feel like an asshole now though, imagine that I worked with the girl for over three years and yet all I ever spoke to her about was printing. I didn’t even know her last name.”

“Don’t beat yourself up,” Gun interjected, “it doesn’t help.”

“Easier said than done.”

“I suppose we have to assume that he knows where we’ve moved to,” Gun muttered, deep in thought and looking out from the window at their view across the city.

“Not necessarily,” Plan said.

“What d’you mean?”

“Well we don’t know if he was there for us. All we know is that he happened to see us there.”

“I think it’s safe to say that he didn’t accidentally stumble upon us trick-or-treating, don’t you?”

“Obviously, I’m just saying we don’t know if we were his intended targets.”

“All this ‘we’ talk is killing me,” Harry said, eyebrows raised.

“Fine, me then,” Plan said through gritted teeth. “Although it’s not like you guys are exactly innocent in all of this, you’re part of this operation too remember?”

“Yet he only has eyes for you.”

“Do you actually think I’m enjoying this?”

“Sometimes I wonder.”

“What the fuck are you implying Harry? If you’ve got something to say just say it.”

“You’ve got to admit, P’Plan,” Gun cut in carefully, “you do seem to get a kick out of all this. This elaborate game you and he are playing literally keeps you awake at night.”

“I’m just trying to do my job. Our job!”

“Really?” Harry accused. “Or are you just having fun at the heart of chaos? If you were doing your job you would have told us about him long before he broke in! You brought this guy to our door, put us all in danger, now it’s up to you to fix that before anyone else dies!”

“Are you kidding me?! I found him when no one else could, you should be thanking me, that was the whole objective of this assignment!”

“But this isn’t an assignment anymore,” Harry replied disapprovingly, “this is flirtation.”

Plan looked to Gun, eyes appealing for support which never came, all he got an apologetic shake of the head.

“I’m sorry - ” Gun started.

“Screw this,” Plan snapped, refusing to acknowledge the collage of images taking up the majority of their statement wall, all of which included Mean or one of his victims, “I need some air.”

He walked straight out of the room, pushing past Perth who emerged from the kitchen holding a steaming cup until he reached the front door, ignoring the shouts of his name and slamming it behind him. After calling for a lift that took him down to the ground floor, he made his way out of the lobby and through the main entrance, reaching into a pocket for the trusty and crumpled cigarette he always kept there in case of emergency.

There was a chill in the air, the first day of November and it felt like it, the wind cold as it slapped him hard in the face, making it impossible to light the nicotine stick between his fingers even if he’d wanted to. He felt comforted just holding it, storming in the direction of nowhere as the voice inside his head raged. These people were supposed to be his friends, how could they possibly think that he wanted this? Being chased around a foreign country by a professional assassin who was nothing short of an enigma to them all?

Only a psychopath could enjoy that.

As he turned the corner, feet moving fast and paying no attention to where he was going, Plan was suddenly and totally unexpectedly, blinded.

“Hey!” he cried as a sack was shoved over his head. “What the fuck?! Get off me!”

He lashed out viciously at the assailant who attempted to restrain him. Unable to see, the panicked punches he threw missed their target, colliding with nothing but thin air. As Plan tried fruitlessly to defend himself, two sets of hands grabbed him, pulling at his arms until they were tied tightly behind his back by what felt like rope. Together, they bundled him successfully into the boot of a moving vehicle, Plan kicking and yelling the entire time.

Shouting for help in the darkness, the radio was suddenly turned up to maximum volume, the bass so loud that his screams were inaudible even if there had been someone around to listen.

*

Mean took a deep breath to compose himself, running a hand back through his bangs as he downed a tumbler of dark rum.

Leaning back against the bar, he checked his watch for the fifteen time in an hour.

Time was getting on, the little hand having nearly ticked around to three o’clock in the afternoon. His flight was booked for eight and he still had to get there. He hated airports, they the most boring places in the world as far as he was concerned. He was always the last person to check in, used to being the target of impatient glares every time he eventually boarded the plane after everyone else had already been seated. In the end, Zaanook had told him off for it, banging on about how it was important to blend in with the crowd. Mean instead found it much more fun to make new enemies before he’d even stashed away his luggage in the overhead compartment. The dozens of faces scowling in his direction as he walked down the aisle were secretly thrilling, as was drawing the attention of so many people all at once.

It looked like this evening would be no different.

He’d called in a favour, the place his for the next few hours. It was perfect, dark enough to be mysterious but not so much that it felt superficial. The atmosphere was masculine, a place where deals were made and alliances formed, although a gentleman’s agreement sealed with a handshake wasn’t quite what he had in mind.

To pass the time he approached one of the wide tables, racking up the balls in a colourful triangle in anticipation. Admittedly, he was struggling to process why he felt so tense. Perhaps it was because he was leaving, knowing that it may be some time before their game could resume. What would he do for entertainment whilst he was gone? Who would he think about late at night? The monitoring of who’s movements would make him want to get out of bed in the morning in quite the same way?

Mean had travelled the globe throughout his grisly career, seen iconic landmarks, bustling cities, quaint villages and jaw-dropping horizons from the East to the West and yet, a cold and rainy November spent in London had never seemed more appealing.

Still, if he had to go, he’d make himself unforgettable.

*

What Plan guessed to be around half an hour later, the car finally came to a stop.

His ears pricked, listening for the sound of voices as the music cut off. He tried to steady his frantic breathing, trapped in the confined space and struggling for air. Registering the noise of his kidnappers getting out of the car, the slam of the doors loud enough for him to hear, his whole body grew rigid with tension, anticipating a fight for his life.

In the blackness, he said a quick prayer in case he didn’t make it out alive, thinking of the people he loved and asking a higher power to take care of them in his absence. Prim, his mother and Perth, all at the forefront of his mind.

Suddenly he heard the sound of the boot click, bracing himself for the worst. He sensed daylight as the lid was lifted, squeezing his eyes shut within the sack over his head.

“Let’s get him out,” a man’s voice said, one that Plan didn’t recognise.

Completely still, Plan let himself be lifted deadweight, the grip under his arms strong. He thought better of throwing another punch, legs wobbly underneath him when they were finally placed back on solid ground.

Before he could say anything, the bag over his head was roughly pulled off, revealing two men who looked to be from the same place he was except their faces were unfamiliar. Plan stared at them, blinking until his eyes adjusted to the daylight. They were wearing expensive suits and were not what he had expected, appearing nothing like the thugs they clearly were.

“Sorry about that,” the taller of the two said, and he was very tall, untying the knots restraining Plan’s hands behind his back, “it was easier this way.”

“W-what was?” Plan stammered, rubbing the back of his sore head, subjected to multiple bumps throughout the journey. He shook out his wrists, the rope having left behind friction burns from where he’d tried to wriggle out the whole way.

“To get you to come with us,” the other shrugged.

“Where am I?”

“Where you need to be,” said the shorter man who was still taller than Plan himself. His muscled arms were large and defined, the special agent almost certain he had been the one to grab him and make him feel featherlight.

“What does that mean?” he asked.

The tall man, whose brunette hair had been combed back professionally, pointed towards a building on Plan’s left. It looked shabby and run down from the outside, a place where he was sure good things most definitely never happened.

“Everything you need to know is in there,” the man spoke.

Plan looked hesitantly between the two henchmen and his apparent destination, the prospect of walking straight into trouble without protest not ideal in the slightest. The way the shorter crossed his well-built arms expectantly informed him that he had little choice, beginning to creep in the direction of the door. He glanced around the cobbled side street for someone to save him but the spot had been purposefully chosen, hidden away out of plain sight.

The perfect spot for a murder meeting.

Plan tried not to think about it, desperately wishing he’d charged his phone before leaving the house, it still dead after arriving home so late last night. Even if he still couldn’t unlock it, at least it would have allowed him to call in reinforcements. Upon reaching the rusty door, he turned back to the two men, both watching him intently from their positions by the car and poised to catch him if he even thought about running. In case he needed any further convincing, the shorter suddenly opened his suit jacket, revealing a hand-gun in the left inside pocket. Gulping hard, Plan turned back to the door and pushed it open, peeking inside hesitantly to find a narrow staircase that only led one way. Down.

When he entered, the door seemed to close of its own accord, clanging shut behind him and leaving him engulfed in the dark. Feeling for the hand-rail, he began his descent step by step, gingerly moving towards the light emitting from a room at the bottom of the stairs. As he approached it, Plan tentatively poked his head around the threshold, fingertips gripping the doorway by its jams in case he had to make a swift exit.

The building was less dilapidated on the inside. More specifically, it was a pool hall, the hanging lights suspended above each playing table doing their best to illuminate the wide and dingy space. At the far side of the room there was a bar, shelves of glass alcohol bottles sparkling in the background. Plan couldn’t be sure from a distance but he assumed them to be full. Then, as his eyes scanned every inch of the place, they landed on a man concealed within the darkness, dressed in all black from head to toe and almost lost within the shadows.

For a second Plan’s heart stopped.

Then it raced.

He looked as expensive as ever, leather jacket and trousers tight-fitting, elongating his already never-ending legs. He wore less makeup this time, only his winged eyeliner still present, skin glowing as though it had never seen a blemish in its life.

Plan almost felt relieved to see him, concerned that perhaps the brother April had mentioned in their conversations prior to her death had issued a warrant for his capture.

What had his life come to that being kidnapped by an assassin actually felt like a bail out?

“Don’t be scared.” Mean said, watching him, a wooden cue tucked into the crook of his elbow.

Plan looked around as he walked further into the room, searching for anyone he might be able to appeal to for help if the need arose. The club was empty, not even a bartender in sight.

“Are we alone?” he asked carefully, clearing his throat.

“Yes.”

Plan nodded, breathing in through his nose before he lost his cool and exploded, closing the distance between them and shoving Mean back hard by his shoulders.

“What the fuck was that out there?!” he yelled, motioning in the direction of the stairs. “Was there any need to set your two dogs on me?”

“That’s just Meen and Est,” the assassin shrugged, brushing off any crinkles that Plan’s enraged hands might have caused. “They owed me a favour, I explicitly told them not to hurt you.”

“Oh well, that must be fine then!”

“It was you who decided to move and make it harder for me to break in,” Mean grinned.

“I see,” Plan said, lips pressed together, “you’re still following me then?”

“I thought you would have worked that out for yourself.”

“I did…” Plan said, bravely meeting Mean’s eyes, “you’re mine, huh?”

The corners of Mean’s mouth tugged upwards.

“You seemed to need reminding.”

“What, exactly, did you see that night?”

“Everything,” Mean replied, slim eyes glittering under the table lights.

“Say it,” Plan pushed, “I want to hear you say it. I want to hear how you invaded my privacy yet again. Have you no fucking manners?”

“I watched you,” Mean admitted casually, “from the balcony opposite, the way you pleasured her, the way you enjoyed her. You looked to be having far too much fun without me.”

“And then?”

“Then I decided to kill her.”

“No, I mean what did you see then?”

“Nothing,” Mean shrugged, “there are some invasions that are beyond even me.”

“So you didn’t see me turn her down?” Plan said, this new information making Mean’s eyebrows quirk with interest. “You didn’t see me leave her there?”

“No… oh man, tell me you didn’t,” Mean almost purred, the smile on his face astonishingly seductive as he chuckled low in his throat. “Phi, please, tell me you didn’t run?”

“I didn’t want her,” he confessed, shivering at the way his full name sounded on Mean’s tongue, “not like that, and you killed her anyway.”

“My, my, my,” Mean spoke, the delight on his face evident, “you surprise me, that must have taken some self-restraint.”

“More than you displayed,” Plan frowned, “that is the second innocent person whose death you’ve made me responsible for.”

“Your sense of self-importance amazes me.”

“Coming from you?” Plan scoffed.

“Don’t flatter yourself enough to think that you will ever be responsible for my actions,” Mean said, crossing his arms with his cue trapped between them.

“If we’d never met, she would still be alive,” Plan replied pointedly.

“You and I, or you and her?”

“Either, both,” Plan shrugged, exhaling on a deep sigh, “what do you want from me Mean? Like seriously, what do you actually want?”

“I didn’t bring you here to answer your questions.”

“Then why?”

Mean glanced down at the pool table he was leaning against, a grassy green in shade and already set up to be contested.

“To see if you fancied a game.”

Plan shook his head in disbelief, staring at the assassin who stood there so smugly, eyebrows raised on a challenge he wanted absolutely no part of.

“No thanks, I’m done playing,” he said, swallowing the urge to punch him straight in the face because he valued his life and turning on his heels instead. He walked back towards the doorway with conviction, not believing that there was anything else Mean had to say that could change his mind.

“How about we make a deal?”

Plan stopped in his tracks, glimpsing back over his shoulder as curiosity got the better of him.

“I’m listening.”

“If you win,” Mean said, practically glowing in his glee, “then I’ll tell you.”

“Tell me what?”

“What I want.”

Plan’s heart skipped a beat, despising himself for even being tempted.

It made no sense to him that Mean kept putting himself directly in the path of a man who, in theory, should be his nemesis. How could it be possible to have such a fixation over someone who would deny him his freedom in an instant?

He wanted to understand.

Plan eyed the table, chewing on his lower lip and weighing up his chances.

“What happens if you win?”

“Then you tell me something,” Mean grinned, “something that I want to know.”

Knowing this might be his only chance to learn the truth, Plan took a few moments to be certain before he smacked his lips together and walked over to the cue stand, picking one out that complimented his height.

All or nothing, he supposed.

Grabbing a cube of chalk, he coated the tip in the blue substance, eyes never leaving Mean’s.

“You any good?” the assassin queried.

“You’re about to find out,” Plan shrugged nonchalantly. “Just so you know, this’ll be the last time I give in. Remember that.”

Mean’s calculating smile reached every single one of his sharp features, rolling the white ball up to the far rail of the table where Plan joined him.

“We’ll see. You to break.”

*

It took Mean less than two minutes to realise he was being hustled, sipping an uncapped beer with contempt as he watched on.

Plan had struck the break off shot with confidence, the triangle of yellow and red spheres splitting in all directions as one of the latter sank into the bottom right hand corner. The length in Mean’s pants stirred when Plan looked up at him, the smirk in his eyes plain as day, and moved around the table to take his next shot.

The intelligence agent potted his following two reds with ease, the stroke of his arm smooth and right in the centre of the cue ball, a technique adopted by someone who’d clearly played this game before. His fourth shot was trickier, an acute angle into the left centre pocket which again he executed cleanly, the ball not even touching the jaws as it dropped.

A half-laugh escaped Mean’s lips, sarcastic in its sound.

“I take it you’re no amateur then.”

“Beginners luck,” Plan shrugged, mouth curving on a wicked smile even by Mean’s standards.

“My ass.” Mean muttered under his breath, not moving out of the way when Plan tried to budge past him to take aim on his fifth red, a long shot up to the top right.

Despite him stubbornly refusing to move, Plan leant down anyway, backside dangerously close to brushing Mean’s crotch as the assassin’s eyes travelled all the way up his spine. He spent a long time lining up the shot, standing up to chalk his cue twice as if he purposefully wanted to torture him but Mean resisted, keeping his hands to himself as Plan finally drew back his elbow, unwilling to be labelled a cheat.

Too pre-occupied showing off, Plan hit the white too hard, the red ball it clattered into hitting the back of the pocket so viciously that it bounced out again, rolling away from its target like a piece of rejected food.

Mean heard Plan’s sharp intake of breath as he got up from the shot, tense as he nervously glanced back and found the assassin already picking up his cue.

“Watch and learn,” Mean grinned, shooting him an arrogant look.

Mean made quick work of his yellows, displaying impeccable cue ball control as he moved around the table. His heart was racing, getting a kick off Plan’s annoyed tuts and muttered curses and looks of disbelief as he expertly potted each ball. On his sixth, he thought Plan might chuck the towel in, the white on a string as he struck it on its side and made it spin, the yellow disappearing whilst he landed perfectly on his seventh and final one.

“You sure you don’t wanna forfeit?” he asked, chuckling when Plan stubbornly ignored him, picking up Mean’s beer bottle balanced on the edge of the table and draining it. “On your head be it,” he shrugged, stretching across the green baize to sink the last yellow ball into the right centre, biting back a smile when he saw Plan’s head shake out of his peripheral vision.

The only problem with Mean’s last shot was that it had left the black difficult, tight on the side rail and never a given. There was significant distance to cover between cue ball and object ball but Mean felt confident, knowing he didn’t have to worry about the position of his next shot.

“Bottom right,” he nominated.

Holding his breath, the assassin bent down, eyes flickering between black and white as he took aim, completely focused on the job in hand. He struck the shot gently, giving the ball every chance to drop. He watched it glide up the side rail, heart in his mouth.

Plan seemed to have stopped breathing, gaze glued to the black as it travelled, hitting the jaws of the pocket and ricocheting between them. Mean prayed for gravity to work its magic but the pleas went unanswered, perhaps punishment for all of his many sins, the ball eventually hovering just on the edge of his victory and perfectly lined up for Plan to steal it from him.

“Damn it,” he whispered, reluctantly standing up straight.

“What a shame,” Plan snickered, tone caught somewhere between elation and relief as he swiftly leant down to take his three remaining reds.

Mean felt sick as he watched him pot each one, sensing his impending defeat and powerless to prevent it. His only hope was that with the black ball being so close to the pocket, Plan might cue it straight for the white to roll in right after it. Mean held his breath as Plan shaped himself to clear the table, selecting the same final pocket that he had.

Plan did not over-hit it this time, the clank of the black as it dropped a sound that the assassin would forever associate with his nightmares, the white staying firmly on the table as it came to a halt. The special agent wasted no time in throwing his cue down, standing tall and pinning him with piercing dark eyes that smouldered in their triumph.

“Now you answer me,” he said firmly, “a deal’s a deal.”

Mean licked his lips, rubbing them together as he coolly leant his cue against the wall and approached the man so dead set on ruining his life. He lunged towards him, placing both hands on Plan’s hips and lifting him on to the table, ignoring the gasp of surprise that escaped the special agent’s throat. Mean roughly pushed his knees apart, slinking between them and pressing in intimately close, not a man to ever break his word.

“I want you to come looking for me not because you want to catch me,” Mean murmured, breath hot as it ghosted across Plan’s skin, “but because you just need to see my face.”

Plan gulped, eyes alight with desire and fear, a combination that turned Mean on even more.

“I can still see it from behind bars,” he whispered, one of his hands subconsciously moving to the nape of Mean’s neck, flexing at the short hair there as he lost himself in menacing eyes.

“Would you?” Mean asked with interest. “Would you visit me?”

“Maybe in your dreams.”

Mean let out a breathy laugh, both of his hands on Plan’s slim waist. He leant forward slightly, resting his forehead against the elder’s and closing his eyes.

“Will you answer my question even though I lost?”

“Depends what it is,” Plan swallowed.

“Why didn’t you have sex with her?” he asked, pulling back to meet Plan’s hazy gaze. “I know you said you didn’t want to, but why?”

Mean felt Plan’s entire body tense, frozen still in his hands. He saw the conflict written all over his face, eyes wide as he mulled over the answer.

“Don’t open your mouth unless you’re telling me the truth,” the assassin warned, tone threatening.

Mean waited an eternity for his soft pink lips to part but when they did, he realised that it had been a very, very long time since someone had made him feel so alive. Sleeping on slaughtered furs simply couldn’t replace that.

“Because it’s you that takes up all the space in my head,” Plan whispered, “it’s always you.”

Slowly, and probably the most gentle he’d ever been, Mean placed a hand upon Plan’s cheek, thumb touching the corner of his mouth. Plan’s eyes flickered down to it and back up, nervously meeting his once more, the trepidation in them making the assassin’s chest pound.

