Exciting and glamorous high-stakes missions in casinos were really not as common as popular culture made them seem.
Or at least, if they were, only a very few of those assignments were given to Joshua Archer.
He knows all the steps though. He could impersonate a high, medium, or low-status mark with natural ease, in three different languages, and understand conversations in at least four more. He could play all the games while projecting varying levels of familiarity, depending on the situation, could tell when a game was rigged or unfair and react accordingly. He could disguise his ability to count cards at blackjack with enough skill that he hadn't even once been suspected.
But Joshua's usual core competencies lay in his friendliness and easy rapport, allowing him to extract information from unwitting targets with perfect poise and innocence, his ability to keep a cool head, his dedication. He didn't tend to get flashy jobs with 7-figure budgets and the potential for explosions; he was far more likely to be sent in undercover at least a month ahead of time to lay down groundwork, to gather invaluable intel, to map out escape routes and contingency plans.
All of which was to say that, after sweet-talking his way into a table on sufferance and laying out the maximum buy-in of five-million Euros (hiding a wince), he really hadn't been expecting the subject of his - well, his current persona's - apparently much-vaunted companion to come up in the conversation. Apparently, his persona was well known for never going anywhere without them, including to the others around the table. 'For luck,' apparently. One of the other members of the table - the primary mark - had been especially insistent.
He offers a plausible but reversible excuse, eyes alert for potential suspicion around the table, but while anyone else in his position might visibly panic, he is clinging on to trust that his handler, Alecto, listening in on everything even now on his well-hidden earpiece, wouldn't have set up this persona for him without a very specific reason in mind. He just... really wished he'd get read in on these things a little sooner. He was perfectly competent as an actor; he wouldn't give things away if he wasn't kept in the dark for once.
Really.
He jokes lightly, trying to ease the slight roiling of suspicion he can start to see in a few of his targets for the evening; most of them settle back, but his intended mark is not one of them. Which was going to be a problem, because Joshua Archer's really not sure how he's going to produce an appropriate 'companion' out of thin air while sitting at this table, being dealt into the next round.
Normally, Alecto Crabtree puts a lot of effort into presenting himself as blandly as possible, dressed in generally basic, unmemorable clothes, his hair longer than it should be and brushed back in a dark, smooth wave. He had strong features that he struggled to soften, and a lopsided smile that could be described as unintentionally charming, but those were the extents of his exceptionality. For all intents and purposes, Alecto kept himself common and conservative, forgettable at best.
(And there were many reasons for that, most of which weren’t all that dramatic so much as personal and pointless in his opinion to discuss, and in the end, it was helpful in his job, where fading into the shadows and leaving nothing but a clear, navigating voice of command was a skill to be praised.)
So tonight is a peculiar opportunity where he gets to shed that carefully curated normalcy like molting feathers, discard his usual cloak of purposeful invisibility, and make a statement. And boy, does he, sliding back into the familiar trappings and persona of his glittering, old-money upbringing.
Alecto arrives just fifteen minutes late (on purpose), the heels of his sharp, leather shoes clicking against the casino floor as he walks into the room with an air of refined, cultivated beauty that strikes terror in the hearts of lesser men while turning the heads of reckless ones. It’s usually risky to be so noticed, but for the sake of their current mission, he had to be seen, be visually loud and prominent. So, that’s what he aims to do: the more hungry eyes he could lure onto him, the less there would be on his agent’s slight of hand. Step by step, Alecto moves like a pen through the crowd, leaving behind him a kind of signature, undecipherable but poetic, purposefully alluring and distracting all who fall close to his path. He is dressed in a handsome, tailored suit, with tapered pants that ended right above his sharp ankles, his hair sporting a clean, faded undercut, showing off the long lines of his neck and the glint of a gold chain draped over it (that ends in a pendant beneath his shirt which, most people have never had the honor of seeing): an ensemble that he would never be caught wearing in the light of day (far too expensive and tasteful, one that would make his mother proud but his supervisor scared). His whole body moved like a smirk, and finally, he arrives by Josh’s side at the table.
“Sorry I’m a little late, darling,” he says, his voice deep and with an unplaceable accent. Everyone in the room seems to tilt towards them at this very moment. And they’re staring.
Which is perfect. Alecto leans down slowly, the motion deeply graceful, measured, and presses a pale, reassuring hand on Josh’s shoulder, a strong, comforting pressure, like an anchor letting him know that everything was okay. It was the kind of touch that could make a man feel some profound shift in emotion, blood-deep, a sudden, humiliating, eyewatering conviction that everything is good, this person is safe, I can trust him, nobody will hurt me here. Follow my lead. I’ve got you. Do you trust that I’ve got you?
(To be fair, he liked Joshua Archer. A lot. Even though they haven’t had the pleasure to work together for too long just yet, Alecto found he was taken to him and the dependable rhythm of his behavior. He was like the birds, Alecto thought. Once a route was taught him, he stayed on it, returning, so long as there was still a place, always turning home. He was dependable. Stubborn, sometimes, but loyal.
So he didn’t want to make this too painful for him to endure.
…But Alecto wasn’t going to pass up the opportunity either to make him squirm either. Just a little. Just for…fun.)
With his other hand now, he leans in and molds his palm to the side of Joshua’s cheek, his sharp jawline pressing into the warmth of Alecto’s skin, and he turns his agent’s face so that he can kiss him, slow, seductive, sure. It’s by no means obscene nor messy, even though it’s open mouthed, tongue pressed briefly against tongue, their faces angled and perfectly fitted. Instead, there’s a clear calculation to everything, down to the second Alecto chooses to finally pull back.
The whole time, his eyes lock with those of the man, their mark, across the table, who watches him with silent appreciation and no less want. And when Alecto speaks, it’s unclear who its meant for (which is the point): “Good luck.”