Those blown pupils were all the permission Mean needed, blissfully unaware of Plan’s other hand as it gripped the neck of the empty beer bottle they had shared, tilting his head to give him the kiss that he’d once so sweetly asked for.

Chapter 7: if I have to fall then it won't be in your line.

Chapter Text

Plan hadn’t anticipated actually letting an assassin kiss him.

The second he’d spied the beer Mean kept leaving unattended, too busy flaunting his pool skills, he’d formulated a plan of action.

Letting him get close had been part of the plan but winning had been a bonus. Initially he had thought to smash the glass bottle over his head, to cave his skull in just as he bent down to pot the black but when he’d missed, the prospect of victory had simply been too enticing.

Whilst he’d never care to admit it, so had Mean.

Electricity bristled through his veins when he had been lifted onto the pool table, heart in his throat as their eyes locked. Mean was so hard to read, his gaze full of fascination. The elder resigned himself to the possibility of death. He could sense the temptation there, Mean’s desire clear in his eyes. He had subtly reached behind his back, unsure what purpose the desire served. To kill or to dominate?

Maybe, underneath it all, they were the same thing.

The question Mean had asked surprised him. He wondered why he cared, Mean could have had him a long time ago if he’d wanted. What had changed since that night? Why did it matter now who he slept with? Plan’s only theory was that perhaps Mean wanted him to know who he was, in all his malevolence, before anything happened between them. If that was the case, then Plan wished he didn’t know. It had been easier then to admit what he wanted, even though it scared him.

Telling Mean the truth had been unpremeditated. When Plan spoke his confession it felt as though someone else was talking. A version of himself he didn’t recognise, an evil twin. He would have likened it to a devil on his shoulder if he didn’t already have one of those between his legs.

Even if his voice no longer belonged to him, the mouth Mean kissed was very much his.

Plan was amazed by his gentleness, Mean’s lips softer than he had imagined. He didn’t know why he had expected them to feel rough like sandpaper, the assassin always clean shaven. Today was no different and despite the careful way Mean held him at the hips, the press of his mouth was assured and confident, convinced that he wouldn’t pull away.

He was right to think so because Plan didn’t, responsive even as his fingers curled tight around the bottle neck. His eyes slipped shut as Mean lingered there, senses exploding whilst he satisfied the curiosities that had niggled at him ever since they’d met at the bar.

How it might feel to kiss a man. How it might feel to kiss Mean, specifically.

So enamoured by him in those moments, Plan forgot that even though curiosity was the first step to enlightenment, it also killed the cat.

The only problem was he didn’t care one bit because the answer?

Well, the answer was spine tingling.

*

It was of no surprise to Mean that Plan matched his intensity kiss for kiss.

It was of even less surprise that the bottle he’d left behind for him as bait was quickly forgotten about, Plan’s hands instead finding his neck as he subconsciously spread his legs a little wider for Mean to press in close. A masochistic part of his brain had left it there as a test, interested to know whether he really would, whether he actually had it in him.

Unable to resist, Mean snuck his way inside Plan’s mouth, feeling him gasp and grinning to himself when, tentatively, the elder caressed the underside of his tongue with his own. A range of emotions struck him as Plan’s confidence grew, smug, possessive and wistful all at once as he was transported back in time to memories that were both painful and brilliant. So, so brilliant that they sparkled like diamonds, precious in his mind.

Plan seemed to sense his disassociation, knees closing in around his hips and bringing him back to the present, to him and his warm kisses. Mean linked both of his arms around the small of his back and tugged him forward, right on the edge of the table. He moved his face slightly, pressing open-mouthed kisses along the strong line of Plan’s jaw, further still down his smooth neck, met by no resistance. Just as Plan was about to moan, lips parting, head falling back, an unexpected sound interrupted them. A sound that, to Mean, was all too familiar.

The bang ricocheted around the room and for a few bewildering seconds, Mean did not know where it had come from. All he did know was what, or rather who, it had hit.

It was Plan’s face that gave it away, the shell-shocked eyes which pierced him unnerving. Mean glanced down to the hand Plan had retracted from his hair, holding his side as a fresh wound began to spurt blood between his fingers, mouth open now only in horror. Whipping around, he quickly found the perpetrator of the gunshot, Plan immediately falling back against the table without his support. The rage that stirred within Mean when he saw him built like a tsunami, rushing forward to throttle Zaanook by the lapels of his winter coat.

“Why the fuck did you do that?!” he shouted, shaking him hard.

“To save you from yourself,” came the simple reply, spoken above Plan’s whimpered cries for him to come back as Zaanook casually tucked the handgun into the waistband of his jeans.

“I thought you didn’t want him dead?!”

“It’s not ideal, I grant you, but I’d rather that than you sleeping with him.”

“That’s not up to you!” Mean yelled.

“Says who?”

“This is bullshit. Do you hear me? I’m twenty-two years old Zaanook, a grown ass man unless you’ve forgotten! Where the hell do you get off? You control everything I do, where I go, who I kill and who we work for but you cannot control who I see, no fucking way.”

“I can when who you’re seeing affects me,” Zaanook snapped.

“Why do you care? Even if I ended up in prison, what would it matter? You know I would never turn you in, I’m not a snitch, so why is it so important to you that I end up alone?”

“Because you cannot do this job and date at the same time! We aren’t regular people, we don’t get to have a normal life like everyone else. That is the price we pay for our success, you know that better than anyone. I let you convince me once, I put aside my reservations to support you and look how it ended? I don’t want to see your heart break again.”

“What happens to my heart is none of your concern!”

“I think you’ll find it is,” Zaanook said firmly, glancing over the assassin’s shoulder to watch his latest victim flailing like a soon to be dead fish, “whether you like it or not Mean, you belong to me, you always will. Heart included.”

Mean let out a stunned half laugh, shaking his head in disbelief before his attention was stolen by a new sound. Plan’s barely audible gasp of his birth name struck deep, displaced flashbacks plaguing his mind. Swallowing hard, he released his grip on Zaanook’s coat, slowly approaching the man laid out on the blood drenched table.

Plan looked handsome even as he was dying. Skin growing paler by the second, lashes fluttering weakly as their eyes met, chest desperately heaving for breath. Mean waited for him to ask for help but he didn’t, gaze as steady as it could be under the circumstances. There seemed to be an unspoken agreement between them, one which acknowledged their journey as Plan offered him the faintest of smiles, one that Mean could hardly bear to see. He took it upon himself to surprise him once more, drawing his own pistol from an inside pocket.

“You gonna finish him off? Spare him anymore pain?” Zaanook interrupted, the tone of his voice snide. “Gosh, you really do have a heart in there somewhere, don’t you?”

“Nah,” Mean muttered quietly. He stared at Plan, watching the life drain from his eyes before turning back to face his boss head on. “This one’s for you.”

Without doubt and aiming straight for Zaanook’s heart, the assassin pulled the trigger.

He wouldn’t let this happen again.

Not on his watch.

*

All of the people Mean had killed until him were nobodies.

They had meant nothing, mere specks of life he had rubbed out as easily as pencil with eraser.

He had met him in Oslo, Norway, between targets and filling his time with a wander around the National Museum when he’d noticed the strange young man at his shoulder, bewitched by the same painting. Edvard Munch was a genius, his use of colour exquisite. From the descriptive lines of red, yellow and blue pigments that depicted an anxiety-ridden expression of human fear in The Scream, to the symbolic swirls of eroticism in his portrayal of the Madonna. Mean had been staring at the collection for a long time, entranced by the expressionist works and wondering why they made him feel uneasy.

~

“They’re beautiful, aren’t they?” a voice beside him murmured.

Mean glanced to his right, surprised to be met by a face that was not European. The man had a distinctly East Asian eye shape but, oddly, his irises were electric blue. A rarity. They held Mean’s gaze, awaiting a response that his mouth couldn’t seem to frame. A few inches shorter, a mop of dark hair and full pink lips, Mean thought he was quite stunning.

“I don’t know if that’s the word I’d use,” he replied, clearing his throat.

“Oh?” the man said, tilting his head curiously.

“I think they are uncomfortable to look at.”

“That’s entirely the point.”

“What do you mean?”

“Munch is an incredible artist. He understands the human attraction to the bizarre, to things that we know we should turn away from. He harnesses that compulsion to look in all of his paintings. Can you imagine being so talented? To be able to get the balance just right? You feel uncomfortable and yet, you’ve been standing here over an hour.”

“Have you been watching me?” Mean asked, frowning.

“It’s hard not to,” the man shrugged, “you’re as attractive as the paintings.”

“I don’t know whether to be flattered,” Mean scoffed, turning back to the artwork, “am I difficult to look at too?”

“Not difficult, no,” the man shook his head, “just fascinating.”

The assassin looked back at the ocean eyes fixed on him, offering the man a half smile.

“I’m Mean Phiravich,” he said, extending out a hand.

“Kamon Lee,” came the reply as it was shook, accompanied by a wide grin.

A name that Mean didn’t know then would change his life forever.

~

Falling for him had happened quickly.

Zaanook had noticed it before he did, issuing warnings he later wished he’d heeded but at the time, he’d been too wrapped up in his new beau to notice.

Kamon had stayed with him ever since that night, screwing well into the early hours because Mean had been unable to keep his hands off him. Sex felt different with him, the touches burning and the climax more intense than he’d ever experienced, chasing the same feeling again and again by the hour. It never wore off either, no matter how many times they slept together, if anything only growing in its power until it became a life-source Mean felt he could no longer live without. When he asked Kamon to return to London with him, the possibility of being separated hadn’t been an option. So they went, because it had been that simple, lost deep within a fairy-tale that left bloody fingerprints behind on every page turned.

Mean never told him what he did for a living, Kamon under the apprehension that he came from a rich family and worked as an investor for high profile clients. There had been numerous occasions where he had wanted to tell him, sick of the lying and hiding after every hit but Zaanook always talked him out of it. They built themselves a nice life away from the secrets, full of passion and devotion and companionship that Mean hadn’t known before.

Yet, with those things, came danger.

Every assassin knew that love came steeped in risk. It was rule number one, any subject of Mean’s affections would always become a target for those he had scorned. Consequently, he worked hard to keep Kamon safe. The people they told about their relationship were few and far between, dates held in secret locations and social media accounts kept very much separate, especially after the unexpected proposal which Mean knew he should have declined. Those blue eyes had been so full of love that his whispered yes had been uttered before he could do anything about it.

He had wanted it too, underneath the fear.

By then, even Zaanook had wished them well. He’d seen enough of them over the months to know that what they felt for each other was genuine. Mean thought perhaps somewhere deep in his heart, he was happy that his favourite protégé had found the love that he himself had never made time for. He’d been delighted when his boss had offered to help plan the wedding, organising the few exclusive invitations and the three tiered cake.

Then, the night before the big day, it had all gone wrong.

Mean came home early, Zaanook had given him the day off and the afternoon was instead spent sorting out the final finishing touches. His last trip had been to the tailors, picking up their two matching tuxedos, both in navy blue because neither he or Kamon brought in to that bride and groom rubbish. He’d bounded through the front door like an excited puppy, the suits draped over an arm only to discover that he himself had now become the hunted.

Kamon had been knelt on the living room floor, hands up in surrender and sobbing quietly. The woman holding the gun to his forehead was shaking, both hands clasped around the grip. When she looked up, Mean immediately recognised her, the wife of an Italian official that he’d been ordered to kill over three months ago. How she had found him, Mean did not know.

He never did find out either.

~

“Please,” Mean whispered, mouth bone dry, “god, please don’t.”

“Why shouldn’t I?” she asked in English, the words coated by her accent, tears brimming at Bambi-like eyes. “You didn’t care about me when you sank a knife into my husband. Now it’s your turn to suffer, don’t you think?”

“So make me suffer then, please just leave him out of it.”

“That’s not how this works. I’m not scared of you, I have nothing left to lose and by the time I’m done, neither will you.”

She did not look like the type of woman to have ever fired a gun before. Feminine dark curls swathed her shoulders, skin tanned and figure shapely. She looked like a homemaker, a woman who made enough spaghetti to feed the stomachs of all she held dear and who kissed her husband goodbye every time he left for work. Mean did not believe that she would shoot but perhaps that was the woman she’d been before. The widow in his living room now looked unstable. He could see that she was tempted, her trembling index finger positioned on the trigger and praying for the courage to press down. Mean ignored the terrified look of confusion Kamon sent his way, creeping forward slightly with a hand outstretched.

“It’s just my job,” he told her, “I’m sorry.”

“LIES!” she shouted, so loudly that both men before her jumped. “Don’t you dare lie to me after everything you’ve taken from me, if you were sorry you wouldn’t be what you are.”

Kamon found his voice then, the question directed at her even though he looked straight at Mean.

“What do you mean? What is he?”

The woman cackled like a witch, hysterical and wicked.

“Your own fiancé doesn’t know?” she said, relishing the pained expression written across Mean’s face. She looked down at Kamon, tears trickling down her cheeks. “Well how about this, the last man you’re ever going to see, the man you love, is an assassin.”

“No, no that’s not possible,” Kamon shook his head, biting his bottom lip as it wobbled, waiting for Mean to deny it except he didn’t, eyes only flickering to the floor in shame.

“I tried so hard to tell you,” Mean whispered.

But he never did get a chance to explain.

~

Mean had almost been glad when she’d pulled the trigger because Kamon’s love for him died before he did. He’d watched it drain from his eyes like blood from a wound, the sight unbearable.

The official’s wife shot herself in the mouth seconds after, leaving Mean to stare at the two corpses on his living room floor. The human body was an interesting thing, its response to such overwhelming grief strange in hindsight, a sensation Mean had not experienced before or since. His insides were hollow, unable to process any thought. He’d felt his heart burn cold, the way it had been before only this time, the conversion was mind-numbingly painful.

That was the day Mean realised he could commit murder without even holding a weapon.

That was the day he’d understood there to be a world of difference between the death of a nobody versus the death of a somebody.

That was the day he’d vowed never to fall in love again.

*

Mean watched Zaanook fall to the floor clutching his chest before turning his attention back to Plan.

He was not in a good way, breath shallow and weak as he continued to bleed out. The green baize beneath him had by now morphed a grim shade of reddish black, illuminated by the low-hanging light like a patient on an operating table. Mean bent down close, quickly shucking off his leather jacket and pressing it against the bullet wound in his side.

Plan’s eyes flickered, threatening to roll back in his head.

“My... my sis… sister,” he tried to speak. “Tell m-my sister I – ”

“You can tell her yourself,” Mean interrupted, looping an arm underneath Plan’s knees, “you’re gonna be fine okay, just stay with me.”

Plan was lighter than Mean had anticipated when he lifted him, one of the elder’s arms loosely draped around his neck. The assassin could feel the energy seeping from him, fearful that he might be beyond saving as he dashed in the direction of the exit and left a groaning Zaanook writhing on the floor behind him.

As he burst through the door to the pool club, eyes readjusting to the daylight, dusk on the verge of falling, he called to Meen and Est, still waiting by the expensive car they had stolen. Both men ran to assist, their faces pale upon realising what they might now be mixed up in.

“Help me get him in the car,” Mean ordered.

“Jesus, what happened?” Est asked, eyes panicked, “you said no one would get hurt!”

“He wasn’t hurt by me!”

“Where is Zaanook?” Meen queried, opening the back door of the Range Rover. “We saw him follow you inside, is he alright?”

“He’s still in there,” Mean said, beckoning back towards the club, “he deserved everything he got.”

“Is he dead?”

“He will be if he knows what’s good for him,” the assassin snarled, bundling Plan into the back seat as he slipped in and out of consciousness.

“Should we call an ambulance?” Est said worriedly.

“I don’t care,” Mean snapped, “he’s not my problem anymore.”

“What do you want us to do?” Meen cut in, the calmer of the two.

“One of you needs to drive, we have to get this one to a hospital and fast or else we’ll need a morgue instead.” Mean replied, climbing into the back with Plan.

“We’ll have to make it a drive by,” Meen said, “there’s no explaining our way out of this one.”

“Agreed,” the assassin replied, “just put your foot down. Est, you deal with Zaanook.”

Est gave a firm nod, heading towards the club whilst Meen hopped into the driver’s seat and floored the accelerator, speeding off so quickly that the tyres were left screeching in their wake.

*

Plan knew he was dying. He could feel it.

He was not in pain as such. On impact there had been none at all but as he lay there, a strange burning sensation began to surface above the shock. He could not feel where his flesh had perforated nor if the bullet had split into shards of shrapnel but he could feel the blood. His hands were wet and his clothes sodden with it. It made him scared, unsure how much a human body could lose.

By the time Mean had got him in the car, he was so tired. That was all it was. Tiredness. His mouth refused to make any more sounds, eyes no longer able to focus and heartbeat slowing in his chest. There was a ringing in his brain which prevented any coherent thought, fragments of memories flashing up here and there. His most important people, times he had been happy, times he had been sad, his greatest achievements, all of the things that deserved remembrance before he closed his eyes for the final time.

Except Mean wouldn’t let him, shaking him awake every time heavy lids fluttered shut. He could make out his voice just above the ringing, being told to fight, to hold on. Plan kept trying, doing his best to concentrate his gaze on Mean’s face. He could smell the assassin’s cologne and it was nice, familiar somehow. Mean’s arms held him tightly against his chest. He was so warm that it made him sleepy. Ready to give in, there was one thing he needed to know before he could.

“W-what – ”

“Shhh,” Mean told him, fingertips nestled in his hair, “don’t speak.”

“W-what’s,” Plan stubbornly tried again, his voice barely a croak, “what’s the p-password?”

“Huh?” Mean asked, eyebrows furrowed. “What?”

“M-my phone,” Plan stammered, swallowing the metallic taste in his mouth.

He observed the way Mean’s face changed, all of the pretty things it did. The flutter of long eyelashes as he blinked in astonishment, the clench of his angular jawbone as he ground teeth together and finally, the best bit, the soft smile that tugged the corners of his mouth upward. He was so handsome, Plan thought, wondering why he’d chosen to be an assassin when he could easily have made a success out of a modelling career. Then he remembered that Mean did his job because he enjoyed it and that, he would never understand. He hoped all the same, that even someone like him would not refuse a man his dying wish.

“3434,” Mean whispered, voice thick, “it’s my favourite number.”

The remnants of Plan’s energy he gave to Mean, mustering a small smile as those deep, dark eyes met his own. A gift given in return for his honesty because one thing they had never done, was lie to each other. Mean had been right, even the night they had spent together at the bar, when as far as Plan knew they were simply two strangers attracted to each other, the assassin had never been dishonest. It seemed almost fitting that the man who had haunted his life for so many years was now here with him at the end.

His ghost with a face, and by god was it a face that he was thrilled to have found.

“Thank you,” Plan breathed, his very last.

The next time Mean begged him to stay awake, the special agent could no longer hear his pleas.

*

Mean didn’t know much about resuscitation, used to taking lives rather than saving them.

He did his best to take over the beating of Plan’s heart when it stopped, hands crossed over his chest and performing compressions. He knew it was futile, that Plan’s problem wasn’t breathing for himself but the vast amount of blood he had lost. Yet still he tried in the hope it might buy him some more time as Meen ran a red light, within earshot of St Pancras Hospital.

They took the entrance to accident and emergency, racing past a queue of stationary ambulances awaiting a call out, Mean making a mental note to employ the tall man as a getaway driver if ever he needed one, the journey made in under seven minutes. It had still been too long, the agent in the backseat with him lolling lifelessly against leather upholstery.

Meen turned in the driver’s seat, screeching to a halt and giving him the nod. The assassin leant over Plan, pushing open the door he was closest to. He pulled his blood soaked jacket away, concealing it under the footwell before, as carefully as he could, he rolled Plan out of the car and onto the pavement. Meen sounded the horn to attract attention, doctors and nurses who spotted them running in their direction to tend to their newest patient. The assassin slammed the door shut, Meen speeding towards the exit before anyone had a chance to see their faces.

“You okay man?” he asked as Mean climbed into the passenger seat.

“Yeah, I’m fine,” Mean replied coolly, heart still pounding as he collapsed down beside him. “Thanks for your help, I owe you one.”

“Don’t worry about it, I’ve seen worse,” Meen said, only half-joking. He turned into a side road, avoiding the hell that was London traffic. “Why didn’t you tell us who he was when you called?”

“I did,” the assassin frowned, “he’s an intelligence agent out to get me.”

“That’s not what I meant,” Meen said knowingly.

“He’s nothing to me.”

“That’s not what it looked like back there.”

“Give me a break, you sound like Zaanook.”

“You gonna shoot me for telling you the truth too?” Meen grinned.

“That’s not why I shot him.”

“Then why?”

“Because there’s only so many times you can provoke a wolf before it bites.”

Meen bit his lower lip, deep in thought as he took a sharp corner.

“What do you think of his chances?”

“Next to zero,” Mean said quietly, “he’d already flatlined by the time we arrived.”

Meen shook his head, a small smile on his face. “I meant Zaanook.”

“Oh. Even less I hope. Your boyfriend will have a better idea than me.”

“Est isn’t my boyfriend.”

“No?” Mean grinned, mimicking his tone. “Well that’s not what it looked like back there!”

“God, I hate you,” Meen laughed, his expression eventually turning solemn. The assassin noticed the change, quirking an eyebrow at him.

“What?”

“It’s nothing.”

“No go on, say it, promise I won’t kill you.”

Meen took a breath, slowing to allow another car past them, the huge Range Rover taking up most of the road space. The assassin looked on curiously when he faced him, eyes hesitant before he finally spoke.

“He looks so much like him doesn’t he?”

Mean swallowed, turning away to rest his head against the window. He never found the courage to answer, the remainder of their journey completed in total silence.

When Heathrow airport finally came into view, the sun now fully set and twinkling majestically under the wintry night sky, it felt like being reunited with an old friend.

*

Ever since he’d been dropped off, the assassin had stood staring at the departures board.

His eight o’clock flight to Berlin was now boarding, he just didn’t know if that was where he wanted to go. He was glad he had chosen an all-black outfit to wear that morning, Plan’s blood drying invisible into the designer fabric of his t-shirt. He considered other destinations, exotic Caribbean islands and remote cities that even he’d never heard of before. The names of the places glittered in a bright electric orange, practically begging to be picked. The world was his oyster but the longer he waited there, the more it dawned on him that his pearl was here in London.

He couldn’t leave without being sure.

He looked around at the other people swarming the airport, families and couples and solo travellers just like himself. He wondered if any of them were plagued by the same dilemma, to stay or to leave. He knew which one was the right decision, except he’d never been a man concerned with doing the right thing.

Another thing he’d never been, was a coward.

There were not many things in life that scared him but finding out if Plan had died was one of them. He relished the feeling that hummed through his veins, the way his nerve-endings tickled and the turn of his stomach as it fluttered anxiously. It left a delicious taste in his mouth, a trepidation so foreign to him that he did not know how to walk away from it.

Mean glanced down at stained fingernails, gruesome remnants of an afternoon that had not played out the way he had planned. Perhaps that was why, after two hours of chaotic deliberation, he spun on his heels and exited the way he had come, hailing a black cab from the taxi rank and specifying the very same destination he had just left.

Rule number two of every assassin’s guidebook, was that a life on the run was no life at all.

Chapter 8: i slithered here from eden to sit outside your door.

Chapter Text

Hospitals were one of the easiest places in the world to infiltrate.

They welcomed the faces of strangers, always so desperate for additional resources that a three-headed alien could turn up dressed in scrubs with a couple of forged references and a fake ID and still be thrown straight in at the deep-end.

Mean had been blending into the background for four days now, the many medical professionals that crossed his path just assuming him to be another urgent agency recruit hired to boost numbers. None of them gave him a second look, not even the stern-faced nurses who barked orders at him to help change a dressing or monitor a particular patient in their absence. They didn’t seem to notice that he always miraculously disappeared whenever assigned a task, slinking off to a different ward for a while or settling down in the cafeteria for a croissant and a coffee. The only kind of deaths that peaked his interest were never accidental.

Not that his services were in demand in a place like this, nature doing most of the hard work for him.

His time spent there gave Mean a chance to reflect on the impact of death in greater detail than he usually did. He scrutinised the white faces of grieving family members after being told grave news, examined the way loved ones broke down in the face of an operation gone wrong and analysed the pacing of those awaiting news of outcomes that had not yet been determined. Up and down the corridors, restless and full of nervous anticipation. They couldn’t sit still. He enjoyed taking guesses at who the lucky ones would be as he roamed the hospital, looping back on himself once in a while to see whether the same faces were now smiling or tear-stained. It helped pass the time.

His guesses lacked any real justification, subject to whim. He hoped for good news for one man because he wore a nice tie, and bad for another because he wore a terrible hairpiece to conceal his balding. He held out hope for a blonde woman whose pretty braid fell all the way down her back and feared the worse for a young toddler who was too young to know where she was or why she was there. Where he could, Mean later did some digging on each of the people he never saw again, asking nameless colleagues for an update or checking the patient database. So far he’d deduced his mortality accuracy rate to be at around 45%.

There were two wards in particular where Mean spent most of his time, mainly because they inhabited two people of importance to him.

Mean’s shot had miraculously missed Zaanook’s heart. Only by millimetres according to his notes, but that had been enough. Est must have called an ambulance before making a dash for it at the pool club because his file detailed his condition on route to the hospital, having required two doses of 500mg of adrenaline from the paramedics who had brought him there. His operation to stop further internal bleeding had gone well, and he’d been moved to a recovery ward where they planned to reduce the number of sedatives he was currently being administered. Soon he would be awake, and this knowledge, Mean knew, limited his time holding vigil over the patient of greater concern.

He had been present the second time Plan’s heart had stopped. Second because he’d assumed correctly in the first instance, he had in fact been dead upon arrival. Mean had promised himself ever since receiving confirmation of this to make sure Meen drove faster next time. Immediately following their hasty retreat, Plan had been rushed straight into surgery where an expert clinical team had performed an urgent thoracotomy, the bullet having scraped his left lung and inflicted significant damage. It had taken them five hours and three O positive transfusions to repair the multitude of veins and one major artery severed in its wake. Following the operation, he’d been left in a medically-induced coma whilst the professionals assessed his chances of survival and in the middle of that first night, before his fellow agents in London had been notified of his condition, Mean had stayed with him.

After stealing a uniform that matched the other nurses from an unlocked laundry closet, he’d relieved another from the task of monitoring Plan’s vitals every ten minutes in intensive care, the record sheet fairly self-explanatory in nature as he’d kept an eye on the readings displayed on the various machines he lay attached to. They’d remained steady for hours, blood pressure, heart rate, oxygen levels, all emitting their own repetitive beeping noise that to anyone else would have started grating after a while. Yet for some reason, Mean had liked the sound.

In a private room, probably thanks to his slim chances of recovery, the assassin had been left to his own devices whilst he’d watched him that night. A ventilator did his breathing for him, and he’d looked peaceful, which would have been reassuring if he hadn’t looked so small. Mean hadn’t really noticed it before, the strength of will in his eyes usually so powerful, so attractive and magnetic, but he really was tiny. The white covers pulled over him seemed to dwarf him, as had the labyrinth of plastic tubing pushed through his nose and mouth. He’d looked like a child, innocent and harmless.

He’d looked like a victim.

And he was, because that’s exactly what Mean had made of him.

Upon this realisation, the assassin had felt compelled to reach out, placing a hand over one of Plan’s own and minding the intravenous drip embedded in it. He’d squeezed gently, as if to remind him that he wasn’t alone, except the gesture had done more harm than good because, almost mockingly, the second Mean intertwined their fingers the machines had begun to erupt into a cacophony of noise.

Mean had stood frozen useless as he’d watched Plan’s pulse hit zero, flashing on the monitor emblazoned in bright red, alarms he didn’t understand sounding in all directions, the high-pitched screech of a cardiac arrest echoing around the room.

A crash team had arrived before he could act upon the urge to flee, Mean holding his breath as they’d burst through the door, expecting to be accused of foul play. Despite being an imposter within their ranks, they had been too preoccupied with the life on the verge of being lost, and Mean had instead been forced to watch as they’d tried to revive him yet again. Each of the defibrillator shocks they’d administered physically hurt to witness. Mean winced at every one, the high-voltage pulses of electricity jolting Plan’s slight frame viciously off the bed, the intermittent compressions between each shock so hard that Mean feared his ribs would break. Yet somehow, after the fourth shout of ‘Clear!’ as they’d all stood back, slowly losing hope, the flashing zero on the monitor had changed.

As soon as Plan’s heart rate had steadily begun to rise, he was rushed back into theatre, leaving Mean to ponder the reason as to why, exactly, his own wouldn’t stop racing as he’d watched them go.

Except even now, four days later and with Plan’s internal haemorrhaging under control, the beat housed within his chest still hadn’t returned to normal and he couldn’t quite remember how to breathe.

*

Perth was furious with him.

A deep, unfiltered, misplaced anger that made him want to shout and scream at the man in a hospital bed. The man he knew so well. The man who felt more like a brother than a colleague.

I told you so, he wanted to say. He wanted to yell the words in Plan’s ear, make them rattle around his unconscious head so loudly that it might just wake him up.

There were so many questions he wanted answers to.

What happened to you?

Was it him?

Why did you keep shutting us out?

He let the anger bubble deep in his stomach every time he visited, self-aware enough to know that it was only there to mask the primary emotion he didn’t want to feel right now, that he simply couldn’t bear to feel.

Guilt.

And he knew he wasn’t the only one feeling it. It felt like a disease coursing through their blood, sickened at the thought that their last conversation with Plan might have been an argument. He should have stuck up for him when they’d all been ganging up on him. Yes, Plan was working too hard. Yes, it was about time he’d taken a step back. Yes, it felt like they were constantly being kept out of the loop. But he knew better than anyone that Plan didn’t have infatuations, he wasn’t irrational or emotionally driven. In all the time they had been friends, Perth had never known him to fall in love. He’d been married to the job for as long as they’d worked together.

They’d found out three days ago, first thing in the morning before the sun had even risen. They’d already known something was wrong the night before when Plan hadn’t come home, having had to greet P’New at Heathrow airport by themselves and explain that the fourth member of their team had somehow gone AWOL in the space of half a day. Their many texts and calls had been redundant, constantly redirected straight to voicemail. Plan hadn’t even had his wallet on him, it still on his bedside table back at the flat, so P’New had put his feelers out for information with the help of MI6. Then they’d received a call from the hospital and suddenly, Gun’s crazy idea that he’d thought he’d seen someone who looked just like their assassin waiting by departures at the airport didn’t seem so unrealistic.

He’d brushed it off at the time, unable to spot the figure Gun had pointed to amongst the bustling crowd and almost certain that Mean Phiravich had no intentions of leaving the country considering his open display of interest in Plan at the Halloween party.

Now, as he kept watch over the elder at the hospital, he deeply regretted that decision. Perhaps the assassin really had been there, running from an attempted murder only hours hence. The attempted murder of his best friend. His brother, in every way but blood. He could be anywhere by now.

Sat today next to a silent Gun, whose prayers seemed to be having little effect, Perth felt like a failure. Their mission had been a disaster from start to finish. Mean had only been toying with them, a bored cat manipulating a group of frightened mice for entertainment, who in their fear had scattered in all directions rather than working together to outsmart their predator. He would never be caught, he’d simply enjoyed making them think that he might. But the only one who had actually gotten close was Plan, and here he lay now, barely alive. Maybe too close.

Perth knew that he should have fought harder to stop it.

He should have listened.

They should have been together when the trigger was pulled.

All he could do now was say sorry, which he did between outbursts of guilty tears, over and over, promising that if he ever set eyes on Mean Phiravich he’d lay the son of a bitch out cold before he ever had a chance to hurt him again.

Turning his face, Perth looked Gun straight in the eye, both of their expressions a picture of solemness as they carried the weight of the world on their shoulders. In those moments, he spared a thought for all those they had lost, the faces of the people he knew and the people he didn’t, all flashing through his mind. He could only think of one way in which to honour them and when he spoke, he meant the words more than anything he’d ever said in his life.

“We’re getting him home, okay? All of us, we are getting home.”

*

New brought Perth and Gun a coffee from the closest vending machine to make himself useful.

He was extremely unimpressed by the colour, the liquid a murky pale brown that didn’t look at all appealing but he returned with them anyway, quietly settling the plastic cups down on the bedside table without saying anything to disrupt the melancholic peace created by the constant and reassuring sound of a monitored heartbeat. Perth was now holding one of Plan’s hands.

New found it particularly hard to look at him, any of them in fact, ashamed of himself for not getting there sooner. The mission had always been fraught with danger, Plan had known that, but that didn’t make him feel any less responsible as his eyes settled upon the best of his men lain out cold. He despised not knowing what had happened, deeply troubled at the thought of Plan fending for himself alone before someone had put a bullet in him. He hoped that he had not been scared.

With Plan incapacitated, his leads on Mean Phiravich had gone dead.

It had quickly become apparent upon his arrival in London that the rest of the team only knew half of what Plan knew, which his boss had not accounted for whilst being back at base. It was unusual, and very much unlike Plan to operate as a lone wolf. New believed that something, or more realistically someone, must have got into his head and made him think he stood a better chance of catching Mean if working alone.

In hindsight, he wondered why he was surprised. Plan had been determined to do this by himself from the very beginning, threatening to leave if he couldn’t pursue him at Captain’s funeral. New had assumed that he simply wanted the justice he’d spoken of that day, for a case that had so long eluded them to finally be closed. Now he was certain there was more to it, he just couldn’t quite work out what.

The others had spun him a tale that told of a one-sided infatuation, Perth and Gun both convinced that the assassin had taken a keener interest in Plan than he had any of them, an interest that seemed to have only graduated towards obsession during their stay. The evidence certainly supported the theory, but it had been Harry who’d casted doubt over this interpretation of events, the only one with the guts to point out exactly what New himself had been thinking the second he’d heard the full story.

If it were one-sided, then why couldn’t Plan ever switch off from him?

Not one of them had been able to answer that question, reluctantly admitting that yes, Plan had seemed to have been enjoying the chase just as much as Mean was. That wasn’t the bit that bothered New. The chase was the fun part, they all knew that. There was something wrong with all of them in that regard, otherwise they wouldn’t have chosen to make a career out of intelligence.

What bothered New was that the closer they had got, the easier it seemed to be for Mean to escape. He’d have thought that he’d be locked in a prison cell by now. They’d had a name, a face, a voice, a location and at least two new victims and yet, despite all this information, four of the best special agents in the world had not been able to capture the fugitive they sought.

And that did not sit right with him.

No matter how he tried to rationalise it in his head, New could only assume that Mean had much more control over Plan than he’d ever given him credit for. A control which had granted him his on-going freedom.

New thought back to his conversation with Plan outside the temple, remembering the fire that had been there in his eyes that day, the resolve and the strength of character that had reminded his boss never to underestimate him. The man he had seen then versus the man who lay before him now were a far cry apart.

Mean Phiravich really must be quite a guy.

*

By the time a full week had passed, Mean knew all the faces that visited Plan.

He knew what time they came and how long they stayed for, what they brought with them and what they did to keep him company whilst they were there. He often wondered what it must be like to have people care about you the way they did him. It was sweet, and that frequently turned Mean’s stomach because the Plan he knew was not. He was much tougher than they acted around him. He was convinced that Plan wouldn’t like it, being molly-coddled like a child.

Whilst aware that Plan had a sister, hers was not a face Mean had seen. Neither in fact, were any other women. It amused the assassin that a man who’d seemed convinced of his heterosexuality upon their first introduction, was exclusively visited by men in his hour of need. Mean watched Plan’s gentlemen callers with intrigue and sometimes with jealousy depending on their level of attractiveness.

Most of them he already knew thanks to the amount of time he’d spent pursuing Plan in recent months. The two Thai operatives who’d accompanied him to London came every day, their primary mission seemingly suspended for the time being. The assassin had no complaints, the last thing he needed being two clueless good Samaritans on his case. He did, however, take issue to their behaviour around Plan. One of them in particular, who annoyingly sported a face fit for magazines and eyes that glittered under the artificial lights, was far too touchy-feely for Mean’s liking.

It took all of Mean’s self-restraint not to storm into the room every time he spied him brushing Plan’s bangs away from his face, rearranging his pillows or tenderly applying cream to his elbows. He felt like cutting his hands off most of the time, always relieved when he finally left for the day once visiting hours were up.

A British man came sporadically who Mean had also seen before, his lily white skin and headful of blonde curls making him easily distinguishable amongst the group. He always brought fresh fruit, which Mean thought stupid as hell considering that Plan was never conscious to eat it. The others often did though, snacking on bunches of grapes, overripe bananas and crunchy apples. Mean admired their dedication considering that hospitals were boring as hell, especially when the condition of the patient in question remained unchanged every day.

There was only one other who occasionally entered the fray, and this was a man Mean had only ever seen in photographs. He’d recognised him immediately as the Head of Special Branch, who went by the name of New and who the hit on Captain had been intended as a warning. His presence in the hospital should have intimidated the assassin, who acknowledged that his safety was indeed compromised as a result of his periodic visits, but it did not, Mean instead taking the opportunity to learn a little more about the man at the head of the manhunt centred around him.

New never stayed as long as the others, and seemed to try and co-ordinate his visits so that he was alone with Plan whenever he came. Upon arrival, he would pull up a chair next to him and settle down quietly before retrieving a book from his inside pocket. He always read to him for exactly an hour, and Mean never recognised the titles through his eavesdropping at the door. From the snippets he caught, the stories seemed to be about faith, hope, friendship, love and everything else Mean didn’t believe in, but that didn’t stop him from wishing he could be in there listening too.

Every evening, after the majority of visitors were forced to leave for the day to allow the sick sufficient time to rest, the hospital fell quiet. Automatic corridor lights shut off, the skeleton crew of night shift workers took over and the buzz of machinery grew louder than voices. It was in these moments that Mean stole his time with Plan, even though he had nothing to offer. No books, fruit or soothing touches. But he also had no intention to harm, and he hoped that for someone of his nature, that was enough to grant him access.

Intensive care radiated a different feeling to other wards, a perilousness that made Mean’s blood bristle. The lights there never went down. The bed-ridden were frequently monitored throughout the night. There were always people around. He had to be more careful now. Some of the staff had begun to recognise him, and his secret escapades to Plan’s room became briefer and briefer, certain that he was soon to be caught out as only ever attending to one patient but that didn’t stop him trying all the same.

It was nearly two-o-clock in the morning before Mean took his chance that night, the path to the door he required finally clear. He entered calmly to avoid suspicion, shutting it quietly behind him and approaching the man whose eyes he willed every day to open once more. Approaching in silence, there no need for a greeting, he looked over Plan’s face. His skin looked a little brighter, lips a little softer, and Mean immediately assumed that the special agent obsessed with touching him must have applied a balm of some kind. His hands balled into fists at the thought.

Despite this violation there were no other changes to note.

It had crossed Mean’s mind more than once that it might be time to let him go, that keeping him alive only benefited the people who cared for him. It felt crueller than most of his kills, which at least had always served a purpose. Watching Plan hover on the borders of life day after day, neither deteriorating nor improving, seemed an unnecessary suffering. He thought it futile and callous but, as he stood over him, watching the rise and fall of his chest with the help of a machine, even he could not find the courage to bring him peace.

Whilst he found it difficult to accept, he held out the same hope Plan’s friends did and in truth, he couldn’t remember the last time he’d hoped so much for anything.