He's seen Alecto before, of course. It was still considered a common standard operating procedure, for intelligence officers to be introduced to their handlers, to be able to put a face to a voice, to a singular name, to build that additional level of trust that was so necessary when operating in the field. But briefing discussions in sterile conference rooms back at headquarters when he was recovering or resting between missions were very different from seeing him undercover in the field, dressed in clothes that resembled the standard business professional attire of office-work at HQ in the way that the feathers of the peacock resembled those of the peahen - ostensibly in the same family, but of utterly different make and impression. So Josh thinks he can be forgiven a little bit of (completely internal) unprofessional rumination and appreciation of the figure Alecto cuts as he sails beautifully across the room, utterly unfamiliar and nigh-on unrecognizable, drawing every eye he's apparently aiming for (Josh can only assume he's meant to be included in that number, given his alias, but he's self aware enough to note the personal element without dwelling on it), and many more as additional collateral.
When Josh was first starting out, his initial handler was an older man, with decades of experience and many successful operations under his belt, who had tended to shepherd his particular flock with a light hand through information collection and dissemination missions, notable mainly for being a polyglot and quick-minded jack-of-all-trades, able to grasp general principles but without specifics. Their relationship had been professional and cordial; very little in the way of personal information was ever exchanged, though they had successfully worked their way through multiple short and long-term assignments, establishing Josh's career and reputation early on as personable, cool-headed, and very reliable. But, ultimately, they were colleagues and nothing more; Josh hadn't even known the man was married with three children, one of the many revelations that had come out during the standard battery of retirement activities.
As a handler, Alecto was cut from a completely different cloth.
He'd been working almost exclusively with Alecto for some time now, after a brief flurry of displacement during the changeover. It had been an adjustment, as these things apparently always were, but by now they had a good rapport. His slate of missions had shifted as well - more short term assignments while maintaining his already established assets - and he'd found himself relying far more on Alecto for emergent support in the field than had ever been the case in his prior assignments, which tended to be quiet, with little in the way of excitement for either spice or punctuation. His old assignments had always generally gone smoothly. These new ones had much different stakes, drawing on completely different skillsets. But Alecto was so self-contained - apparently completely by design - setting high expectations, reassuring but demanding, that Josh stretches himself to consistently rise to the challenges set. So far he has succeeded in the majority of his objectives, but at some point he'd come to terms with a mid-conscious underlying aim of coaxing a genuine compliment or a surprised-to-be-pleased remark from the mysterious voice in his ear in their execution.
So he thinks its only fair that his heart beats just a little faster, sticking in his throat, even as he gracefully turns into the kiss with all the synthetic ease and familiarity he can muster up on such short notice, accepting the kiss as his due rather than the surprise it actually was. Before Alecto can fully pull away, he reaches one hand up to gently fold around Alecto's where it presses oh-so-eloquently against his shoulder, and bring it up to his mouth for the lightest brush of lips against his knuckles.
"None needed," he replies, meeting Alecto's gaze while projecting just the right amount of besotted observation that his current table companions apparently expect of his persona. It does not escape his notice how very closely the mark is watching Alecto - and by extension, Josh. "Not while I have you here."
And proceeds to start losing - by carefully planned degrees - quite spectacularly.
This part had been in the plan. Based on their intel, the primary mark was in the midst of negotiation talks with a local arms dealer, and was hoping to fleece Josh's current persona through a series of chance games to have ready cash on hand for a deal they were scheduled to strike in the coming days. Which meant that Josh would not only have to appear tonight, but tomorrow, and potentially even the day after, consistently losing just enough hard-earned money to lull the man into a false sense of security, giving him the illusion of having enough ready cash on hand to be willing to risk over-committing himself financially, ripe for the rug to be pulled out from under him.
But apparently there was yet another angle to this arrangement that he hadn't been briefed on. He can't help but wonder exactly what that was.
So, here’s the thing. Here’s the thing. He loves how Joshua Archer rolls with the punches. That’s the most thrilling thing about their partnership, about him. He’s not a risk taker, no, not flashy or explosive, not innovative when left to his own devices. But, he’s adaptable, and eager about it. So when he takes Alecto’s hand and presses lips to knuckles, it’s almost unfair how that makes Alecto feel so…proud. The feeling strikes him suddenly, like a tiny firework bursting in the pit of his chest.
Alecto Crabtree is used to being the one that keeps his agents on their toes, not the other way around.
He rewards this tiny plot twist with a rare smile, the kind that reaches his eyes. You’re really something else, aren’t you, Mr. Archer?
He arranges himself next to Josh then, practically draped on him, placing one hand on Josh’s thigh. This part is going to be tougher, but Alecto’s prepared. The game being played on the table was hardly worth mentioning compared to the real one being waged between their eyes, knowing glances and hints being tossed wordlessly through the tense air.
He starts to slide weighted looks to their mark, watching him for his tells, and making sure Josh could be notified (a kiss to the shell of his ear, a tap of the finger on his knee) to act accordingly. But at the same time, he makes as if he bringing Joshua himself blindly to the slaughter, trying to convince their mark he was an insider just for him instead, and not the other way around. It was critical that Alecto maintained this precarious balance at least for the remainder of the night and made his every word and movement intentional, purposeful. Unspeakable international violence and war was the consequence of their failure.
“Let me get you a drink, darling. Provide you some liquid courage.” And Alecto rises like a tide, weaving around the table to the bar behind them, his hand grazing the back of their mark’s chair, fingertips catching just so on the fabric of his textured blazer.
The man twitches. Alecto hides a satisfied grin.
He returns very shortly, an electric disruption, as even the dealer instantly sneaks a look up at him, trying terribly to pretend he isn’t. Alecto slides a martini next to Josh’s free hand and remains standing himself for a moment, wrapping his lips around a slender local beer, making every man around the table wish they were the bottle.