Carefully, Mean sat on the edge of the bed, soothed just by sharing the same room, and perhaps it was for this reason that he suddenly acted upon the urge to speak.

“I know you want there to be a reason why I am the way I am… but there isn’t, and I know you think that makes me a monster. Perhaps it does. I was just good at it. I carried out my first kill at sixteen and it was easy. I didn’t feel things the way everyone else seemed to. Human lives are no more important to me than any other, but that doesn’t mean I can’t feel at all. I feel things when I’m with you, when you hold my gaze.”

Mean stared at Plan’s right hand, the one everyone else seemed to think it acceptable to take in their own the same way he had done that first night, except none of them had caused him to flatline. Whilst he didn’t believe in coincidences, Mean couldn’t quite shake the worry that the same might happen again. With an index finger, he delicately tapped each prominent knuckle as if to test, exhaling softly just being able to touch him even if he couldn’t feel it.

“A long time ago, I loved someone. In the same way that any normal person would, I think. And then I lost him, and it was all my fault. So I promised I would never put myself through that again because it’s impossible, you know? You can’t do this job and live a normal life, except you know that don’t you? All this time you’ve spent obsessing over me, you don’t understand how other people survive either. It’s all so boring, isn’t it? Groceries and children and work and chores, it doesn’t make sense to you in the same way it doesn’t to me. I think that’s why you kissed me back.”

On impulse, Mean slid his fingers underneath Plan’s, slowly tracing the life line of his palm.

“That was when I felt it most, just how much you like chasing me. Finding me. I see you for what you are, the darkness you try to hide, and I like it. I want to keep it. I want to keep you.”

Deciding that if everyone else could, he could too, Mean took Plan’s hand and hesitantly brought it to his lips. He let it hover there a second, blowing a gentle stream of air across his skin, surprised when he noticed a cascade of goosebumps travelling up Plan’s arm. Certain that was as close as he would get to a nod of approval, Mean pressed a soft, slow kiss to Plan’s knuckles.

And he would have stayed there holding Plan’s warm palm against his cheek for as long as he could, except a strange noise tore his attention away. He looked up, stunned to see Plan’s brow visibly knotting together as he threatened to wake. Another murmur. Mean dropped his hand as though burnt. Slightly louder this time, Plan must have become conscious of the tube down his throat, suddenly beginning to splutter as though he couldn’t breathe.

As he coughed deep in his chest, limbs tense and breaths frantic, Plan’s eyes opened just a fraction and Mean found it ironic because, in the end, it was his heart that stopped when the first thing they landed on was him.

“Don’t panic,” he tried quickly, hands held up in surrender.

But Plan’s eyes grew wide all the same, registering his face, noticing the blue smocks he was wearing and before Mean could do anything to calm him, his heart rate soared through the roof, the machines he was attached to sounding out a loud alert to attract attention.

“I’m not here to hurt you, I swear,” Mean shushed desperately but Plan wasn’t really listening, too scared to take in anything other than the tube silencing his voice, the pain in his side and the assassin in his room impersonating a medic. He just shook his head uncontrollably, expression somewhere between about to scream and about to cry, and Mean did not have the time to stay and witness either.

And so, left with no other option, the assassin fled, his shift as a nurse undeniably over.

*

Zaanook had been awake for forty-eight hours by the time the sun rose on his tenth day in hospital. His ward was full of people who seemed a lot sicker than he currently felt. Perhaps it was because he only had one thing on his mind, i.e. the demise of Mean Phiravich, but he felt practically recovered from his wounds. It was true, he'd admittedly have to take it easy for a few weeks but it was about time that the search for the man who had hospitalised him in the first place got underway.

That was why, when Mean sauntered in to his ward just after lunchtime Zaanook got the shock of his life. There he was bold as brass, dressed in a dark grey sweater and denim jeans with his hair swept back as though he had just stepped off a catwalk rather than attempted the murder of his lifelong friend and immediate superior.

“You've got some nerve d'you know that?” Zaanook choked, astonished.

“Well, I guess I didn't see the point in running,” Mean said, glancing around the ward to weigh up the chances of an interruption. Two nurses sat gathered around their bay, heads down in a stack of paperwork. He appeared to deem them as minimal, turning his attention back to him. “You'd only find me.”

“You're damn right. You tried to kill me.”

“You deserve to be dead,” Mean shrugged. “You tried to kill someone who matters to me.”

Zaanook frowned, shifting to sit up straight. “Close the curtains.”

Mean obliged, tugging the long strip of blue fabric around the rail until they were concealed from the eyes of the patients on either side of him.

“So he's not dead then?” Zaanook muttered in hushed tones. “Aren't you the lucky one.”

“I'm not here to talk about him,” Mean said coolly. “I want you to know that I'm leaving, and I don't want you to follow me.”

“Oh really? And where do you plan to go?”

“That’s none of your business.”

Zaanook scoffed, shaking his head. “You're nothing without me.”

“I haven't been, not for a while, but maybe I could be. I'd like you to lend me the courtesy of letting me try. It's time we took a break from each other, don't you think? Otherwise I get the impression we'll both end up side by side in the mortuary.”

“If it was up to you I’d already be there,” Zaanook snapped. When Mean’s face didn’t show a flicker of remorse, he exhaled on a heavy sigh. “So, how will you fill your time whilst you’re gone?”

“Who knows. Maybe I’ll try something new.”

“You do know what that means right? My life won’t change, everything will continue as it always has, there will be new recruits and I'll be assigned someone else to train, but you? You will have to leave everything behind, all that we've worked for over the years. The clothes, the apartment, your little life of luxury and now him.”

“I know.”

“How will you cope without your new mild obsession to occupy your mind?”

“He needs time to recover after what you did to him, and I need some time away from London.”

“You won't stay away from him for long. I saw the way you kissed him. You used to look at Kamon like that. He makes you feel the same way, doesn't he? He makes you wish that you were normal, he makes you want to give it all up but you won't. You can't. You were born to be what you are, and that will never change no matter how hard you try. Killing is all you've ever known.”

“I never claimed to be giving up killing. I'm just giving up killing for you.”

“He'll never love you, you know that don't you? He loves the idea of you, of finding you, trapping you behind bars and returning to Thailand a hero. Do not mistake his fixation on you for love because that's not what it is. He is one of the good guys, do you really think but he could ever fall for someone like you? Could you imagine him introducing you to his friends, taking you home to meet his family, living a traditional life knowing what he knows about you? The amount of lives you have stamped out at the drop of a hat just because you could? He could never live with the shame of loving a murderer. I did him a favour when I shot him, I tried to spare him. He is not on our side Mean, he is not one of us.”

“He is more like me then you’ll ever understand.”

“Are you sure about that?”

“Positive.”

“Then enjoy your break, call me when you finally see sense.”

“Don't hold your breath,” Mean said, beginning to walk away.

“Whatever you may think about me, I care about you very much and I do not want to see you hurt when you inevitably have to say goodbye to him.”

“You are the only one deserving of my goodbyes, Zaanook.”

“I deserve better than your ingratitude after everything we have been through together. I can tell you that much.”

Mean’s eyes grew cold, jaw locked. “And I deserved better than your firing right arm.”

“I was just trying to protect you!”

You were trying to protect yourself,” Mean corrected, “and you succeeded because you'll no longer have to worry about who I'm killing or how I'm going about it. You can find someone else to control. We’re done.”

“On your head be it,” Zaanook called after him as he pulled back the curtain to leave.

“Oh and before I go, a piece of advice,” Mean spoke slowly. “You know what I said back at the club, about never grassing you up?”

Zaanook cocked an eyebrow as Mean looked back over his shoulder, piercing him with a wicked grin.

“I lied.”

*

Plan was tired, agonisingly so.

His head was pounding, throat raw and mouth bone dry. He kept sipping a glass of water through a straw but all it did was burn his cracked tongue. It hurt to move. Everyone kept telling him not to, but all he wanted was to get out of there. He wanted to find him.

“And you’re absolutely sure it wasn’t him that pulled the trigger?”

Plan rolled his eyes at Perth, his memory the only thing seemingly not affected by his ordeal. This was his fifth time recounting the story, although he’d left out the part with the kissing.

“It was Zaanook, I’m certain,” he nodded weakly. “Mean saved my life.”

Gun huffed by the door, the room overcrowded with all five of them inside.

“Only after he put it at risk.”

“I put it at risk,” Plan countered. “We all knew what was at stake when we came here.”

“I can’t believe Z would do that,” Harry interjected, “I worked with him for years, he and Vivienne are friends. What possible connection could he have to Mean?!”

“It's a bit hazy,” Plan admitted, “but they definitely spoke as though they had known each other a long time, and I'm pretty sure that he's the one who handles Mean's kills, he said they work together. It sounded as though he's where Mean gets his orders."

“Harry, you need to get to MI6,” P’New cut in, commanding the room in an instant. Plan had missed him, his aura of authority that the group had been deficient of ever since their arrival. “Tell Vivienne that Zaanook is not to be trusted. If he’s wounded, then there is no time to waste. He’ll know that we are coming.”

Harry nodded immediately, leaning forward to give Plan’s shoulder a light squeeze.

“You rest up yeah? It’s good to have you back brother.”

Plan nodded, offering him a faint smile before he brushed past Gun and made his exit.

“And you’re sure Mean was here?” Perth said, turning back to Plan, “because we’ve been here every day and I know for certain that I definitely haven’t seen him hanging around. Gun suspects he may have made a run for it the day you were shot, he saw someone who fit his description at the airport.”

“Honestly, it might have been the morphine,” Plan relented, “but I woke up and he was here. I’m so sure, he was dressed like one of the nurses. He spoke to me and I panicked, it took a while for everything to come back to me. I’m sorry.”

“Don’t apologise,” P’New said, tone reassuring, “I think you were probably right, we all know he’s not adverse to a disguise and if he were the one that brought you here, it makes sense that he would be keeping an eye on you. I’ll get some security set up just to be on the safe side.”

“I don’t want security,” Plan muttered, “I wanna get out of here.”

“No chance,” Gun interrupted firmly, “you’re lucky to be alive.”

When Plan opened his mouth to object, Perth quickly shut it for him.

“He’s right. You’re in no fit state. You aren’t going anywhere, end of story. Leave Mean to us.”

Plan looked to his boss, knowing that at the end of the day, his opinion was the only one that mattered.

“Please, P’New.”

“No arguments,” the elder said, “this is the best place for you. You’re of no use to us in this condition. Besides, Prim would kill me herself and unlike you I haven’t got a death wish!”

Plan let his head fall back against the pillow, wincing when the pain in his side flared all the way down to the tips of his toes. He had thanked them all for keeping his shooting a secret from his sister, not sure if he could handle the fuss she would be making if she knew.

“I hate you all.”

His three comrades just smiled.

“We love you too.”

*

After everyone had finally left him in peace for the day, Plan fell asleep almost instantly.

He didn’t stop sleeping either, not until his latest shot of morphine finally began to wear off in the middle of the night. The pain reappeared in rolling waves, doubling up until it became almost unbearable, and it was only then did he open his eyes. He was sweating, limbs clenched with tension and teeth firmly ground together.

He did not want to call for a nurse, certain that they had other patients in more urgent need. Instead he tried to turn over on to his uninjured left side, shifting awkwardly on the hard mattress. His teeth continued to chatter, freezing cold and boiling hot all at once. Pulling the covers up over his shoulders, his eyes suddenly focused on something that stole his attention entirely, and shoved the agony in his side straight to the back of his mind.

On his bedside table sat an origami swan.

It was perfect, the crisp lines of plain white paper folded by someone no less than a perfectionist. And there was only one person that sprung to mind as Plan registered the rise of his heartbeat.

Grimacing, he stretched out an arm, his body complaining at the sheer effort. He prayed that his stitches would not burst as he flicked it within reach with the tip of a finger. Once in hand, he brought it to his face, examining it closely before he began to unfold the bird.

Plan didn’t think about pain for the rest of the night. When a nurse came to check his vitals, a jolly woman with a broad smile and a Jamaican accent who was beyond even Mean’s impersonation skills, he had debated refusing the painkillers she offered him. He wanted to stay awake. He needed to think. It was only the thought of recovery that made him accept. The sooner, the better.

Not long after, when he began to drift off once again, high on opiates and unable to feel anything at all, he dwelled on Mean’s note even in his dreams.

Our mutual friend can be found upstairs. Floor five. Feel free to exact more revenge if you need it. Management sucks.

Get well soon, I’ll think of you often.

P.S. You won’t find me this time.

Chapter 9: truth is, i'd be such a jealous ghost.

Chapter Text

Plan had forgotten how hard it was to find Mean when he didn’t want to be found.

All traces of the assassin had vanished and it was frustrating, imagining him out in the world a free man despite his many unforgivable crimes.

But it wasn’t just that.

Worse still was the gaping black hole left behind in his world, and Plan wasn’t referring to the healing bullet wound in his side.

Months had passed. Long, monotonous months spent getting back on his feet. His recovery had taken longer than necessary and no one really knew why. No one except Plan because whilst he wouldn’t admit it, he did know. And in many ways, it was the knowing that tormented him more than anything.

For what Plan knew was that he wasn’t trying to get better.

Or, more specifically, he didn’t know what he was trying to get better for.

What was the point? His friends didn’t need him, now fully adjusted to being the crime-fighting trio that had once been a quartet. P’New didn’t need him, coping just fine without his best man on the books. Not even his sister had been in touch as of late. Granted, she still didn’t know of his ordeal but that wasn’t the damn point. He’d still half expected her to call.

For a long time, a few wobbly steps had been all he could manage before retiring back to his hospital bed. You’ve got this brother, the boys had kept saying, take as much time as you need.

And so he had, retreating further and further into himself and finding peace in doing the absolute bare minimum to keep the doctors off his back. There was only ever one thing he wanted to know when they came to visit, an eager question posed the second they walked through the door.

Any leads?

But the answer had always been the same, sometimes spoken, sometimes sighed and sometimes just in the form of a small shake of the head. In whatever way it was given, Plan’s reaction was always the same too - to slump back against the bed and fall quiet, disinterested in any other topics of conversation.

Throughout the duration of his stay, he had become an expert in sulking.

Hey, come on now, they would say, at least we got Zaanook.

Except that measly consolation prize did nothing to ease his mind.

Nothing whatsoever.

*

Zaanook had tried to run.

He almost admired him for that.

When Plan had set the boys on him that night, Mean’s note fresh in his mind, they’d found his bed in the hospital empty. He might have escaped too, had he not left a trail of blood behind after ripping out his intravenous drip. Perth and Gun had apprehended him four streets away, clutching his torn stitches and practically half dead.

They’d brought him back to the ward where he was stabilised long enough for a stone cold Vivienne to throw the book at him, deserving of every chapter and verse in her mind for his betrayal.

Plan had no doubt that P’New had a hand in that too.

They’d got nothing out of him since he’d been denied bail, reprimanded in prison to await trial. Not the slightest speck of useful information. He wasn’t the only one who’d been denied either, Plan’s requests to visit him meeting instant dismissal every time he’d asked.

In the end, it was P’New’s point blank not a chance son, he’s going down for a lengthy stretch and that’s all you need to know, had been what had encouraged him to try harder, walk further, eat more. To get stronger, if only to see the face of the man who had fired a bullet into him. Not to extract punishment or seek vengeance, but to discover. To learn as much as there was to know. To break Zaanook’s silence.

And ultimately, to find the man who consumed his waking days.

Because without knowing where to start, locating Mean seemed an impossible feat.

And he had to find him. He just had to.

A while after his eventual discharge from hospital and once he was finally strong enough to leave the house unaccompanied, Plan had gone on a short walk to a local park. He had sat on a bench there, people watching, only to find that he still didn’t feel like one of them. Except now it wasn’t because he felt superior, but instead rather alien. He felt lost amongst them, void of the adrenaline that had once pulsed through his veins. He felt empty, disconnected. An outcast on the wrong planet, and there was a moment where he had been observing a young couple sharing a picnic together under the cold January sun, where he’d wondered if this was how Mean felt all the time.

Because if it were, he might well have ended up an assassin too.

*

Plan had not celebrated the new year.

Despite drawing upon his best powers of persuasion, Perth, Gun and Harry had all refused to leave him alone for the evening, deciding they would mark the event at home instead. It’s only right that we are all together, Perth had insisted.

Except, by the time the clock struck midnight, Plan had found himself the only one sober.

Someone had turned on music, blaring a loud selection of British pop songs that made the walls vibrate. Whilst his friends had wished each other well and drunkenly embraced each other in warm hugs, Plan had stood at the window, staring blankly at the fireworks exploding above Westminster Bridge. The colours, reds, blues, yellows, pinks, oranges and greens were vivid, stark in their contrast against the jet black sky and yet, whilst he could see them, Plan realised they inspired no feeling within him.

Well, almost no feeling.

For there was one which filled his chest, that made goosebumps surface across his skin. A feeling he did not know before the way he knew it now.

That feeling was longing.

And by god did it ache.

*

Regularly, Plan found himself entering the passcode to his phone for no reason at all.

He entered the four digits over and over again, as if somehow by unlocking it, Mean’s name might miraculously pop up with a message for him. Impossible, Plan knew, because he’d never actually given him his number. He regretted that now.

He regretted a lot of things.

He regretted befriending the people his actions had put in harm’s way, he regretted not being smart enough to win their deadly game of chess, but mostly, he regretted not asking enough questions.

There were still so many things he didn’t know. He’d never asked if Mean had a family, or what he liked to eat after a long day of killing, or if he liked music, or films, where he got his inspiration from or where he brought his aftershave.

He’d never asked who it was he’d reminded Mean so much of.

Foolishly, he’d just always supposed that at some point he would get the chance to find out.

Except now his chance was gone, and so he’d tap the numbers in again, 3434, 3434, 3434, making up the answers in his head and pretending that they were more than just fictions.

It gave him some comfort, in the very way that lies often do.

*

Mean on the other hand, spent the evening of the 31st of December watching a woman.

She was a little older than him but it wasn’t easy to tell. Her shoulder length hair was almost black, glossy with a full fringe. She barely wore a scrap of makeup, natural in her ordinariness.

Except she wasn’t ordinary to him.

He had observed her whilst she spent the day working, sporting formal attire and radiating an aura of quiet intelligence. She appeared reserved, and Mean had not envisaged the woman she would become that evening after following her home, for once returning there to change she later reappeared looking a completely different person. From somewhere she had found a fashion sense, her asymmetric white dress flattering in all the right places and clinging to her slim figure.

Once she had reached her destination, a glamorous rooftop bar offering stunning views of the capital, she transformed into something she had not been at work. Carefree, relaxed and fun loving, the smile never faltering on her face as she sipped at a champagne flute surrounded by a gaggle of friends, both male and female.

She seemed to be at the heart of the group. The glue holding them together.

Stood in the middle for all the photos that were taken, the first each new arrival rushed up to for a hug, the one all the boys were looking at, even though she seemed oblivious to their attention as she danced happily in tall heels.

And whilst the assassin was looking too, he admired her for very different reasons.

Because within the face of Primrose Kijworalak, all Mean could see was her brother.

*

Mean left Bangkok the very next day, curiosities satisfied.

He’d watched her for the entire night, feeling closer to Plan in her presence. They were similar in so many ways, both in possession of the same petite frame, the same feline eyes, the same wide smile full of teeth. He would have stayed longer but alas, he had a flight to catch, not forgetting the danger he was putting himself in just by being there.

Consequently, he had ventured to one of his favourite places in the West.

Rome, Italy.

A city of culture, music, exquisite food and architecture that begged to be replicated on a canvas.

It was undeniably romantic without being indecently so. It was not Amsterdam, to which many tourists flocked for a glimpse of whores in windows, but rather a humble appreciation for the blind affection of newlyweds, the eternal companionship of those in love for decades and the amorousness of strangers head over heels with infatuation.