It's a rare thing, and surprisingly precious to Josh for all its newness, this smooth in-person interplay between himself and Alecto. He keeps a strong hold of himself and his own reactions while also projecting weakness and confusion, staying alert for every motion and tell around the table, but otherwise appearing to be only what his alias was - privileged, long-indulged, and very very in over his head: the ideal mark. Having Alecto there was an incomparable support and benefit - the seeming culmination of the support he usually provided only via a disembodied voice in his head, the back-door channels into the local security networks and discreetly placed hidden cameras and bugs - and having all his insight and observation at Josh's disposal so directly, conveyed in too-warm touches, and significant glances, and the brush of actual breath against his ear, for which his voice via earpiece would only ever seem a shadow from now on, was an incomparably indulgent experience.
The game itself proceeds almost terrifyingly smoothly, absolutely according to plan; Josh spaces out several spectacular losses carefully over the course of the evening, dragging things out and subtly encouraging those around the table to play in, expertly giving the impression of losing far more of his own money than the numbers would bear out. He can't immediately follow up on every one of Alecto's cues - he was the one holding the cards, after all - but he acknowledges every single one, utilizes each shared signal to lay traps that spring only five or six rounds later, making back just enough to keep things within the bounds of the mission without completely bankrupting the Agency. It was time they were playing for, not money (he'd essentially been asked only to keep the costs as low and drag things out as long as humanly possible), regardless of what those around the table thought, and in this arena, Josh was very much coming out on top.
He is so absorbed in the interplay (as well as the proximity between himself and Alecto), that the evening is well advanced when Alecto suddenly shifts, offers him a drink, drawing all eyes away for a moment. Josh forces himself not to follow his progress, taking the brief moment of relief to realign and reassess his current state - only about twenty-five million in the red, once everything was tallied up, despite having lost, at one point, a pot that had reached the astronomical heights of two-hundred and thirty million, a spectacular number and sum that the mark was definitely going to focus on to the exclusion of almost all else (Alecto had made very sure of that).
Josh tilts his head, looking transparently and childishly disappointed at not getting another kiss, at the distance between himself and Alecto standing behind him. He slides his fingers along the stem of his martini glass before throwing it back, clearly fidgeting as the attention of those around the table return slowly to the game, his expression turning petulant at the losses. He lets Alecto make a show of persuading him into playing a few more rounds for the benefit of the cover (the mark's eyes approving in a way that gave Josh a sense of both disquiet and triumph), losing each one with higher stakes than the last. But he needs to step away, the night is already veering to dawn, and he glances with naked appeal at Alecto; how convenient, really, that the same look would be interpreted in such different ways for the three separate perspectives of the shared audience.
"You'll make it all back tomorrow, darling," Alecto practically coos at him when he starts to make his excuses for breaking up the table, and if he weren't very much conscious of the situation, he thinks he might laugh out loud at the way the others around the table hang on his every word. "Show me a good time tonight, hm? Let me make it up to you and get your mind off such silly things."
If his eagerness as he gets up from the table is more for the prospect of finally getting to talk freely than for the less savory implications of Alecto's words, no one else at the table can tell the difference, as they comment with condescending good-humor about youth and lust. Josh knows exactly what's expected, hooking a proprietary arm around Alecto's waist and leaning in with every confidence of being indulged, nosing chastely at Alecto's cheek and neck with the implication of far more lascivious intimacies to follow. The mark leans back, satisfied that his big fish is still very much on the hook, with such beautifully poisonous bait dangling in front of him.
They stumble a little, more by design than any alcohol-induced unsteadiness, through the casino and out into the hallways leading to the hotel rooms. He makes sure they are entirely alone before Josh pulls his arm back, reverting to his usual professionalism.
"You could have said something," he says softly, glancing off to the side rather than at Alecto. "I thought you were back at HQ."
He plays the part well, leaning into Josh's touch as if he belonged there, as if he were made to be on his arm, a perfect compliment to him in every way. He laughs, an absurd little sound, every time Josh says something remotely funny, and for all intents and purposes, they looked like a stunning, devilish pair.
But there is a subtle shift in Alecto's body language as they weave their way back towards their assigned room, the weight of pretense dropping from his shoulders the moment the elevator doors open, leaving in its place something more tender, kinder, but no less keen. ("You've always been such a sharp child," his mother would have said, clicking her tongue. "Like a drawer full of nothing other than knives." She meant it, of course, as a compliment.) He looks up at Josh (they are nearly the same height but not quite) now with dark, knowing eyes. "It's difficult to fake genuine surprise. And the tension, your nerves - it needed to be real. Convincing. So I decided it was better to surprise you."
There had been far too much groundwork Alecto had laid in the past two months that were at stake. Too many late nights, too many forced compliments, too many hands on his bare skin -
Suddenly, the elevator doors open again and Alecto darts a thinly irritated glance down the hallway. He recognizes the whispered Russian dialect floating over from around the corner and that's not a good thing. "Speaking of surprises..." Immediately, he backs himself up against the wall, one hand grabbing onto Josh's shirt front, practically tugging it loose from his slacks. He pulls, and their bodies collide. "If you want to stay alive, you should kiss me." Alecto's voice is pitched low, once again putting on that faux, seductive color, but carrying now an undercurrent of serious urgency. He leans his face up close, long lashes lowered purposefully. "Kiss me like you want to fuck me into the ground. Now."
He hears what Alecto does, even if he doesn't have the same visceral recognition, and he lets himself be pulled, following with alacrity as Alecto positions them to his liking.
This part he knows - Alecto's voice in his ear, directing, commanding - and he doesn't hesitate for even an instant, his momentum carrying through as he braces an arm above Alecto's shoulder as though to keep him from escaping, his body pressing close and intent, and he leans down - he is just taller than Alecto, a fact that was only now registering with him - to kiss him, hard, possessive, hungry, a desperate commingling of his persona for the mission and his own personal aesthetic appreciation, and the urgency of the moment. His other hand slides down from Alecto's waist to his ass, cupping the delightfully full curve of it in his palm and squeezing, not at all shy. They separate, briefly, then collide again, and he doesn't know whether the almost feral sound he makes into the contact between them is a genuine reaction, an act for the benefit of their audience, or a figment of his imagination.
He really hadn't been expecting things to change, after the casino mission.