He often wondered what it might be like to bring Plan there.

And then he wondered whether the best antidote to that train of thought was to busy himself with someone else.

His options were not in short supply. He turned the heads of most women he passed but, unfortunately for them, he was reminded too much of the woman who had dragged his ex-fiancé to hell with her. He hadn’t visited Italy since, but things were different now. Nowadays his mind was preoccupied by another, a man who despite his similarity to Kamon was different in many respects.

Perhaps he had finally moved on.

Fortunately for Mean, despite the deep-rooted Catholicism still embedded within Italy’s culture, times had changed somewhat in recent years, especially in Rome, and this evolution in attitudes meant that it wasn’t just the heads of women that he turned. Numerous men doubled back to sneak a second look, and many of them were handsome in their own right. Italians were tanned, dark and bold in personality, yet every time he locked eyes with a face he found attractive, another’s flashed to the forefront of his mind.

For reasons beyond his comprehension, he couldn’t shake that feeling that if he were to take one of them home, he might in some way be being unfaithful and as ridiculous as the notion was, it simply would not go away.

It didn’t take long for Mean to realise that no matter how much distance he put between them, escaping Plan was no longer possible.

Their game was over.

His only problem now, as he explored the narrow streets of the city in his Sunday’s best, was deciphering whether or not he’d won.

*

Plan had not known the significance of the day until the package had arrived.

By February, his condition had improved considerably. He was up and about, taking longer walks and even managing to do the odd admin job for P’New between physiotherapy sessions whilst still officially on leave from work. He was talking again, feeling a little more like himself and actively socialising with his colleagues on a good day. Having less time to think greatly benefitted his mental health, and this fresh outlook towards recovery meant he had stopped monitoring the date, no longer calculating how long it had been since he had seen Mean’s face.

Distractions, he had begun to understand, were the best medicine for any injury.

Perhaps that was why it shocked him to receive a parcel from the postman that particular Tuesday.

He eyed the package with a deep, terrifying dread, hands shaking as he signed for it because the address on the front was handwritten and he knew that fucking handwriting anywhere.

He was alone in the apartment, his flatmates still hotdesking with Harry at MI6 during the daytimes and for that he was grateful. He didn’t know whether to laugh or cry, unable to open it straight away. The package sat on the dining table for what felt like hours, Plan taking a seat beside it and staring, unblinking as he tried to muster the courage.

He thought about not bothering, taking it straight outside and depositing it with the rest of the rubbish but that idea did not warrant much consideration and so, in the end, he did what he was always going to do and cut into the taped edges of the box with a knife.

If the handwriting hadn’t been enough to identify the sender, inside Plan found garments of clothing that could only have been picked out by his favourite assassin.

A pure cotton shirt in khaki green, the buttons expertly concealed beneath the front placket, a sleek black tie and slim-fitting trousers to match, all tailored perfectly to his measurements. Each item looked and felt expensive, and even Plan could admit he’d probably look hot as hell in them. To compliment the shirt, a pair of diamond-shaped gold cufflinks accompanied the clothes, housed in a box not dissimilar to the kind in which one might find a wedding ring.

As he sat clutching the materials in trembling hands, heart in his mouth, a scrap of white paper caught his eye at the bottom of the parcel. Retrieving it hesitantly, he turned it over to reveal Mean’s note, adrenaline coursing through his veins that he hadn’t experienced in months.

You can wear this on our first date.
Happy Valentine’s Day.

*

Mean had chosen his gift with care.

It had been a long time since he’d been shopping for somebody else, and he enjoyed it almost as much as shopping for himself. What he enjoyed the most though, was imagining Plan’s face upon opening the present, hoping him to be full of the same excitement that he himself was as he skipped around Rome gleefully in the knowledge that miles away, Plan’s heart would be racing for him.

And yet, despite the smug smile he couldn’t rid from his face, Mean’s feelings had changed.

He didn’t feel in control anymore, at least not in the way he had at the beginning.

It wasn’t enough just to know now. He wished to see Plan’s reaction in person, to paint each expression that crossed his face and engrain them to memory. He wanted to catch him when his knees went weak, press his nose into his hair and breathe in the heady mixture of fear, tension and exhilaration that always radiated off Plan whenever they were in the same room, to make good on what his kisses had promised were in store for him back at the pool club.

All he really did in Italy was wonder.

He sacrificed the culture.

He didn’t bother frequenting the galleries.

He passed up the museums and their historical artefacts.

The music fell on deaf ears.

The food tasted of nothing.

The architecture didn’t draw his gaze.

He just wondered, day after day after day as they each began to blur into one, all filled with thoughts of what, or rather who, he had left behind.

And it was that day in particular, as he walked the cobbled roads with a spring in his step wondering if his gift had arrived yet, that the realisation hit him smack in the chest and made him feel stupid for assuming that being apart wouldn’t drive him crazy too.

For it wasn’t just Plan’s heart that was racing anymore.

*

Plan did not know why he was on the verge of crying.

Curled up in a ball, eyes closed and avoiding the exasperated look of concern on Perth’s face.

“Right. That’s it!” Perth clapped his hands together, collapsing down beside him dramatically on the sofa, “I’m holding an intervention!”

“Just leave it,” Plan mumbled, shying away from him, “please, just don’t.”

“Talk to me,” Perth tried.

“It’s nothing, I swear.”

“Bullshit. Don’t lie.”

“I’m fine man. Honestly, I’m good, just in a bit of pain that’s all. My meds haven’t –”

“No no no, you stop right there.” Perth waved his hands dismissively, shutting him up, “Enough. Okay? You’re not doing that to me anymore. I know this isn’t about you being in pain. I know this isn’t about physio, or being bored, or wanting to go back to work. Please don’t treat me like an idiot. I’ve known you a long time P’Plan, don’t think I don’t know when you’re lying.”

Plan kept his tear-filled eyes down on his clasped hands, squirming in his seat.

“You won’t… you wouldn’t…”

“I wouldn’t what?”

Plan took a deep breath. “You can’t understand.”

“Says fucking who?” Perth questioned, tone more aggressive than Plan had anticipated. The younger pinned him with a stern gaze, one that looked almost insulted. “Tell me honestly, are we actually friends or are we just pretending?”

“Of course we’re friends,” Plan muttered quietly, “brothers even.”

“Maybe not considering it’s been so long since you’ve actually told me how you’re feeling.”

“Don’t say that.”

“Then tell me, please just talk to me,” Perth pleaded, placing a comforting hand on his shoulder and giving it a firm squeeze, “I’m here for you man.”

And there was something in the way that Perth said it. The more gentle, soft breathiness in his voice that was too nice. Too patient and caring and sweet and everything Plan felt he didn’t deserve.

Defenceless in defeat, Plan lifted a hesitant finger and pointed to the box on the table.

“They’re from him,” he whispered, eyes wide and shining.

And Perth did a double take then, not stupid enough to need telling twice and knowing exactly who he meant. The younger sprung to his feet and rushed to examine the expensive fabrics, looking at them closely and rubbing each garment between his fingers and thumbs before he spotted the discarded note that had accompanied them.

Plan’s head bowed in shame as he read it, biting back tears as Perth awkwardly cleared his throat.

“Okay… Jesus… right okay I see…” Perth nodded in astonishment, processing this new development, “so how are you feeling?”

“How do you think I’m feeling?” Plan choked incredulously, chest tight and struggling to breathe.

“I’m serious, P’Plan,” Perth said, re-taking the seat beside him and craning his neck down to meet his eyes. “Ever since we arrived here, you’ve been so different. Everything we’ve been through, you were shot for god’s sake, and yet I still haven’t got the faintest idea what’s going on in your head. Tell me what burdens your mind brother, let me help.”

Plan lost the war with his tear ducts, shaking his head as they spilled over, cheeks burning furiously hot, everything he felt too hard to articulate out loud.

“I c-can’t… I just can’t. Not this,” he gabbled, the words full of repressed emotion, “this is too much.”

“Please,” Perth persisted, using both hands to frame his face and forcing Plan to hold his gaze even when he tried to wriggle away, “no judgement. I promise. Swear on my life.”

“But you will judge me.”

“Why will I?”

“Because even I would judge me,” Plan wept, “I’m so fucked up.”

“Aren’t we all?” Perth half laughed, trying to lighten the mood. “How could we not be after all this?”

“You don’t get it Perth. You’ll never get it. How could he send me that? After everything he’s done? Do you know how hard it is not to think about him? Do you know how hard I have to try every day just to be fucking normal?! Why can’t he just leave me alone?”

“Is that really what you want?”

“I just wanna go back to how I was before.”

“Before what?”

“Before him, before London, before Captain... all of it.

“I know you don’t want to hear this,” Perth began evenly after a moment’s pause, “but even then he took up so much of your life, P’Plan. You just didn’t have a face or a name then. You were always a little different from the rest of us... you so badly wanted to catch him.”

“So what are you saying?” Plan frowned, sniffing ungracefully. “Be careful what you wish for?”

“No,” Perth bit his lower lip, deep in thought, “I’m saying I know there’s something more to this. I know you felt something for him, and that's okay. If it helps, I think you’ve got every right to be mad.”

Plan thought of all the things that had happened between him and Mean he’d never spoken to a soul. Their conversations that first night in the gay bar, drunkenly handing his phone and password over to an assassin, being pinned in a dark alleyway and kissed so hard on a pool table that he’d felt it in his toes. Yet, for as much as he wanted someone to talk to, he knew that some things were never meant to be remembered out loud.

“I know it’s crazy,” he whispered instead, fresh tears pricking behind his eyes, “but I miss him.”

And Perth then proved why he’d earned the accolade of being Plan’s closest confidante in all the years they’d known each other, for he kept good on his promise and did not judge. His eyes did not grow wide, he did not chastise him, and perhaps most notably, he did not pull away.

In the moments that followed, Plan knew the tears which streamed down his blotchy face were ugly, strangled sounds escaping his throat that translated only into the grief that comes with realising an almighty loss and even if Perth didn’t understand what he was mourning, he didn’t seem to mind.

Instead, he pulled Plan in for the tightest of hugs, settling there so that if his best friend had to break down, at least he didn’t have to do it alone.

*

Mean knew that he was being watched.

He’d been aware of it for over a week, and since then a strange game had begun in which the hunted had become the hunter, eyes constantly peeled for the next sign of his presence.

He knew the man that had been sent to target him, one of Zaanook’s youngest minions that went by the name of Alexander Petrenko. Mean didn’t know if that was his real name but it suited him all the same. He had a distinctive Russian look, and he’d been following the elder assassin closely for days now. Mean wasn’t surprised, he was barely even intrigued, curious only as to how he was planning on killing him.

And yet, on one particularly warm Wednesday morning for the time of year, the man who looked barely out of his teens walked brazenly into Mean’s favourite coffee shop in Testaccio and sat down at his table uninvited. The assassin refused to look up from his newspaper, calmly stirring his cappuccino with a spoon.

“You’re not scared,” Alexander spoke in English, more a statement than a question, the faint remnants of his native accent still perceptible to Mean’s trained ear. “Why?”

“Because I’m not going to die,” Mean replied, rolling his eyes as he turned the page.

“Are you sure about that?”

“Positive,” Mean sighed.

“Well the boss wants you dead, that’s for certain.”

“And he sent you of all people to finish me off?” Mean smirked to himself. “More fool him.”

“You’re just another job, Mean. You’re nothing special you know.”

Mean’s snide grin reached the corners of his eyes.

“That’s not what I recall you saying when I screwed you against your living room wall, Alexander. How are the cats by the way?”

“Still a cocky son of a bitch then?”

“You’d expect nothing less, surely?”

“Perhaps,” Alexander frowned, tapping nails against mahogany, “except I’ve heard from reliable sources that you’ve been softening in your old age, giving up the game, maybe even in love.”

Mean scoffed, setting his paper down on the adjacent table and sitting back, arms folded.

“All false as far as I’m concerned.”

“We’ll see.”

“And what’s that supposed to mean?”

“Well let’s just say, someone is going to die tonight, but you’re right, it’s not going to be you.”

“What are you talking about?”

“I’m not here to kill you Mean. I just volunteered to deliver the good news. Your pretty boy in London, Zaanook’s got a hit out on him, which you’d know if you’d done any work lately, and well, tonight’s the night,” Alexander grinned, dragging a finger slowly along his neck.

“I swear,” Mean said menacingly, upper set of teeth clamped against the lower, “if anyone lays a finger on him I’ll kill every single one of you before the fucking sun rises.”

“And that’s why I’m here,” the young assassin smiled, “to stop you running to the rescue. Anyway he’s rather pretty, isn’t he? No doubt we’ll make sure to have some fun with him first…”

Temper quickly rising, Mean’s face transformed into a picture of malevolence. “Have you got a death wish, Alex?”

“Certainly not... but if you’re up for round two as a distraction then I wouldn’t say no.”

“I think I’d actually rather die,” Mean snarled, white knuckles gripped to the edge of the table whilst he debated whether or not to slam it into Alexander’s chest, maybe break a few ribs. “I’m warning you, call off that hit.”

“Or what?”

“Or you’ll never make it home to Russia.”

“Good luck killing me in the middle of Rome in broad daylight. You’ll be in prison before dawn, and although I’ve no doubt that you'd love the showers, you can’t play the prodigal hero from there. Besides you’re out of practice, I think the odds are definitely in my favour.”

“Do not delude yourself into thinking you could ever compete with me,” Mean whispered hotly, enraged eyes pinned to the man sat directly before him. “You have no idea what I’m capable of.”

Chuckling and seemingly ambivalent towards his implied threats, Alexander leant forward and picked up Mean’s coffee, taking a long gulp before setting it back in its saucer with a clink.

“Well…” the Russian grinned, “I do love a challenge.”

*

Plan took the box to bed after his outburst, Perth now sworn to secrecy partially because he couldn’t cope with any further questioning now that the rest of the flat’s inhabitants had arrived home but mainly because he wanted to try on the contents.

He examined his reflection in the full length mirror and couldn’t deny that Mean had good taste, the fabrics soft enough to fall asleep in. Minus his face which had been left unshaven, eyes still red-rimmed from crying, lips dry and cracked, from the neck down he looked incredible.

The clothes fit him perfectly, defining his slim frame without dwarfing it, the khaki green complimenting his olive skin tone beside sultry black accent details. He didn’t have much of an ass to begin with but Mean’s choice of trousers accentuated what was there, elongating his legs so that he looked taller.

In this outfit he really might’ve made a passable date for an assassin.

In this outfit, for a split second, he saw what Mean saw when he looked at him through blown eyes.

And that, in a strange sort of way, both thrilled and concerned him in equal measure.

It was only when both of those feelings overwhelmed him a long while of staring later, that he shucked off the shirt in a wave of panic, suddenly keen to rid himself of Mean’s twisted affections, and finally thought to look at the label.

The name of the designer was not one he recognised.

However, fortunately for him, the internet did when he Googled it.

His search offered up the address of one vintage, highly exclusive, tailoring shop.

One address miles away in the timeless city of Rome.

Chapter 10: change is a monster and changing is hard.

Chapter Text

It hadn’t taken long for Alexander to start complaining.

“You know there are these things called buses, right? They have them in Rome too.”

“The weather is fine for a walk,” Mean set a comfortable pace, a frosty breeze pinkening his cheeks as he led the way. Alexander had insisted he remained in front of him at all times and he hadn’t argued, not currently in a position to negotiate.

“I know what you’re doing you know.”

There was an air of cockiness in Alexander’s tone but Mean did not look back. “And what’s that?”

“Hoping that I’ll lose my bearings, find yourself a quiet side-street where you can off me and make a break for the airport… but it won’t work.”

“No?” Mean smirked to himself.

“I know these streets as well as you do. Maybe better. For a long time this was my patch, we don’t all spend our time running around playing games with handsome detectives in London.”

Mean took a glance at his watch. Just gone one o’clock. Two hours had passed since Alexander had made his grand appearance and the cold February sun was now at its highest point, the rays bright as he took another left turn into a street steeped in shadow.

“Then tell me where we’re going?” he challenged, grinning when his fellow assassin offered no response. “Didn’t think so. Not so clever now, huh?”

Glancing nonchalantly over his shoulder, ice blue eyes were already watching him full of suspicion.

“Interesting to know that you have a destination in mind…”

“I don’t go anywhere without a destination in mind, Alex.”

“Good. There’s nothing worse than aimlessly wandering roads that lead to nowhere.”

They walked for another few minutes, Mean not bothering to remind him that all roads did in fact lead to somewhere. He despaired. Some assassins really did lack any sense of adventure.

“Why aren’t you trying to fight me?” Alexander suddenly asked, breaking the silence.

“What do you mean?”

“Well, you’re running out of time.”

“To do what?”

“To save him?” Alexander didn’t attempt to mask the confusion in his voice. “If that’s your plan anyway. It’s nearly half past one now, so say thirty minutes in a taxi, a two and a half hour flight and at least an hour of admin at each airport. By the time you get anywhere near Central London it’ll be gone seven and your boy will be in fresh hell already begging for death. Cutting it fine aren’t you?”

“Who said I’m going to save him?”

The Russian laughed a few strides back, the sound bitter to Mean’s ears.

“You really are awful, you know that? Zaanook seemed to think this one was different but I told him, I knew it, you treat all of us the damned same.”

Mean stared straight ahead, grateful he couldn’t see Alexander’s face in case his expression matched the distaste laced in his voice. The last thing he needed was a night in the cells for curb-stomping.

“Do not compare yourself to him, Alexander,” he snapped, “it’s embarrassing.”

“So you do care about him then?”

“More than you, sure, but that applies to practically everyone I’ve ever met. Hits included.”

“Not what you said when you seduced me.”

“Seduced?” Mean exclaimed, almost choking on a laugh. “You’ve gotta be kidding me. Honestly, you’re in the wrong job, should have been a comedian with jokes like that. You were all over me and I obliged. Simple as that. It meant nothing.”

“That’s not what you said either.”

“So what did I say then?” Mean rolled his eyes, “can’t say that the evening was particularly memorable from my perspective…”

“That you thought my accent was hot, that you wanted to taste the vodka on me, that being inside of me felt so fucking sweet.

Mean cringed internally at the memory, continuing to walk with eyes glued face front. “Gosh. I wasn’t particularly creative for you was I? I wonder why…”

“Oh is that so?” Alexander rebuked, clearly fuming. His rage put a spring in Mean’s step as they advanced up another narrow street. To the untrained eye they all looked the same. “What do you say to him then? Go on, big shot, impress me.”

Before Mean had a chance to tell him to fuck himself, Alexander continued.

“Wait, hang on, let me guess,” the Russian changed the pitch of his voice to imitate him and Mean wanted nothing more than to drown him in his own blood. “Oh Plan, I feel different when I’m with you, I want you so much, I’ll give it all up just for –

Mean cut Alexander short with the sheer brute force of his knuckles.

He swung without thinking, indifferent to anyone who might have been watching, his only aim to rid Alexander of as many teeth as possible.

It was only when he hit the ground hard, blood spilling from his mouth, that the dread caught up with Mean. The instant their eyes met, the Russian’s now blazing with fury, the young Thai assassin knew he had been foolish.

Most killers were over-emotional people who lacked self-control.

He was supposed to be an exception.

*

Plan had turned his phone off.

It wouldn’t take long for the others to realise he was missing.

He now regretted telling Perth about Mean’s masochistic Valentine’s Day gift. His friends were a group of detectives and the motives behind his disappearance so obvious that a mere civilian would be capable of cracking the case. Yet somehow, it wasn’t so much them knowing where he was going but rather the knowledge that Perth would fill in the blanks in his absence, that bothered him so.

It deeply unsettled him, the thought of his colleagues believing there a romantic attraction between them. A morbid curiosity? Sure. A professional interest? Fine.

But a sexual chemistry?

Maybe even a crush?

No sir. That did not sit right with him. Not at all.

Travelling was simultaneously an experience he adored and loathed in equal measure.

He enjoyed getting to where he needed to be whilst despising every other part of the process. He hated packing. He hated queuing. He hated waiting. Every minute wasted another he was never going to get back. It irritated him to his core, the thought of time passing despite going nowhere.

Especially when time was not something he had at his disposal.

He had switched off his cell for two reasons, the first so as not to be tempted to pick up any calls after landing, and the second to remain entirely untraceable. He knew that by now his flatmates would have woken to find his bed empty and unslept in. P’New would have been informed. His bank account had probably already been infiltrated, and his boss would be furious to discover his latest transaction a one-way ticket that had not been approved by Special Branch.

Plan shivered in his aisle seat.

He was not looking forward to those voicemails.

*

Mean’s plan had been to take Alexander home.

Not to the hotel he had been staying at since settling in Rome, but rather the flat he owned a mere ten minutes away. He had acquired a property in various countries he frequented most often as part of his job and, whilst rarely visiting them, it comforted him to have them there in case of emergencies such as these. He had gone above and beyond to keep them a secret, even from Zaanook, keeping the keys to each apartment attached to a chain that went with him everywhere.

All assassins needed a safe haven.

And with his reputation, he needed several.

His strategy had been to seduce Alexander a second time. Unrequited feelings would have worked to his benefit upon closing the door behind them, caging him up against it and kissing him compliant. Kissing him hard, until he would have done anything Mean desired. He would have run his hands through his buzz cut, mouthing along strong, square cheekbones before asking him to call off the hit on Plan. A trade for a trade, he would have called it, wearing the sexiest of looks and nothing else if that’s what it took to convince him. For whilst he could not remember what love felt like, he had not forgotten that it was the cruellest of all warfare’s.

Mean suspected it would have worked right up until he had impulsively dislocated his jaw.

And now he had to face the consequences, Alexander getting to his feet with a look in his eyes that spiked the adrenaline levels of even the smoothest and most calculating of assassins.

“You’ll regret that,” the Russian seethed on an evil smile, reaching into his coat pocket and retrieving a hand-gun. A double action revolver to be precise, which, if fired at point blank range would not permit Mean the courtesy of surviving this encounter, let alone rescuing Plan from his.

Except, his fellow assassin did not point the gun in his direction, instead aiming for the sky. Pulling the trigger three times sent the handful of pedestrians watching their altercation with interest screaming into the distance. Area cleared, Alexander discarded the gun down on the cobbles with a clang, eyes set on him the entire time.

“Bare hands?” Mean queried calmly.

“Quite,” Alexander confirmed, wiping the blood from his mouth, “what kind of satisfaction could I get any other way?”

“You are the worst,” Mean said mockingly, “a total drama queen.”

“I’ve fantasised about killing you for a long time,” Alexander slowly turned up the cuffs of his sleeves until they reached his elbows. “In bed at night. Travelling from place to place. Eating at restaurants. Every single hit I carry out, I imagine it’s you.”

“That’s quite the unhealthy obsession you’ve got there.”

“Even on the odd occasion I visit my mother back in Russia.” He continued, ignoring him. “She was my handler you know, before P’Zaanook took me on after she retired. I come from a long line of assassins and they’ll welcome me back a hero after I’ve taken you out.”

“I bet your mother’s a whore.” Mean grinned when Alexander’s hands balled into fists, lips curling on a vicious snarl.

“You really aren’t scared of me are you.”

“Should I be?”

“If you value your life.”

“The value of a life is assigned only by how much it matters to other people. No one will miss me and that makes me untouchable because I, Alexander, have nothing left to lose. Unlike you… you fucking little mama’s boy.”

Mean intended to touch a nerve, irritated when his opponent instead met the threat with a smirk.

“You might not care about your life, but what about his huh?” Alexander smiled, a sickening, sadistic twist of his lips, “I’ll make sure they ruin him. He’ll die in pain, and his death will be a mercy once they’re done with him. It’s a shame you won’t be alive to see him… not so pretty anymore.”

It was the gleeful way he sang the words that made Mean lunge for him.

His attack was anticipated this time, the swing of his arm successfully dodged. A strong right-hook in return connected with Mean’s cheekbone. Broken or not, Mean had no time to find out as he was captured in a headlock. He escaped it by pulling back an arm, elbowing Alexander full force in the nose, which definitely was broken judging by the stream of blood which poured from his nostrils.

Yet Alexander, fuelled by years’ worth of frustration at always playing second fiddle, recovered quicker than Mean expected, launching for him as soon as he got to his feet. Knocked back to the ground, Alexander planted a knee firmly either side of his hips. Straddled by his full weight, Mean had never seen him look so feral, eyes maniacal, hair dishevelled and blood trickling down over his chin.

Two strong hands encased Mean’s throat, intent on squeezing the life from him no matter how hard he tried to prise them away. Long legs kicked out in panic as thumbs pressed firmly against his Adam’s apple. Oxygen-starved, his eyes began to bulge from their sockets, face hot and purpling by the second but Alexander’s grip only grew tighter.

“Say hi to the Devil for me, Phiravich.”

Mean writhed underneath him but he was too heavy, well built in both frame and stature. He would go out fighting, that was all that mattered. He couldn’t breathe, heart pounding in his ears, the pressure around his neck making his brain feel as though about to explode. Dark eyes threatened to roll back in their sockets as his grip around Alexander’s hands began to slacken. The cobbles were ice cold against the back of his skull, and it hurt every time the Russian slammed him back against them in his efforts. Death by strangulation had not been on Mean’s top ten list of ways to die. It took too long. Slow and drawn out. Suffocation inflicted by the hands of another.

That, he supposed, was why Alexander had chosen it.

As his lungs screamed, blood vessels began to burst in his nose and it was then that he stopped fighting. He could taste metal. Iron. Limp and loose, a weak set of eyes found their way past Alexander’s shoulders to suddenly find a face he hadn’t expected to see again blocking the sun.

Was he dead?

He must be dead.

Except neither ghosts, nor apparitions, visions or delusions had the ability to smash a skull in.

And that was precisely what Plan did.

*

Plan dropped the brick in his hand, shaking uncontrollably.

A wounded Alexander collapsed deadweight on top of Mean who, between sucking in deep lungfuls of fresh air, briskly shoved him off. Sitting up on his elbows, chest heaving and eyes still glazed with an echo of the lifelessness that had almost consumed them, Mean stared at him as though he’d just acquired the ability to see ghosts, stunned and unblinking.

“What the hell are you doing here?”

Plan barely heard Mean’s croaked question, observing the pattern of bruises already forming around his throat, a necklace of purple fingertips.

“Is he dead?” he replied, voice barely a whisper.

With little energy, Mean leant an arm over Alexander and checked for a pulse whilst he waited with bated breath.

“No.”

Plan sighed in relief, terror quickly morphing into panic. “Fuck, I didn’t, I don’t, God, I –”

“Phi,” Mean interrupted, voice authoritative in a way that he needed, a way that felt reliable and soothing, drawing his eyes back to him. “What are you doing here?”

“I figured out you were here.”

“And you came to find me?”

The hopeful way Mean asked did not go unnoticed, yet Plan remained quiet as the former got unsteadily to his feet, rubbing a hand over his throat with a hiss. He imagined it must be sore.

“Good thing you did. Else I might have been a goner.”

Plan suddenly saw his victim’s fingers twitch. “We should call an ambulance.”

“One minute,” Mean muttered, scanning the ground until he spotted a gun that had seemingly been discarded. He pocketed it quickly, then picking up the brick Plan had used as a makeshift weapon. The shell-shocked special agent watched him intently, assuming he planned to hide it on his behalf until, to his great horror, Mean turned back to Alexander and raised it above his head.

“No! Wait!”

But it was too late.

For with each of the three additional blows Mean inflicted, using every inch of his might, Plan felt them all deep in his chest.

Satisfied with his work and still holding the blood-spattered block of clay in his hand, Mean looked back at him with a happy, fulfilled smile.

“No need.”

*

The assassin suddenly noticed that Plan was wearing the clothes he’d bought for him.

His Valentine’s present.

“Some first date huh,” he broke the silence. “I was right though, you do look impeccable, minus the blood anyway.”

Plan did not respond, his face deathly white as if drained by a vampire.

“I hope you’re not about to give me a lecture,” Mean inhaled deeply. His skin tingled on the brink of painful, flushed with adrenaline, all because of the way Plan was staring.

Wide eyed. Horrified. Stunning.

All things that turned him on.

Plan’s mouth remained firmly shut. Instead, dark eyes glistened, and Mean didn’t understand why they looked about to spill over. He hadn’t him down as the type to be shocked by a little blood, or in this instance, a caved in skull. What was a little exposed brain to someone who’d witnessed the atrocities he had?

“You killed him,” Plan eventually spoke, eyes glued to the corpse before him.

“I think what you mean is, “thank you for saving my life,” Mean frowned. “He’s at the centre of a hit to take you out today, so you can consider us even.”

“You killed him,” the elder repeated in a robotic voice.

“Yes, I was there.”

“But… he’s dead!

“Thank you detective,” Mean placed a hand on his right hip, losing patience with every passing second. “I should damn well hope so after that.”

Plan’s gaze finally tore itself away from Alexander’s lifeless body to fix upon him, the look on his face so full of judgement that Mean fought the urge to recoil under its scrutiny. “Do you not feel anything?”

“Sure I do,” the assassin shrugged.

“What?” Plan questioned, tone laced with disapproval. “Tell me what you feel.”

“Relief. Contentment. Successful. All sorts of things.”

“How can you take a life and not feel any remorse?”

“Because if I hadn’t he would have taken yours,” Mean said simply, cold in his delivery. “What does it matter to you anyway, you’ve seen me kill tons of people.”

“No,” Plan corrected, hands balling into fists at his sides. “I’ve seen your victims. I’ve seen them after. I’ve seen the mess you leave behind. But I’ve never seen you do it. I’ve never seen your hands pluck a life from the world as though it doesn’t mean a thing.”

“Well if it makes you feel better, his doesn’t.”

“Not to you maybe, but what about his mother? Father? Brothers and sisters? Girlfriend? The people who care about him?”

“No one cares about that son of a bitch, trust me,” Mean rolled his eyes, neglecting to tell Plan that Alexander never did have a taste for women.

“Everyone has someone who cares about them, Mean.”

“Not everyone,” Mean scowled, “besides, you can’t think like that in this job.”

“But you don’t have to be an assassin,” Plan exclaimed, “this is the path you’ve chosen, fine, but don’t you stand there and pretend that this was written. This is a choice Mean, your choice, not your fucking destiny.”

“That’s true. I chose it because it’s all I’ve ever wanted.”

“All?” Plan raised an accusatory eyebrow, “you’ve never wanted anything but this?”

“Fine. It’s all I’ve ever wanted that I could actually have,” Mean rephrased, “and it also helps that I’m good at it.”

“But what else is there? What can’t you have?”

“The life that’s made for other people. A normal job, a home, friends, weddings, a couple of kids, holidays, break ups, reunions, photo frames on shelves. All of it.” Mean listed off, counting for dramatic effect on each of his fingers and using every ounce of effort not to raise his voice, unsure why he was suddenly under interrogation. “The life that’s made for you.”

Plan’s sour face suddenly fell, replaced by an expression Mean hated even more. Pity, empathy, sadness and many other emotions he could not relate to.

Nor did he want to.

“It’s not too late for you to have all that.”

“But it would never be enough for me. Don’t you see? I’m too far gone. It would bore me to tears. I haven’t known normality for so long I don’t remember how to live like that. I’m used to this, Phi. The thrill, the anticipation, the power. It defines who I am. I could die anytime and that’s okay because that’s the whole point. To be right on the edge. That’s how I like to live my life.”

“But there are other things, not just killing, that can make you feel alive.”

“Like what?”

No sooner than he’d finished asking the question, Mean felt something shift between them. He observed as Plan’s face softened, visibly torn between his strict definitions of right and wrong. The elder stayed quiet for a long time, staring at the floor and Mean wished for the ability to read his mind. He waited patiently, his heart pounding in his chest at the many things he might say. Except he’d forgotten that Plan prioritised the importance of actions rather than words, and as long lashes fluttered upwards, it dawned on the assassin that he was about find out.

“Come here,” Plan said quietly.

Taking a breath, Mean complied, walking slowly towards him.

“Closer.”

Mean advanced further, closing the gap between them until they were stood face to face, where they hadn’t been for what felt like an eternity.

It made the assassin’s knees go weak.

“Put your hands on me.”

“Huh?”

“You heard me.”

“Where?” Mean strained with the effort not to pounce on him.

“Anywhere you want.”

Mean considered all of his options, every inch of him appealing, eyes combing over his slender frame from top to toe. Tight shoulders? Narrow hips? The curve of his waist? Each and every finger knuckle? Delicate wrist bones? The gap between his thighs? The point where the same gap stopped?

He could look forever and still not decide.

Settling for comfort over desire and clearing his sore throat, he placed both of his bloody hands gently on Plan’s neck. He avoided the soft collar of his shirt because that had been expensive, framing the special agent’s jaw with his thumbs and painting it scarlet.

“Would you strangle me like he did you? Is that really who you are?”

Mean met his gaze, eyes locked and heart caught in his chest until Plan did something that stopped it entirely. Mean ceased to breathe when Plan turned his face into his right palm, eyes slipping shut as he leant into it. Sighing softly, the sound not unlike a whimper, Mean found himself touched by the gesture. The brutal tenderness of it.

It was this.

This was what he couldn’t have, he just hadn’t known how to articulate it when Plan had asked.

How could he, the cold-hearted assassin that he was, tell him that he felt ecstatic every time he set eyes on him? That he got goosebumps every time he heard his name? That he set butterflies loose in his stomach whenever they were this close?

“How does this feel?” Plan asked, and Mean felt his breath ghost along the lifeline of his palm.

“You,” Mean croaked, throat dry, “are very coy.”

Plan smiled softly into the ball of his hand. Not a grin and not a smirk. The expression small and shy, a reluctance there to admit the truth in Mean’s accusation. He blinked his eyes open and Mean wasn’t sure how he remained standing, his cheeks warm and pupils full.

“Kiss me.”

“What?”

“Don’t make me say it again,” Plan whispered, letting his lips part, “kiss me.”

It took all of Mean’s will to resist the mouth Plan’s tongue licked wet for him.

“Fuck you,” he breathed. “I know what you’re trying to do.”

“Which is?”

“You want me to prove that I’m human. That I can feel the things you feel.”

“I proved that a long time ago. Assassin you may be, but you’re also the man who held me when I was dying, who kept me talking, who stayed by my bedside until you knew I’d be okay. You didn’t feel cold then and you still don’t now.”

“Why are you doing this to me?”

“What?”

“Testing me,” Mean replied, “torturing me.”

“I’m not,” Plan shook his head, “I want you to remember that some things are better than killing.”

“But I can’t have you, so what does it matter?”

“Who says you can’t?”

“You have. Many times.”

“I’m not saying it now.”

“Then you kiss me.”

“What?”

“I mean it. You do it. If it’s what you want.”

“Okay, fine,” Plan nodded, leaning in.

“Wait,” Mean pushed him back down on the balls of his feet. “I’ve got one condition.”

“Go on,” Plan gave him a curious look.

“Kiss me like you could forgive me. Kiss me like you would if I was just a normal guy, someone who, oh I don’t know, someone who you’d met by coincidence. Who’d asked for your number, taken you on a date and now you wanna take him home. Kiss me like you’re going to see me again. Kiss me like we could be norm-”

The lump in Mean’s throat went unexplained because Plan’s mouth stopped him short, slamming against him so forcefully that his heart exploded.

And, just for a split second, the predator became prey at the hands of the man who’d waited so long to trap him.

*

They almost fell.

Plan recognised neither Mean nor himself as he became reacquainted with the way he tasted. For once he wasn’t frightened, only relieved. Yet Mean was scared, he could feel it, trembling when Plan’s tongue snaked inside his mouth and it didn’t stop no matter what he did. Plan tugged lightly at his hair and Mean’s weight pressed against him as though in need of support, afraid he might collapse. Changing tack, Plan pulled at Mean’s lower lip with his teeth and immediately he gasped.

His assassin was barely breathing.

Plan didn’t know what to do with so much power, exchanging kiss after kiss and stealing as much of the air, the little that was left, in Mean’s lungs as he could. He pressed in close, and perhaps Mean hadn’t expected him to because he immediately stumbled back, and Plan went with him every step of the way until he had his spine pressed flat against a crevice in the stone wall, their teeth clashing on impact.

Now better concealed from sight, Mean didn’t switch them, didn’t even try, and Plan half wondered whether he was grateful for something to lean against, seemingly unsteady on his feet. He could understand it if this was the dominance Mean craved, if this was his addiction. With every flick of his tongue, the assassin would moan into his mouth. It was making him hard, thinking things so explicit that they made his cheeks burn.

He wished he could say that he wasn’t in control when his hand slid down Mean’s clothed chest, over his stomach and past his belt. He reluctantly plucked his mouth from the assassin’s lips, pressing it softly against the bruised skin along his neck as he palmed Mean’s growing erection slowly and with very real intention, rewarded with the most erotic sound he’d ever heard in his life.

“Phi,” Mean groaned, “Phi… please…”

“I want you leaking in those expensive jeans,” Plan said with so much confidence that Mean opened blown eyes, looking down at him as though he were a stranger.

“Where the fuck have you been all my life?” Mean half-laughed, eyes slipping shut from the headiness every time the ball of Plan’s palm applied more pressure between his legs.

“I’ve always been there, just one step behind.”

“Not anymore.”

“No,” Plan admitted.

“Does it feel good? Knowing you can seduce me whenever you want?”

“Does it feel good knowing that all you have to do is send me a present and I’ll come running?”

“I’m sorry, I know I shouldn’t have, I just couldn’t stop thinking about you.”

“I hate you for it,” Plan told him, pressing an open-mouthed kiss to Mean’s pulse, and he meant it. “I was supposed to be getting over you.”

“I couldn’t,” Mean confessed, Plan’s mouth sucking unsolicited truths from him. “I tried, I really did, but everywhere I turned I saw you. I found you in everything I looked at. Everything I touched. Heard. Tasted. You were everywhere. I couldn’t even sleep without you being right there in my head.”

“You dreamt of me?”

“All the time.”

“Did you wake up wet?”

“Fuck,” Mean groaned, head languishing back against the wall, eyes squeezed shut. “Sometimes.”

The thought of it made Plan feel things. The idea that Mean, the calculating killer who could stamp out lives as though they were little more than crushed ants underfoot, could also spent his nights fantasising about him like a lovesick teenage boy. It made him want him more, so much more that his shaking fingertips unbuttoned Mean’s jeans without thinking twice.

“Don’t,” Mean suddenly said, bursting the cloud of red mist blurring his mind.

“What?” he asked, dazed and confused. “Why?”

“If you touch me I won’t be able to stop myself.”

“Stop yourself from what?”

“From topping you all fucking night.”

“Just like all those other boys, huh?” Plan muttered under his breath, glancing back at Alexander. “Just like him.”

“You’re nothing like anyone else,” Mean murmured, not stopping to wonder how he’d worked out there had once been something between them and instead turning his face back to him with an index finger. There was a pain in his eyes and a hoarseness to his voice that almost had Plan believing it too, “I fucking wish you were, maybe then I could forget about you.”

As he stared at him, a hesitant hand still resting at Mean’s waistband, Plan thought about asking whether this was what happened to everyone that got close to him. Had all the countless men and women he’d desired met a grisly fate just like Alexander’s? In the end, perhaps because he was aching for him or perhaps because he simply didn’t want to know, he closed the gap between them to steal another deep kiss from the assassin’s full lips. And another.