The mission itself ended up being a complete success; the full combined operation wrapped without him even having to break his cover to provide backup, the mark had given away far more information than was likely wise for his continued health, then turned himself in, and they'd swept up a very unsavory cast of characters from the local criminal underground in the process, for which the local authorities were very grateful.
With the mission over and feeling somewhat antsy, he'd gone back to the exact same tables where he'd marked time out in carefully calculated increments of loss with Alecto at his side in far less metaphorical fashion than ever before, and proceeded to make a tidy sum back, so the Agency had even managed to come out in the black on this.
(But) Alecto himself had left earlier, back to HQ - he'd been managing operations remotely and laying down groundwork on-site for weeks before Josh's arrival (it feels so strange, to not be in that role himself anymore), so it was only logical, of course - but more than once Josh had found himself - almost glancing to the side, to meet someone's eye, to exchange knowing smiles - looking for someone that wasn't there. That didn't really - as far as he knew - even exist.
His earpiece remained completely silent. Just as expected. After all, the mission was over.
His debrief with M was short and relatively painless - a few thoughtful questions about minor details in his carefully worded report that demonstrated beyond a doubt that she'd read and understood every single word (he had no idea how she absorbed things so thoroughly, with all she had to do), a moment of holding his breath under the full pressure of M's complete and undivided attention, her dark, intense gaze fixed on him with knowing amusement, and then she'd expressed quiet, understated, but sincere thanks for him taking the initiative to bring the mission in so spectacularly under budget before dismissing him with a strongly worded recommendation to take the required amount of leave before his next mission. He'd breathed a sigh of relief when the door closed behind him.
He obediently took his two weeks of leave, traveling between home and the office still but bypassing the main buildings for the small on-site airstrip, booking near daily flight time to unwind. He tries his level best to regain his usual equilibrium and fully process his uncharacteristic turbulence under the backdrop of a blue blue sky. It mostly works, he thinks, but there is also next to no possibility of running into Alecto here.
The next time they do run into each other in person, they are in a briefing room with a full support team between them, as the analysts present their read on the situation unfolding from the mission they'd come back from - a marked decrease in weapons sales and insurgent activity in the whole region, for a start, though they were monitoring the vacuum closely - and he finds he can't help glancing at Alecto's side profile from across the room. He wants a look, a smile - even just the slightest hint of a quirk of recognition at the dispassionate recitation of experienced facts - but he's not brave enough to linger, to stare. He's not sure he'd know how to recognize it if he did. The only remaining hint of Alecto's changed demeanor from the mission is the aftermath of his hairstyle from that time - grown out just enough now not to be as stark a contrast, but still very visibly a change from his formerly completely unremarkable appearance - but everything else about him is utterly professional, conservative, sedate and steady - almost nothing at all like the vivacious presence that had draped itself over Josh's arm, touched him, kissed him (demanded kisses in return).
It's another month after that, of recertification and testing, of paperwork and classes and poring over analyst briefing documents, of chance meetings in the hallways and by the coffeepot - all the less glamorous parts of being a spy in an intelligence agency - before he gets notice of his next mission, a long-term one with an undercover surveillance component, his (former) specialty.
Scratch that. Their next mission.
They are now a week into the assignment, and Josh is starting to stare a little fixedly out the window at the houses surrounding them in quiet moments, as if daring their neighbors to watch. Not that there was really anything to see from the outside, though that wasn't likely to stop any truly nosy observers from making up whatever they wanted about the sweet new married couple that had so recently moved into the neighborhood and were in the middle of settling down and getting to know the community, thinking of starting a family.
Inside, Alecto had drawn firmly professional boundaries, and Josh did his absolute best to adhere to them scrupulously. It was simply their usual dynamic writ large - Josh following Alecto's lead and direction - compounded by the necessity of adhering to it almost 24/7 for what was going to be several months at least.
It didn't matter that other things had changed.
But even with every good intention of remaining completely professional for the mission, Josh was still getting to see Alecto, the real, genuine Alecto, even obscured by the confounding element of their cover story. Hearing Alecto coming downstairs in the mornings and finding him grimly clutching a mug of what he considered - based on what Josh could piece together of his mumbling - to be inferior coffee. Sitting down with him as they quietly made their combined plans for the day - sometimes on a couch, side-by-side, instead of across a table from each other in a small conference room back at HQ, Alecto looking just a bit more rumpled than his usual carefully curated and put-together self at the office. Working together on setting up all the equipment needed for surveillance, while also overseeing the "move" for their cover story. Simply being in each others' space, near constantly.
In such close, consistent proximity, Josh also can't help but to tuck away some very unprofessional observations for later...consideration. Even if there was very little privacy to be had in the small home, with one of the three bedrooms taken up by surveillance equipment and the other intended for a home office or nursery, depending on which direction their cover developed. They had slept separately so far, between the king-sized bed in the bedroom and the couch downstairs, visibly getting ready in the evenings together before Josh slips down the stairs entirely in the dark, with all the curtains drawn, automatically tucking away the bedding he used each morning, out of sight. Josh had definitely slept on worse, but it was rapidly becoming clear that Alecto was used to better. It was... cute, somehow. If nothing else, Josh was getting to brush up quite a bit on his Italian slang when listening politely to Alecto's muttered complaints about M and the practical arrangements for the mission.
In an industry where black and grey clothing was de rigueur, Alecto likes to wear pale clothes, particularly whites and creams. In this swarm of cigarettes and dark sophistication he appeared here and there like a figure from an allegory, or a long-dead celebrant from some forgotten garden party. And even here, on this fabricated domestic stage, he floats about in white button downs, fitted alabaster cashmere, and warm tan coats. The palette gentles him, smooths out the strong lines of his body language, limits the generally overwhelming presence of him.
Because Alecto understands how overwhelming he really can be. He understands the weight of his family name, the jagged edges of his stubborn personality. And how biting and unforgiving and judgmental he is. He wonders, if good, lovely, all-round American Sweetheart Joshua Archer really got to know him for who he was, what would he think? Would he run for the hills? Ask for a transfer? What would he say if he knew the last agent Alecto had under his care and held in his heart had died because of him, because of a call he hesitated to make -
Outside, someone is mowing their lawn. It's giving Alecto a headache.
He trots down the stairs like a breeze and brushes by Josh in the kitchen, past the coffee percolating gently. "Ciao, morning," he mutters automatically, his voice rough and groggy, tinted by a yawn, but he keeps his gaze firmly fixed on the task he has before him - rummaging through the cabinets for sugar and some aspirin. The early dawn is time that Alecto usually allows for the two of them to actively be in contact, to exist to each other outside of their assigned roles for the mission. To talk. To maybe even touch (though that's rare as it's not necessary, is it?). Otherwise he keeps to himself, a figment of the imagination stalking down the hallways of the small house as heedless of the other man here with him as ghosts, in their shadowy rounds, are said to be heedless of the living.
The sounds of hot liquid pouring into a mug, a spoon stirring and hitting the sides, the dull clink of the wedding band (a prop of course) on his left hand against the marble countertop. Alecto goes through the motions and chances a look up at Josh beside him. The sun catches in his blonde hair, makes it shine like hammered gold.
Ah. Che bello.
"I think we should start sleeping in the same bed." The words come out of him too fast but he pretends like he doesn't notice, bringing his drink up to sip, noticing how it's less bitter today.
He's glancing askance at Alecto, curious about his reaction to the coffee today, but otherwise not particularly on the alert or on guard for anything in particular. From his perspective, the housing they'd been given for the mission was perfectly nice - exactly the kind of starter home in the suburbs that a young couple just starting out might get - within their means, but without the necessity of a lot of additional space - furnishings all mismatched but well-maintained. Comfortable, but not necessarily well-to-do.
But Alecto floats through the space like a will-o'-the-wisp, like something out of the old fairy stories, just a bit too beautiful to fit in without drawing notice, unnaturally restrained by his surroundings. It's an idle thought for Josh, amused and whimsical, wondering if perhaps he'd run across a sealskin or a coat of feathers at some point, and everything would evaporate entirely away, the end of a waking dream.
So when Alecto suggests the change to their sleeping arrangements, he shrugs, perfectly agreeable. It was for their cover, surely, or some other important aspect of the mission. "Well, I won't hate not stubbing my toe on the endtable in the dark anymore." He remarks. It was a big bed. It would be fine. He could absolutely be professional about this. "What brought this on, though?"
Alecto was not at all shy about telling Josh when he was doing something wrong.
Another silence, this one more disagreeable than the first. He smiles, not exactly at Josh - a sweet, unfocused smile, quite impersonal, as if he were a waiter or a clerk in a store. "Remember that dreadful weekend we went to go play tennis with Joanna and her husband from next door? Well, apparently, she's concerned for us." He lifts his brows expressively, trying to convey the awkward feeling of it all. Damn the proximity of their bedroom windows and damn that woman for her boredom and inevitable nosiness. How tacky. "It's silly. But if it's that noticeable to a simple housewife, that something could off between us as a...couple, then we need to fix that. Quickly."
Joshua's warm stare forces Alecto to cut his eyes away. "I've already run this by M. She approves."
At this particular angle, in this light, Alecto appeared briefly very beautiful, in an unsettling, almost mediaeval way which would not be apparent to the causal observer. (And Joshua Archer was by all means, not a casual observer). He reaches a hand up idly to push back a stray strand of hair, effortlessly chic.
After a moment, he takes another slow sip of his drink. It's nearly finished now.
He did remember the weekend in question, remembered the side conversation that Alecto and Joanna had been having at some point. He hadn't imagined this would be the topic of their conversation though.
He blinks, feeling abruptly thrown off - as much from the expression on Alecto's face, the graceful economy of his movements, as from the actual content of his words. It takes his brain a few moments to catch up, and he blinks, still processing.
"Um, right now?" He asks, casual and matter-of-fact, seemingly more concerned with the logistics than the far more pressing question of whether or not they should. He's really not sure how M comes (no) into this, but he feels distinctly and irrationally nervous that he should be crossing her mind in this context at all.
Alecto suddenly laughs, and it's a sharp, silly sound. He puts his mug down and crosses his arms, admiring Josh fully as if he were just the most entertaining thing. "I'd be impressed if you could get it up that quick and on command." (No, really, he would. Seriously. Actually, he'd like to test that out one day -)
He takes a step forward, thoughtful in his motions, perhaps even a little intimidating in the way he keeps his eyes on Josh's every micro expression. When he speaks again, it's similar to how a teacher might address a student: "Though, if we were to, how would you go about it?" Here, now.
One of the biggest risks and downsides of long-term undercover missions was, unsurprisingly, boredom. The gradual decrease in tension, the lack of activity, the pressure of constantly maintaining cover identities, the perception of having no productive or useful things to do, tended to make people careless. M was very much aware of this possibility; it was one of the guiding principles in how to assign smaller jobs that could be discreetly completed within the bounds of an ongoing mission.
The other, secret guiding principle, in Josh's opinion, was sadistic amusement.
Hence why Joshua Archer was pulling on a pair of leather gloves (it was really disturbing how perfectly they fit, how exactly they matched his size), the last pieces of the ensemble marked for his eyes that had been delivered to their house in two otherwise unremarkable boxes, along with a coded message containing their mission. Alecto Crabtree, his handler and partner for this particular undercover assignment, had received a smaller box of his own, but his expression after he had peeked into the box had been foreboding, to say the least, and then he had whisked the letter and the box away to another part of the house, and Josh had decided discretion was the better part of valor.
Besides, based on their mission parameters, he was going to find out soon enough what it was.