On the third, he slid his hand inside Mean’s underwear.

Plan felt they were in tune when he touched him, spines arching at the same time. His own throat echoed Mean’s moans, turned on beyond comprehension by how hot his cock was, full of blood and pulsing in the curve of his palm. He barely registered the way Mean cursed into his open mouth, trying to memorise the sensation of holding another boy’s manhood in his hand. Overwhelmed by the emotions it inspired, he wondered if this was what he’d always wanted.

Not necessarily to catch Mean, but to have him.

The assassin’s husky voice interrupted the tornado of thoughts whirling around his head.

“Close your fingers around me a little tighter,” Mean instructed quietly in his ear, each word almost a moan in itself, “slide your hand up and down, flick your wrist.”

“I know how to jerk a cock thanks,” Plan protested, complying all the same.

Mean half laughed between a sharp hiss. “Slow down then, fuck.”

“Why? Am I hurting you?”

“Thought you were the expert,” Mean smirked, taking pity on him when Plan pinned him with a naïve look of confusion. He sighed. “If you carry on like that you’ll make me come all over you.”

“Oh, sorry!” Plan almost let go entirely in his panic. He wasn’t used to this version of the assassin, the one that giggled, the wide smile on his face making him look significantly younger than he was. The arm around Plan’s back held him tighter to stop him backing away, Mean’s free hand wrapping itself firmly around the one of his at the root of his pleasure. Slowly, the assassin guided his hand up and down the full length of him, adjusting his grip until both the pressure and pace were just as he wanted them, and Plan might have complained about being shown what to do if it weren’t for the reactions each tug elicited from Mean.

As soon as he believed Plan capable enough to continue on his own, both of Mean’s hands found the elder’s shoulders to steady himself, except he was too engrossed by the cock in his own to notice. Mean had started to drip for him, catching beads of white with his thumb and using them to lubricate each firm pump of his wrist.

Unable to stop himself, Plan asked the question at the forefront of his mind.

“What does it taste like?”

A blissed out Mean cracked open narrow eyes, a sensual grin plastered all over his handsome face. Biting on his lower lip seductively, he suddenly ran a hand down himself until it found Plan’s wrist, bringing glistening fingers up to his lips as the special agent looked on, gulping around the lump in his throat.

Mean met his transfixed gaze before he opened his mouth, pink tongue appearing to lick a line up the length of Plan’s fingers. He thought for a moment, dragging both index and middle over wet lips and pressing a light kiss to the tips of his nails.

“Salty. Like me. Hot as hell,” he eventually murmured on a satisfied grin, leaving Plan lost for words. “And you?”

“Me, what?”

“What do you taste like?” Mean asked with intrigue.

Plan swallowed hard. He’d never wanted this before. He thought back to April, of stopping her whenever she’d tried to please him the same way he’d done for her. Why did it feel different now?

“Do you wanna find out?”

“Would you let me?” Mean asked, leaning forward a little to speak the words against his lips which parted on instinct for him. “I could blow you right here, right now, if you want me to.”

“Do you want to?”

“So fucking much,” Mean said, tongue dragging over Plan’s own, warm and slippery. “I can’t even describe. And I think you want it too…”

Plan didn’t have the heart to reply, it’s beating so loud he could hear it pounding in his chest. He buried his face into Mean’s neck, nodding into his collarbone and hoping that answer enough.

*

The nerves he felt were foreign to the assassin.

He was entirely confident in his abilities when it came to pleasing both men and women. Yet, as Plan took his place against the wall, Mean pressing him there with a firm palm against his heart, the adrenaline got the better of him. Tilting his head, he locked their lips together, seeking relief in the eager kisses Plan offered until completely sapped of tension, limbs loose like jelly. His hands met no resistance, no matter where he touched. Be it the small of his back, angular hipbones, the swell of his ass, Plan only arched closer. Intimately close. So much so in fact, that Mean could feel the stiff curve of his arousal pushing against his own.

And it gave Mean the shivers.

Hesitantly, showing enormous self-restraint, one of his hands came to rest at Plan’s trouser fly.

“Can I?”

Plan only kissed him deeper, amping up the pressure with each one. Both of the hands in Mean’s hair disappeared, suddenly moving his out of the way between Plan’s legs. Mean didn’t know why he was surprised when Plan undid his pants for him, pulling out his dick before wrapping both arms around the assassin’s neck and leaving Mean to do his worst. He’d known he had this in him since watching him on Halloween, his suspicions only reinforced when he’d bracketed Mean’s hips with strong legs on a pool table that fateful day in London.

The sensuality. The power. They dripped from him like rain from a leaf.

Perhaps that was why, after pressing three firm kisses down the nape of Plan’s neck and making him writhe, Mean sunk to his knees.

*

“Mean, fuck… Mean.. you… you feel…”

Plan found himself speechless. He’d only been there a matter of seconds and already he could tell by the way Mean’s throat expanded around his cock that he’d done this before. Many times.

Not that he cared.

Not even a little bit.

His legs trembled every time the assassin hollowed out his cheeks, could feel himself leaking all over his warm tongue. Burning cheeks flushed beet red as he tried not to look, fingers interlocked with Mean’s which were braced on his hips and squeezing hard. A litter of unsolicited noises he’d never heard himself make fell from his mouth. Moans and curses and gasps and groans, each one of which only seemed to encourage Mean another inch further, making his knees shake.

“You’re good at this.”

Mean smiled a soft hum of acknowledgement around him, the vibrations travelling the entire length of his body as yet more evidence of his pleasure pooled down Mean’s throat. Despite the embarrassed flush that continued to creep its way over Plan’s skin, he didn’t seem turned off by it, closing his eyes to focus on the slow, purposeful dips of his head that were turning the special agent’s brain to mush. Glancing down at the view on show, Plan’s hips involuntarily rolled at the sight of his shaft, slick and glistening, between Mean’s lips.

He offered countless apologies when the assassin almost choked, quietened only when the younger shook his head dismissively and carried on, the same determination in his eyes that Plan imagined could be found there every time he was set a new target.

“You’re wasted on killing,” Plan found himself saying, only half joking.

Mean’s eyes glanced up at him, sparkling and full of a smirk so wicked that it made Plan shudder. With a smack of his lips, Plan registered the loss the second his erection was no longer contained inside Mean’s mouth. Mean stood slowly, standing tall and towering over him as he used his right hand to jerk him sensually, the purposeful twists of his wrist making him ooze over his knuckles.

“What would you rather I be?”

“One of the good guys,” Plan admitted, taking a deep breath, “so that I could have you.”

“Good or not, you still can.”

Despite initial attempts to, Plan failed to stop his grin stretching from ear to ear. His twisted elation was quickly interrupted, both boys heads turning in the direction of the sirens that could suddenly be heard roaring in their direction.

“Wanna get out of here?” Plan asked, quickly stuffing himself back into his jeans.

“Why does it feel like you’re vying for my job?”

Mean licked his lips and Plan lost his train of thought for a moment, wondering if the assassin could still taste him on them. He shook it off, another wave of arousal making him twitch.

“What do you mean?”

“You know what I think?” the younger leant in close, lips brushing Plan’s ear, “I think, deep down, you’d make a glorious assassin.”

In that very moment, Plan saw himself through Mean’s eyes.

And, underneath the bleak winter sun, in a country not his own, imprisoned by the arms of a man that both terrified and compelled him, coping with such a revelation seemed impossible.

Chapter 11: tell me I'm your baby and you'll never leave me.

Chapter Text

Plan walked beside Mean, no longer able to look him in the eye.

The sound of sirens closing in on them did not seem to faze the assassin, who took the cobbled street corners as though he knew them by heart.

His epiphany, in all of its striking horror, had led them to converse only a few words.

Can we go somewhere?

Where did you have in mind?

Somewhere private. Anywhere.

Mean had no objections, nodding a swift ‘sure’. He’d pressed a gentle kiss to his lips that Plan had barely responded to but neither had he pulled away, quick to follow when Mean turned with a flourish and began to lead them in a new direction.

Plan’s manhood, hastily stuffed back into the confines of his new clothes, was still semi hard as he forced one foot in front of the other, trying not to think about where it had just been, how good it had felt to have Mean’s mouth on him. Adrenaline pulsed through his veins. He knew now why so many people fell foul to his charms. As an assassin, Mean took and took and took. Blood. Time. Hope. Life. If they were a currency, he would be a very rich thief.

Yet as a lover, he gave.

Plan wondered whether perhaps he’d always known that. For Mean had never touched him with hands that hadn’t in some way made him a promise. His kisses were never restrained, lips parted, mouth warm and wet and open. Even his eyes, the way they beheld him as though he were something special. A treasure to admire, for the most part from a distance, behind the invisible wall which separated them. He’d always supposed that Mean had been elevated by other people, exploited for his many talents from a young age and left to live with the consequences those who gave his orders could not shoulder themselves. Now he knew better, for the shame was theirs and not his to bear.

No one had elevated Mean, for he elevated himself.

He was a rare creature. Fascinating to such an extent that as they walked in silence, Plan realised he had been foolish to wonder what it was that Mean saw in him. The answer had always been there, right in front of him. A reflection of himself. A man who possessed the courage to fight in the face of fear. The will to win. An obsession with obsession.

Except they were not the same. Were they?

No. Plan thought firmly.

A world apart and time.

*

“Where are we going?”

Mean did not look at Plan upon answering the question, sensing he was deep in thought and he too was preoccupied, eyes peeled for any more Alexander’s that may be lurking in the shadows. Ready and primed. Every turn felt like a dare, his skin topped by a layer of goosebumps, still burning from their exchange. From Plan’s hands and the way they had cradled his face when it had been between his legs. He did not want to die now.

Not yet.

“Somewhere private, like you asked.”

Plan impressed him, resisting the urge to request more detail. Out of his peripheral vision he saw him nod, mind on other things as they continued to walk side by side. Not a pace behind nor in front, close enough that every now and then their knuckles would brush and every time they did a shiver ran down the assassin’s spine.

A few minutes later, Mean took their final left turn, leading them up to the doorway of a quaint two-storey house. The cream façade lent it a chameleon-like power, camouflaged between a row of boutique shops. A jewellers and a patisserie his immediate neighbours, a small library a few doors along that he knew so well he could direct any passing civilian to any book they sought. The road was quiet, one of the main reasons he had chosen it all those years ago.

Retrieving his keys from his pocket, he sensed Plan’s eyes on him. Turning to look, the expression he wore was hard to decipher so he waited patiently for him to speak.

“Is this your house?” Plan asked, lifting an eyebrow.

Mean shrugged, slotting the correct key into its lock. “One of them.”

“How many are there?”

“How many do you imagine there are?” he countered. The door took three pushes to open, hinges sticky from where it had not been used.

When Plan remained silent, he held out an arm, gesturing for him to go first. He eyed him suspiciously for a few moments before relenting, tentatively stepping inside.

Mean let him advance into the hallway before taking a final look back, scanning the perimeter for any immediate danger before he finally exhaled on the breath he had been holding.

Steeling his own nerves, he then tracked Plan’s footsteps into the house, closing the door behind them and wondering whether he might be a changed man the next time he crossed the threshold.

*

Plan had counted seven keys on the chain.

A minimum of seven residences then, most probably spanning countries he had never been to, maybe never even heard of. Seven hideaways where he had touched, sucked and fucked like he hoped to now, no doubt. Where they all like this? he wondered, for the house was cosy. Neat, furnished in a cream and black colour palette yet not hyper-modern. The mahogany dining table was antique. The curtains velvet. The floor carpeted. Distinctly Italian in décor, perhaps each of his properties were an aide-memoire to the countries from which they hailed. Were there flats? Apartments? Villas? Mansions? Nothing would surprise him anymore.

In the living room, a grand fireplace took centre stage, framed either side by two large plants that were still thriving, green and overflowing from rustic clay pots. The leather couch looked barely used, without a crack to its name. Perhaps he’s only using the place for its bed. The thought crossed his mind for a fleeting moment before he pushed it away, turning slowly back to face Mean who stood watching him with interest from the doorway. Under the weight of his gaze, Plan felt his cheeks burn.

“Do you want to sit down?” Mean asked, perhaps sensing his nervousness.

Plan shook his head, regretting it almost instantly. He was exhausted, feet sore from all the walking, the travelling, the killing. It was a tiring business.

“Then what do you want?”

The elder swallowed the lump in his throat. “Can I have glass of water?”

“I can do better than that,” Mean started towards what Plan presumed to be the kitchen.

In his absence, Plan gave in and collapsed down on the couch. It played on his mind, the way that Mean could turn his back on him without a trace of fear. Plan would have been on high alert, awaiting the knife, plunged into his back. Not Mean’s style, he supposed. He knew better than anyone that if the assassin were to kill him someday, any day now, tomorrow, next week, this second, he would want to look him in the eye. Plan stared around the room, ears pricking at the sound of glasses clinking a few feet away. For some reason he had never imagined Mean living in a place like this. A normal house with bookshelves and lampshades. A fridge freezer. A coffee table. He had always pictured something much bleaker. Dark and cold and menacing. A dungeon where people only came to die, those with a metaphorical ‘X’ marked on their back.

Perhaps now he was also such a person.

Mean soon returned at the door with a glass of whiskey on the rocks for them both. Dragging a wooden chair from the side of the room, he chose to sit opposite him, frowning when he sniffed the drink first before daring to take a gulp.

“If I wanted you dead poison would be pretty low on my list.”

The dark liquor looked clear, the smell rich and strong and Plan was thirsty. He took a sip, grateful for the warmth that slipped down the back of his throat. It tasted pure.

“That’s better.” Mean approved, knocking back half of his own glass.

“Go on then.”

“What?”

“How would you kill me?” Plan touched his teeth to the rim of his glass before pressing it to his left and then right cheek. “Seen as you’ve thought about it so much.”

He watched Mean swallow, the ice doing nothing to stop the hot flush creeping its way down his body. He hoped Mean could feel it too, his chest visibly red at the point where his shirt buttons flared open. Beady eyes travelled along his sharp collarbone and up to his neck, where bruises from Alexander’s fingertips were still forming. Mean didn’t seem to mind him looking, composed as always and wearing a smirk fit to kill all by itself.

“I’d slit your throat.”

“Jesus,” Plan whispered, his exhale of breath turning transparent crystal opaque. Their eyes locked. “Why?”

“Because of all the blood,” Mean shrugged, leaning back in his seat, legs spread wide. “Sexy.”

Plan stared at him, shaking his head in astonishment. “You’re so fucked up, you know that?”

Mean chuckled, biting his lower lip in a poor attempt to repress his grin before he met his gaze once more, eyes dark. Dazzling. Plan observed his mouth, the upward curve of the very same lower lip he’d been sucking on not that long ago, remembering how it tasted.

“So, what happens now?” Mean asked, interrupting his train of thought.

“Huh?”

“You wanted somewhere private. You’ve got it,” he spelt out for him. Gently setting his glass down, he leant forward, elbows on his knees. “Why are we here, Phi?”

Plan had not expected such an abrupt question, an afront to Mean’s usually more subtle probing of his mind. He mulled over what he felt, where he stood between all of their blurred lines, for this was not about money or power or hatred. It was about connection, experiencing something sacred. The opportunity to get so close to death that he might just come alive. Or be reborn. He was not a saint, and Mean was not all sinner. No one was perfect. He had come to realise that his flaws were Mean’s flaws and that brought with it a warped sense of belonging. He belonged to Mean. Mean belonged to him. All he wanted was to cement that in time.

To make this a fixed point, not to be re-visited or reminisced over, but real nonetheless.

“What do other people do…” Plan cleared his throat, “when they feel like this? Normal people.”

“Feel like what?”

“When they want someone. All of someone, no matter how hard they try.”

“All of someone?”

“Their body, their mind, their sins. Everything. When they want to know someone inside out.”

Plan watched Mean swallow, the way he frowned as if not quite certain whether they were on the same page. His grip on the glass tightened.

“You’re asking the wrong person.” Mean said softly, “I’m not normal.”

“What would you do then?”

“Honestly?”

Plan nodded once.

“I’d have them all night, all day, again and again, over and over, until I was satisfied.”

“And are you? Usually?” A wave of arousal clouded Plan’s eyes. “Satisfied, I mean.”

“Yeah…” Mean nodded, setting down his drink before looking back up at him. “Usually.”

A heady combination of nerves, anticipation and fear swept over Plan. A special agent who in that moment, lost sight of exactly what he was and wasn’t capable of anymore.

“I don’t think I’ll ever stop until I know what it’s like,” Plan’s voice broke, “and I need to stop so…”

Every cell in his body begged to be touched, to reach out and touch. Either or. One and the same. He reached for the tumbler the assassin had just put down, placing his lips around the imprint of Mean’s before draining the rest of the liquor it contained. The younger watched him intently, lost for words, unblinking and still in his seat.

“Show me.” Plan whispered. “Spare me… please.”

The elder didn’t know if he was asking to live or die. All he was sure of was that his assassin would do his best to fulfil him, whatever path he chose.

*

Mean’s skin tingled all over, the way it usually did when he came.

But Plan was not even touching him. He only waited, breathing through an open mouth, lips dry without the moisture from his tongue to lick them wet again. A fish out of water, dehydrating, gasping for air. So why did he feel as though he were being seduced?

He did not need asking twice, getting to his feet and outstretching a hand for Plan to take. The special agent looked at it hesitantly, glancing up at him with a question in his eyes.

“Come upstairs,” Mean said softly.

Eventually, after what felt like a centuries worth of internal debate, Plan slipped his hand in his and let Mean guide him out the door, back down the hallway and up to the first floor. They took each step slowly, one by one, the assassin giving him every opportunity to change his mind. Plan snubbed all of them, following as though in a trance. Mean led him to the bedroom and let him enter first, holding back with every ounce of self-restraint he had, which wasn’t very much at all.

Plan stopped dead a few paces into the room, seemingly memorising this new insight into his tastes. The décor surrounding the queen-size mattress was chic, purposefully chosen. A mosaic of paintings, mirrors and old-fashioned wood furniture, most of which he had bought from specialist vintage stores. One of a kind pieces worthy of significantly more attention than Plan granted them, his focus stolen by the enormous bed which took centre stage. Mean observed with interest as he looked it up and down. The headboard, also wooden, with edges that had been carved into ornate spirals. The sheets, a deep, midnight blue silk. The pillows, plump full of goose feathers. Luxurious and expensive, the way Mean liked all things.

Unable to resist, the assassin snuck up behind him, pressing in close until his chest aligned fully with Plan’s spine. Carefully, he placed both hands on his hips, pleased when the man between them did not shy away. He appeared relaxed there, in his clutches once and for all, reclining ever so slightly back against him. Not enough to submit, but enough for Mean to infer that he liked being touched.

Spurred on, Mean slowly lowered his mouth to Plan’s neck, making sure he could feel every breath that escaped his lips, arms snaking around his petite waist.

“You know, for so long I felt nothing,” Mean murmured, grazing his pulse, thrilled when Plan inhaled sharply through his nose. “Not even pain. Just numbness. I got creative with my kills because I wanted to feel something. Anything. I was so fucking bored. And then you came along.”

“What do you feel now?”

“Inspired. Captivated. Powerful. Weak,” he told him truthfully. “Sometimes all at once. You don’t know how incredible it is just to feel, Plan. For as long as I live, please keep chasing me.”

Plan turned a blushing cheek, looking up at him with warm eyes.

“If I were to stop, would you kill me?”

Mean did not wait for reassurances, neither did he intend to give any. Instead he took Plan’s left earlobe between his teeth, coating his silver piercing in wetness, and tugged gently. The way Plan’s skull fell back against his shoulder, the hitch in his breathing, turned him on beyond measure. Cheek to cheek, hot and flushed. It was not enough. The elder turned his face towards him, lips parted. One glimpse inside at his tongue, reflecting off the setting sun that seeped in through open curtains, was all it took for Mean to give in.