The mission was simple, on its face. A meeting with a mark, a straightforward exchange of payment for information. Easy enough to do. The only issue was that the only time they would have access to the mark was tonight, and only in a very specific location: a BDSM club a two hour hour drive away from their current cover, which meant they were the only available and appropriate agents for the job (or so M intimated). The club itself was well-known and very exclusive, with a cover charge and membership vetting process that would put some government agencies to shame, promising the utmost discretion for their wealthy and powerful clients as they indulged in some very specific fantasies. So they had to blend in enough at the club to draw no unnecessary attention, locate their quarry, and then maintain an additional set of cover story personas to make it out with no one else the wiser.
Joshua Archer has no idea what strings M had pulled to arrange this, but he really tried his best not to think about M in this context.
Which had been more and more difficult to do, of late.
As part of maintaining their current long-term cover as a newlywed couple that were very much in love, Alecto Crabtree had cited M's hand in their living arrangements, sleeping habits, expressions of public intimacy, and the carefully calculated timetable of sexual intercourse that he expected Josh to comply with (it was color-coded. With footnotes for suggested positions and specific acts). None of these requirements were a hardship for Josh; he was used to thinking of such things only in practical terms, and he was - fond enough of Alecto, and already attracted to him physically, to be up to (as it were) the task of fulfilling these demands to the very best of his ability.
For the mission. Physically speaking, at least.
It was the emotional side of it that was quickly getting out of hand, no matter how much he tried to rationalize it to himself, to stay logical and straightforward, mission-focused. It did not help that he'd had feelings for Alecto that predated their cover story, no matter how much he'd managed to stay professional in their prior relationship of spy and handler. He has a feeling he hadn't been as successful as he'd hoped, but he didn't think there was any shame in not being able to hide such things from Alecto - even as a disembodied voice that lived in his head and demanded absolute trust on life-threatening missions - and M - a not-entirely-metaphorical mind-reader and the most terrifying and terrifyingly competent woman Joshua had ever met in his entire life.
Who also, apparently, knew every single one of his sizes, and had ordered tens of thousands of dollars worth of clothes custom-made to fit him perfectly, down to the underwear and aftershave he'd been instructed to wear for the meet tonight.
He checks himself over again in the mirror; it was still him, but likely completely unrecognizable to their neighbors in this quiet suburban neighborhood. Once he'd shifted into the right mindset, he would at least look the part of the clientele that patronized the club they would be heading for.
It now really remained to be seen if he could act the part, along with Alecto.
He waits by the door leading to their half-empty garage - M had arranged for a car service, which would pick them up soon - holding a black leather suitcase containing a discreet black velvet bag with a obscene amount of clean and pristine cut diamonds, and a few other items that he was trying hard to block out of his memory that M had sent. For you both to blend in.
He puts the contents of his box on the bed and stares at it with a mixture of grief, terror, and interest (he won't admit to that last bit though, at least not out loud). There's a note on beautiful, textured paper that Alecto resolutely ignores as he heaves a sigh and starts to put everything on: mesh shirt, too tight shorts (that barely cover anything, really, showing off his slender, pale legs far too much for Alecto’s personal taste), a thin harness, just to name a few of the main pieces of this ensemble.
Although it wasn't explicitly required, Alecto does take the time to shave all over, to do his hair and makeup as well (he's not about to half-ass this, alright. If he's going to do something, he'll do it right, damn it), lining his eyes with a thin red streak that brings out the pale shine of his eyes and trimming his dark brows.
Alecto is starting to wonder if this mission was really just an excuse for M to continually torment him, personally.
He comes back down to the door, an absolute vision of sharp lines, foxy and lithe, and glances at Josh’s outfit. He can’t help but suck in a very sharp, nearly alarmed breath. Josh looks…so handsome, sharp. Vicious. So different from his usual soft palette. The cologne he has on is seductive and earthy too, mature and just a bit spicy.
Alecto licks his lips, but doesn’t realize it. (God those gloves. Alecto idly wonders how they’d feel gripped around his wrists, his thighs.)
"...you have to help me put this last bit on,” he says by way of announcing his presence. He keeps his face absolutely stony, as unreadable and serious as marble as he hands over a thin, leather collar and the attached leash.
"Um." Josh says, stupidly, idiotically, out loud. He's absolutely staring, completely caught off his guard. While he'd... gotten acclimated somewhat to the sight of Alecto naked - pale skin, long legs - it had always been in the course of some other activity, something he could rationalize as part of the mission, something he could focus on doing, accomplishing. (Pleasing him. Following orders.) It had never been like this - blatant but deliberately coy, ostensibly covered but revealing so much - so clearly on display in a way that was so very different from their other missions, or their current cover. There is just enough covered to pique the imagination, just enough revealed to incite more questions, to invite an interested gaze to linger, enjoy, appreciate...
And Josh's gaze, unfortunately, was very very interested.
"Oh! Right," he says, realizing Alecto is waiting for him. He reaches one gloved hand out for the collar, slides the length of the leash between his fingers, testing the tensile strength. Even if he can't touch it directly, he can tell it is of high quality, flexible and well-conditioned, able to be tightened without catching or snagging on anything or predictable in a way that definitely leant itself to... other activities.
He tries to focus his gaze, even as his eyes start to wander - Alecto had... really been thorough in his preparations - but focusing on whatever was above Alecto's neck had the side-effect of catching the way he'd licked his lips, apparently in reaction to something about Josh.
"Turn... turn around," he says. He almost adds a 'please,' but he has enough presence of mind to know that was not a habit he wanted to fall into, tonight. He raises the soft length of leather to rest against Alecto's slender neck, gloved fingers drifting briefly over his shoulderblades, above the low collar of the mesh shirt, before he stops.
"We still have a long drive ahead," he says, quietly. "Maybe I should wait to put it on when we arrive?"
He hums slightly at Josh's suggestion, throwing a sharp glance at the man over the pale curve of his shoulder. "Just put it on during the ride there," he amends. "We're late anyhow." He brushes past Josh then, pretending to be completely unaffected by all of this, although it's clear his cheeks have taken on a dusting of warm pink in just this brief moment. And whether that was from embarrassment or arousal...he'll never tell.
In the car (which arrived in an unsurprisingly timely manner, thank you, M, ever punctual), with its tinted windows and stiff seats, Alecto shifts so that his back is towards Josh again, his neck bared for him. "Now. Do you mind?"
It's far from the first time he was in a car like this one, and this wasn't even the first time he'd been heading to a club like this one for a similar mission. It's the person he's with, the circumstances surrounding it, that feels unique, odd, throwing him off-kilter.
"We'll be in the car for two hours," he points out, but something about Alecto's immediate insistence, the calm, collected, matter-of-fact way he turns, presenting his back and neck to Josh, makes him bite his tongue against further protest.
"Alright. Now." He says, and it is not his usual polite, courteous tone, the respectful way he usually conversed with Alecto when they were in the field on a normal mission, when they weren't pretending to be other people. Because, apparently, for Alecto, when they'd gotten in the car, the mission had begun.
He could do this. He could match that.
He lets his gloved hand slide gently along the elegant lines of Alecto's spine and shoulderblades, just above the mesh of his shirt, and then brushes his fingers lightly over his graceful nape. He has the collar in his other hand, and he wraps it carefully around Alecto's neck, breath warm against his skin as he leans in, before slipping the ends through the beautifully designed buckle, and pulling it not-quite taut.
"Is this tight enough for you?" He asks quietly, but there is something additional in his tone, something warm and intent. Expectant. He is not quite demanding an answer, but it hovers so close to a command, something well outside his usual demeanor. He's not sure what impulse seizes him that he continues with, "My pet?"
He can tell the exact moment when Josh becomes someone else, when he dons the metaphorical mask of his assigned persona tonight, and fuck, it thrills Alecto so much he has to bite his lip to keep himself composed.
But that's a pointless endeavor to maintain in the end. Because Josh has to go and say that.
Although Josh can't see it, Alecto's eyes widen right then and his breath catches in his throat. My pet - the term settles into his bones with a full-body shiver, sending a wild heat shooting down his spine and straight to his groin. It creates this odd sensation that seems to tame him, helping him slide into the right demeanor and role with immediacy and ease. Little by little, his body language seems to soften, becomes pliant and so much more willing. His walls and daggers withdraw, leaving behind a coquettish, sly little creature who gasps, gently, "Tighter, please," a breath, "master."
When the heavy door to the private room finally closes behind them, Joshua immediately grabs Alecto's wrist, gently but firmly, not easily shaken off. It had been an intense, painful scene - made all the more complicated by the various layers of identity they had been wrestling with - but he doesn't think it was just anxiety he'd seen in that brief flash of Alecto's eyes when he'd switched off the safety on the handgun, though he doubts their audience would have recognized it as anything else, the other man had played his part so well.
"I'm sorry," he whispers, painfully sincere. "I shouldn't have - That was deeply irresponsible of me."
It had been almost entirely instinctive and automatic. On its surface, it was simply a return to their established identities on another side mission - intercepting a dead-drop this time for a hostile party - that should really have been quite simple. But the contact they'd linked up with had been deeply engrossed in an informal display by a business associate and his sub for the night that had shifted into poorly negotiated gunplay, with the man clearly playing to his audience rather than responsible, safe practices, and Josh couldn't help but speak up, as diplomatically as he could, particularly when he'd seen the man flick off the safety, but all the same -
Ironic, then, how very poorly negotiated the scene between him and Alecto had been.
He lets go of Alecto's wrist, but doesn't step back, doesn't pull away. "I'm here," he says, "Just me. For whatever... whatever you need, that I can give. But please don't just push through this, don't ignore it."
Alecto considers himself a strong person. He isn't easily scared and there is very little in the known world that makes him squeamish or uncertain. He has spend years building up within himself a solid (if not stubborn and opinionated) foundation in his heart: it takes a lot to shake it.
And tonight, Joshua Archer had done just that.
"It's not your fault," he reasons. He knows that Josh didn't do any of that on purpose. It wasn't his choice to shove a loaded firearm up Alecto's ass and fuck him with it until he was forced to cum, despite the pain, sobbing. Their lives were on the line. The mission was at stake.
Even now, Alecto ignores the constant cold sweat haunting him, giving him gooseflesh, making him feel an eerie, out-of-body sort of sensation.
"I'll be fine," he says, but it's not at all convincing. The words are just a gut reaction, a wall that he's used to putting up so that he can buy himself the time to recollect himself. He can't seem to meet the other man's eyes. "I just don't...like guns."
It's an odd admission, considering his line of work. But there was a reason why Alecto never carried a firearm and preferred not to work jobs in the field where he was required, for his safety, to even handle one.
He sighs, and tugs Alecto towards him, wrapping his arms around him - back to front, letting Alecto look out and away, maintaining that level of distance. "I know there were a lot of things going on there, even if I don't understand all of it," he says softly, pitched to Alecto's ears only, even though they were alone in the room. "I can't even begin to explain how grateful I am for how strong you were, maintaining both our covers through all of that."
A sigh gusts out, ruffling Alecto's hair, once damp with sweat but starting to dry up. "You've walked me through so many debriefs," he murmurs, pleading. "Please let me do this with you."
He continues staring straight ahead. Josh's hand is so warm, resting against Alecto's stomach.
"There's a few things you should probably know about me," he says suddenly, the words shockingly soft and vulnerable. Alecto turns now, moving back and out of his agent's hold so that he could look at him. Usually, Alecto's stare is arresting and sure, the kind of gaze that locked a person in place. But right now, it's epicene and wavering.
"...Though, I'm not really sure where to start." This very thought - so unprepared, so uncertain - seems to disturb him and he looks deeply uncomfortable, as if ashamed at himself for not having all the answers for once. "I guess it all comes down to the same man in the end. The one before you."
A beat. Alecto's hand rises to touch briefly against the center of his chest where his small locket usually rested, the one he never allowed anyone to peer into. The one he never entertained any questions about. The one that had the photo of someone he once loved.