The assassin kissed him on the mouth, slow and deep with so much intent that Plan stumbled back, the bed there to break his fall when he lost his footing. Mean barely noticed as he went with him, engrossed by his lower lip, sucking on it the way he would a female breast, well aware that Plan could feel it between his legs just like a woman could.

*

The way Mean kept kissing him made Plan drip the way he had whilst being blown.

His knees instinctively fell apart, lifting his legs without being sure where to put them. He let them hover at Mean’s hips, sandwiching him between them as if to say; you’re not going anywhere. Not that he had to worry because closer and closer he came, leaning over him, pressing his weight against him. Plan liked the pressure. A weight on his chest he could finally get on board with. Mean kissed with hunger, open mouthed and wet but still sensual. The little things he did, the soft pull of his lower lip with front teeth, the slow drag of his tongue, the little gasps when Plan pulled his hair, all reassured him. He was not the only one lost in time.

“Touch me,” Plan heard himself say, his voice almost unrecognisable, pitchy and hoarse.

Mean smiled against his mouth. “Let me take your clothes off?”

It wasn’t his usual calculating smile, Plan realised, blinking his eyes open. A genuine and toothy grin void of any motive or manipulation. He looked youthful. Goofy even. It was strange but he was still beautiful. Maybe even more beautiful.

“The clothes you brought for me?” Plan reminded him. “Scared you’ll ruin them?”

A laugh escaped Mean’s throat but the elder let it slide, preoccupied by how his own was now being assaulted. Mean pressed hot kisses from the tip of his chin, over his Adam’s apple and down to the spot where his neck became collarbone and all Plan wanted was for him to keep heading south.

“I’m scared you’ll ruin them.”

Plan swallowed the saliva pooling in his mouth. “You’d love that wouldn’t you?”

Mean murmured a soft hum of approval.

“You underestimate me.”

The teeth nipping lightly at his jaw stopped as Mean pulled back, fixing blown eyes on him with a gaze that made Plan’s hips arch, ever so slightly.

“It’s not my first time,” the assassin reminded him.

Plan raised an eyebrow. “I’m not a virgin.”

“I know,” Mean nodded, “but you’ve never been with a guy.”

“It can’t be that different.”

“Oh it is. Trust me.”

“How so?”

“You’ll find out soon enough,” Mean said, resuming his work at Plan’s neck.

Plan placed a hand against Mean’s chest, directly over his heart, pushing back just slightly until the assassin stopped, pinning him with dark eyes.

“Tell me. Please.”

Mean chewed his full lips, already bitten red, deep in thought. He pondered his answer for what felt a long time, Plan using the break to steady his breathing.

“Being with a man, for me at least,” Mean finally began, dragging a finger down his chest and over his stomach, “is in a different league. Women are delicious, sure, but with a man there’s a…an exchange of power, I suppose…beyond anything they can offer. There’s no ulterior motive, no biological urge to mate or reproduce. Just attraction without purpose. The desire to pleasure and be pleasured… just for the sake of it. To feel good. Making a man give himself to me, to make them shake, and moan, and beg – fuck, it makes me so hot. I never feel more masculine than when a man comes for me.”

Plan didn’t realise he was frozen still until Mean stopped talking, throat dry from where he hadn’t swallowed. Mean’s hand, now poised above his waistband, hovered there awaiting approval but he had other ideas in the split seconds he used to look the assassin up and down. Clumsily enough to be considered awkward, he launched himself forward and rolled Mean over on to his back.

It didn’t surprise him that he did it.

What surprised him, was that Mean let him.

*

It took less than a minute for Mean to come to terms with the fact that he would trade a hell of a lot to spend the rest of his days under Plan.

There was nothing of him, small in stature and slim in frame and yet he felt heavy. Mean could feel it everywhere they touched. Strong arms held his hands above his head, his heartbeat in sync with the other resting above it. Defined hip bones dug into the grooves of his waist. An erection, stiff and pronounced beneath its confines, rubbed against his and boy, he was a mess.

Plan shook him up the same way he had whilst kissing him brazen in the street. His body reacted as it had then, shivering though he was not cold. It almost annoyed him to discover it had not been a one off. Pulling him closer by his shirt, and writhing when he obliged, Mean hadn’t known before that it was possible to feel so aroused whilst trapped.

His counterparts confidence served as a sweetener. The Plan kissing him right now with hands running down his sides, to his waist where they gripped him tight, even occasionally threatening to drift lower, playing incy wincy spider along his belt buckle, was the same Plan he’d seen through the window on Halloween. He experienced now what April must have felt then, seduced into submission by a man so sure of himself that it was almost intimidating. Sexuality and labels to one side, he sensed Plan’s self-belief as he began unbuttoning his shirt. It didn’t matter to him that he wasn’t a girl, the elder firmly believed that he could make him feel good. Just because he wanted to, and apparently that was all the affirmation he needed.

And he was right. He felt amazing.

Was this how his own lovers had felt? Mean wondered. Had he reduced all of his many conquests to nothing more than a string of unfiltered moans and curses? The answer was yes but he had forgotten how it felt to have someone do the same to him. It left him on edge, his usual equilibrium scarily off balance and he wasn’t sure if he liked it.

Plan’s hair hadn’t been cut in weeks, long and rich and thick when Mean pulled on it, black strands soft as he curled them around his fingers. Yet he had shaved, his jaw and upper lip soft when he kissed down the strip of his newly exposed chest. Had he bothered just for him?

Plan kissed lower, down over his abdomen. “Can I ask you something?”

Mean hummed a positive, distracted by the sensation of Plan’s lips against his belly button.

“Have you ever let anyone… you know?”

“Huh?”

“Have you ever let a guy…”

Plan cast his eyes down and back up, helping Mean fill in the blanks. “Have I ever let a guy fuck me?”

The assassin couldn’t help but smile when Plan nodded, his soft cheeks burning a visibly darker shade of red than they already were.

Mean debated lying before offering a simple: “Yes.”

“Is that how you like it?”

Mean lifted himself up on his elbows for a better look at him.

“Not strictly. I have made exceptions before, for those that were special.”

“For when you were in love?” Plan asked, a hint of suspicion in his tone.

“You say it as though I’m incapable,” Mean frowned.

“It’s not that. It’s just hard to imagine.”

“Once upon a time I was engaged.”

“Seriously?” Plan raised both eyebrows in awe. “What happened?”

“He was murdered by the wife of one of my hits,” Mean confessed bluntly. “Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned and all that.”

Plan’s face became a scrapbook of emotions, all of which Mean detested, especially when it settled on pity. Eyes that had seconds ago been blown with desire were now full of compassion.

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be,” snapped the assassin, “it comes with the job.”

“He must have been one hell of a guy, to want to marry an assassin.”

“Who he was is none of your business,” Mean said coldly, neglecting to tell Plan that Kamon never had the faintest idea as to what he did for a living. “Maybe this was a bad idea.”

“Wait,” Plan pushed him back down when he tried to sit up properly, climbing over him and pressing a warm, sweet kiss to his lips that Mean, despite his best efforts, couldn’t stop himself from responding to. When the elder broke away, Mean was pleased to see how his pupils had expanded once more, eyes almost black. “Would you let me, if I wanted to?”

“What?”

“Do you consider us special?”

Mean cocked his head incredulously, piecing together the real question being asked.

“Sorry, are you asking if you can top me?!”

“Not whether I can. Whether you’d let me.”

“I – ”

Mean scanned Plan’s face for any indication that he might be joking but there was none, his expression one of genuine intrigue. He mulled over the prospect, the idea of allowing himself to be captured, once and for all. It was not what he fantasised about or how he had ever pictured it but if he was to use his earlier statement as a basis to draw a conclusion… was Plan special? Undoubtably. Would he do anything he asked, if he asked nicely enough? Probably.

“I would yes… if that’s what you wanted,” Mean nodded.

Plan’s reply came in the form a kiss so hot it tore a moan from Mean’s throat.

A moan which echoed around the elder’s tongue.

*

For some reason the knowledge that Mean would let him top, made it okay for Plan to bottom.

That was how he ended up flat on his back riding Mean’s fingers. He’d already put it to the back of his mind that Mean had a stash of lube laying in wait for anyone he decided to bring home when working in Rome. The foreign feeling inside of him had taken precedent over everything else.

The first had been uncomfortable and it had surprised him that Mean seemed to know that before even entering him. He’d kissed him quiet until his nerves had steadied, pushing in slowly to the hilt. Once knuckle deep he’d repeated the cycle, whispering things Plan would never have imagined hearing in his voice until soon enough, he’d become accustomed to the intrusion and begun to relax.

God, you feel amazing.
You are doing so fucking good.
Keep breathing, I won’t move until you’re ready.
That’s it, in and out, just like that.
I wish you knew how much you are turning me on.

Without realising it, Mean’s continued praise and encouragement did wonders for Plan’s confidence, now beginning to master the technique of relaxing his muscles in a way that made him looser for the assassin to work open. Which he did, to the point that one finger stopped satisfying Plan enough for him to ask for a second. At that point, the simple exchange of giving and taking became a competition. For Plan, how many fingers could he accept within him and for Mean, how many could he get him to beg for?

The answer, they discovered, was four.

The fourth hurt and felt good in unison. Mean, however, noticed when he began to wince and despite the way Plan’s hips persisted in grinding down, showed more care than he anticipated.

“That’s enough,” he said softly, withdrawing each finger one by one.

Grimacing, Plan hated the sensation of incompleteness they left behind. He made a sound new to him, a whine full of loss that lifted Mean’s eyebrows in surprise. He had never had someone leave him empty before, and perhaps that’s why he said what he said.

“Mean,” he choked out, panting. The assassin stared on, sitting back on his heels and taking in every inch of skin exposed to him, which by now was all of it. Plan didn’t want to imagine what he must look like. “Do you wanna?”

“You don’t know how badly.”

“Do you have a…” Plan couldn’t finish the sentence, blushing fiercely.

Mean smiled and the elder was certain he saw the assassin’s cheeks tinge their own shade of pink before he got up off the bed and approached the bedside table from where he’d earlier retrieved the lube. Still wearing his designer boxers, black with a white Armani band, his visible arousal made Plan’s mouth water, hovering inches from his face as the assassin unboxed a foil wrapper.

Plan thought that perhaps if he got it out of the way quickly, the moment would be less awkward. Instinctively he leaned forward and mouthed Mean’s protruding hard on through the cotton, turned on by the way Mean gasped and the volume of the moans that followed.

Rathavit, don’t, you can’t do that and expect me to…”

Hearing his real name said in that voice, in that tone, banished any remnants of anxiety he might have felt. Looping his thumbs into the waistband, Plan pulled down Mean’s underwear to reveal an impressive and, by the way it bounced against his stomach, very neglected cock. No doubts crossed his mind as he leant in and did what he felt programmed to do, taking Mean into his mouth and sinking down as far as his throat would stretch.

“God… you…you don’t have to do that…Phi…”

“I want to,” Plan murmured around him, the vibrations making Mean reach out, gripping the bedside table, his other hand in his hair for something to hold on to. “You were right.”

“About what?”

“You do taste hot as hell.”

Dipping his head up and down Mean’s shaft, Plan learnt why Mean had enjoyed sucking him off so much earlier that day. To hold his manhood between his teeth was empowering, feeling him tremble every time he hollowed out his cheeks, the way he grew harder and harder in his mouth the more stimulated he became. He even decided to swallow when Mean pooled pre-come all over his tongue. He was having such a good time in fact, that he voiced actual protests when Mean began to push at his shoulders.

“Stop,” Mean rushed, pulling Plan up roughly by an arm to kiss him hard, licking inside his mouth and groaning when he inevitably tasted himself on his tongue.

“What’s your problem?” Plan muttered between kisses, “I liked doing that.”

“If I’d left you there I would have come in your mouth.”

“Why didn’t you? You could have found out whether or not I’d swallow.”

“I know you’d swallow,” Mean smirked, full of conviction, “what I don’t know is what your face will look like when you come with me inside you, and I want to find out.”

Plan wasn’t sure why, considering all they had already done, but a shudder ran through him from head to toe. Leaving his swollen lips in peace for a moment, Mean looked him dead in the eye for a few, never-ending beats of his racing heart.

“Will it hurt?” he suddenly found himself asking.

Mean shook his head. “No, not considering you nearly had my whole fist in you.”

Exhaling around fresh nerves, Plan gave a small nod, sitting back on the bed. He looked round at the full span of the mattress before turning back to Mean.

“How should I…?”

“If you’re worried about pain, probably on all fours.”

“No, I don’t want that.”

“Why not?”

“Because you want to see me, you said. And I want to see you too.”

Mean thought for a few moments before he grabbed one of the plush pillows, placing it in the centre of the bed.

“So stay on your back, put this under your hips, it’ll help.”

Nodding, Plan did as he was told, flushing with embarrassment when he looked up at Mean expectantly only to find him gawping.

“What?”

“Nothing. I’m just admiring you.”

“Well get on with it would you? You’re making me nervous.”

Mean came closer, rubbing Plan’s knees comfortingly before he hooked both arms underneath them and spread them further apart. The elder let him position him how he wanted using the pillow as leverage, self-conscious the entire time Mean spent putting on the condom. Plan was glad that he didn’t waste time aligning them once done, overwhelmed to breaking point.

“Don’t be nervous, okay? We can always stop.”

“Kay,” Plan replied through gritted teeth, nodding his consent when he saw Mean looking for it.

Both men groaned in unison when the younger finally, after months of torturous cat and mouse, sank his cock into Plan whose grip on the bedsheets turned white-knuckled. The assassin had been right, their foreplay had served its purpose for the glide was smooth and he was not in pain. He was still overcome by the feeling, every muscle in his body tense.

“My god you are so tight, how is that even possible?” Mean groaned against his ear.

“Move,” Plan blinked, eyes watering. “Make me forget I’m being screwed by a – ”

“By a what?” Mean cocked an eyebrow. “A psychopath? A murderer? A man? Which is worse?”

“I know which one my parents would say,” Plan’s laugh came out choked. “Mean, please.

“Do you feel good?” the younger asked hesitantly.

Plan squeezed his eyes shut, nodding.

For in that moment, Plan wanted to abandon everything he stood for. His morals, beliefs and principles all turned to dust as Mean began to thrust gently inside him. It soothed him somehow, to think of them as just two people who shared a connection, irrespective of the paths their lives had taken. It made it easier to accept that he wanted this, perhaps naïve enough to believe that Mean being an assassin and he being an intelligence agent played no part in his attraction. He’d still want this if they were just the two ordinary people they’d pretended to be the first time they’d met.

Wouldn’t he?

*

Plan lay on his back with a pillow propped against the headboard, wide awake.

Mean was still beside him, naked and napping peacefully on his shoulder. He was sweet in the aftermath, an arm wrapped around his waist as he subconsciously nuzzled into him every now and again and the special agent couldn’t help but wonder where such a troubled child had learnt such affection.

His hair, ruffled in all directions thanks to him, kept tickling Plan’s nose. Turning his face to the side, he regretted it almost instantly when in his immediate eyeline he spotted the knotted condom, discarded on the floor, a physical reminder of what they had just done.

Despite everything that Mean had told him it would be, Plan still felt unprepared for the feelings which stirred whilst the assassin had been inside him. No one had ever pleasured him like that, in such a way that he’d cried out for more, lunging forward for kisses he needed just to feel grounded. He could still see the marks his nails had left behind etched into Mean’s shoulders. The assassin had made him come harder than he ever had in his life. Harder than he had even as a teenager, discovering the art of masturbation for the first time.

Yet he did not agree with Mean’s assessment, for whilst he did not feel emasculated he did feel intensely vulnerable, unaccustomed to letting someone else reach depths within him he hadn’t even known existed.

He wasn’t sure he’d ever be the same again.

Now, as Mean lay sleeping, his eyes kept sporadically filling with tears, forced to swallow them out of the fear that if they were to spill over, even just once, he wouldn’t be able to stop.

It was difficult to pin-point why he was even sad. He’d gotten everything he wanted, satisfied every curiosity that had plagued him all these months. Was it because in those brief minutes they had been connected Plan had experienced, in the most visceral of ways, what it was like to know the Mean behind the assassin? The man who he could have been, who in some ways he still was, that loved with as much passion as he killed. Was it because he was jealous that there had been a point in time that Mean had loved someone so much marriage had become a plausible option, and that someone wasn’t him? Was it because, deep down, he knew that what they had just shared they would never share again?

He didn’t know.

All he knew was that in the afterglow he’d expected to float like a helium filled balloon, at the pinnacle of euphoria and instead all he felt was devastation. His world felt like it had been hit by a tsunami and it was his job now to clear up the mess left behind.

Except that meant getting up. That meant wiping the remnants of his pleasure away, still drying on both of their skin, as though what they had done was something to be ashamed of. That meant leaving Mean in bed alone. That meant forgetting all of the things Mean had whispered to him whilst, for a few life-changing minutes, he had been completely and utterly his.

Instead he held him closer, inhaling deep even though it made his heart ache.

For he did not want to forget.

He was not ashamed.

The man in his arms might be an assassin but he was also the man that, much to his surprise, had saved his life in more ways than one.

*

Mean wasn’t sure how long he had been asleep but he was rudely awoken by an alarmingly loud slam of the front door. The sun had by now fully set, the room lit only by a tall lampshade switched on next to the bedside table.

His first thought was of Plan, the space beside him in the bed empty.

“ARMED POLICE!”

Sitting up on his elbows, he scanned the room, finding the face he sought stood in the corner by the window, fully dressed and wearing an expression a far cry from the one Mean had engrained to memory only hours ago. Solemn. Almost numb.

Awash with concern, Mean sprang into action and began to dress. Shirt and pants would have to do, listening intently as the intruders kicked open the doorway of each and every room downstairs, yelling his name at the tops of their lungs. Mind still half asleep, it took a few seconds for him to catch up as the stark realisation sank in, spotting a phone that didn’t belong to him on the dresser.

“What have you done, Phi?”

Plan only looked at him through stunned eyes, shocked perhaps by his own betrayal.

“I…” he shook his head. “I…”

Hastily buttoning his jeans, Mean swallowed hard. Heavy footsteps pounded in his ears, climbing the stairs two by two. Instinctively, he crossed the room, taking Plan’s face in both his hands. Met by no resistance, the elder just looked up at him through forlorn eyes. Gently, and with as much tenderness as he was capable of, Mean brushed both of his thumbs over soft cheeks before he leant in and kissed him. Just once.

And Plan kissed him back with everything he felt deep in his chest.

Breaking away, Mean spoke his next words into the special agent’s mouth.

“You did what you had to do.”

Plan’s lower lip trembled, tear ducts brimming.

“I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay,” Mean reassured him, tucking a strand of hair back behind his ear. “I forgive you.”

The police reached the top of the staircase, thundering along the landing yet it still took all of Mean’s willpower not to slit his throat. Letting his hands fall to his sides, he took one last, wistful look at the man to whose heart his was now tied and smiled softly.

“May we meet again.”

Plan did not stop him when he pulled back the curtains.

Plan did not stop him when he opened the window.

Plan did not stop him when he jumped.

For the first time in Mean’s career he put his life in God’s hands, praying for something to break his fall because by letting him go, Plan did the most dangerous thing he could ever have done.

He gave Mean hope.

And falling, it turned out, made him feel even more alive than killing.

Notes:

Thanks so much for reading! If you can spare the time, do drop me a line with your thoughts and ideas for incorporation, it makes my day to hear from you. Find me on Twitter @raining_xoxo for updates and to wait for LBC2 together. Stay safe and take care of yourselves!

Love,
RainingCantaloupes.
xoxo