He leans back slightly, shifting on his feet - still well within reach, but giving Alecto space to move further away since he'd taken that first step. His hand comes up automatically, but he withdraws it to his chest, his eyes steady and warm, watching the uncharacteristic way Alecto halts, thinking. He wants to reach out, to pull him close and hold him, but he refrains.
"You don't have to explain anything you don't want to," he says, soft, quiet, gentle. "I just want to help. Whatever you need." But Joshua can't help but be deeply interested and curious. These few halting sentences were the most Alecto has ever really revealed about himself and his past explicitly, rather than by subtle implication.
"It's not about want," he replies, a look of frustration scrunching up his features for a moment. "I think at this point, we're...involved enough that by not telling you, I'm actually putting both of our lives in danger moving forward." He shakes his head. "You should know. My feelings here are irrelevant."
He pauses and runs through his own words again in his head. The jab of them in his own chest is so familiar. They're words he's resigned himself to for a long time in this line of work.
But the way Joshua is looking at him...it makes Alecto feel very bare, very stripped down. Too seen.
"...You deserve to know," he repeats, with a slight amendment to his original word choice, as if trying to convince himself - to push himself - to go through with it already.
Gingerly he sits on the edge of the bed, wincing, his body still aching and protesting from what it had to go through earlier. He ignores it. Things like this, they'll heal. Of all the wounds he bears, the ones his body physically bear are hardly a concern. He takes a breath.
"Have you ever looked into why you were reassigned to me? I don't mean the reason for the reassignment in general, mind you. I mean specifically why you were paired with me. Be honest."
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[At the Tables]
Or at least, if they were, only a very few of those assignments were given to Joshua Archer.
He knows all the steps though. He could impersonate a high, medium, or low-status mark with natural ease, in three different languages, and understand conversations in at least four more. He could play all the games while projecting varying levels of familiarity, depending on the situation, could tell when a game was rigged or unfair and react accordingly. He could disguise his ability to count cards at blackjack with enough skill that he hadn't even once been suspected.
But Joshua's usual core competencies lay in his friendliness and easy rapport, allowing him to extract information from unwitting targets with perfect poise and innocence, his ability to keep a cool head, his dedication. He didn't tend to get flashy jobs with 7-figure budgets and the potential for explosions; he was far more likely to be sent in undercover at least a month ahead of time to lay down groundwork, to gather invaluable intel, to map out escape routes and contingency plans.
All of which was to say that, after sweet-talking his way into a table on sufferance and laying out the maximum buy-in of five-million Euros (hiding a wince), he really hadn't been expecting the subject of his - well, his current persona's - apparently much-vaunted companion to come up in the conversation. Apparently, his persona was well known for never going anywhere without them, including to the others around the table. 'For luck,' apparently. One of the other members of the table - the primary mark - had been especially insistent.
He offers a plausible but reversible excuse, eyes alert for potential suspicion around the table, but while anyone else in his position might visibly panic, he is clinging on to trust that his handler, Alecto, listening in on everything even now on his well-hidden earpiece, wouldn't have set up this persona for him without a very specific reason in mind. He just... really wished he'd get read in on these things a little sooner. He was perfectly competent as an actor; he wouldn't give things away if he wasn't kept in the dark for once.
Really.
He jokes lightly, trying to ease the slight roiling of suspicion he can start to see in a few of his targets for the evening; most of them settle back, but his intended mark is not one of them. Which was going to be a problem, because Joshua Archer's really not sure how he's going to produce an appropriate 'companion' out of thin air while sitting at this table, being dealt into the next round.
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(And there were many reasons for that, most of which weren’t all that dramatic so much as personal and pointless in his opinion to discuss, and in the end, it was helpful in his job, where fading into the shadows and leaving nothing but a clear, navigating voice of command was a skill to be praised.)
So tonight is a peculiar opportunity where he gets to shed that carefully curated normalcy like molting feathers, discard his usual cloak of purposeful invisibility, and make a statement. And boy, does he, sliding back into the familiar trappings and persona of his glittering, old-money upbringing.
Alecto arrives just fifteen minutes late (on purpose), the heels of his sharp, leather shoes clicking against the casino floor as he walks into the room with an air of refined, cultivated beauty that strikes terror in the hearts of lesser men while turning the heads of reckless ones. It’s usually risky to be so noticed, but for the sake of their current mission, he had to be seen, be visually loud and prominent. So, that’s what he aims to do: the more hungry eyes he could lure onto him, the less there would be on his agent’s slight of hand. Step by step, Alecto moves like a pen through the crowd, leaving behind him a kind of signature, undecipherable but poetic, purposefully alluring and distracting all who fall close to his path. He is dressed in a handsome, tailored suit, with tapered pants that ended right above his sharp ankles, his hair sporting a clean, faded undercut, showing off the long lines of his neck and the glint of a gold chain draped over it (that ends in a pendant beneath his shirt which, most people have never had the honor of seeing): an ensemble that he would never be caught wearing in the light of day (far too expensive and tasteful, one that would make his mother proud but his supervisor scared). His whole body moved like a smirk, and finally, he arrives by Josh’s side at the table.
“Sorry I’m a little late, darling,” he says, his voice deep and with an unplaceable accent. Everyone in the room seems to tilt towards them at this very moment. And they’re staring.
Which is perfect. Alecto leans down slowly, the motion deeply graceful, measured, and presses a pale, reassuring hand on Josh’s shoulder, a strong, comforting pressure, like an anchor letting him know that everything was okay. It was the kind of touch that could make a man feel some profound shift in emotion, blood-deep, a sudden, humiliating, eyewatering conviction that everything is good, this person is safe, I can trust him, nobody will hurt me here. Follow my lead. I’ve got you. Do you trust that I’ve got you?
(To be fair, he liked Joshua Archer. A lot. Even though they haven’t had the pleasure to work together for too long just yet, Alecto found he was taken to him and the dependable rhythm of his behavior. He was like the birds, Alecto thought. Once a route was taught him, he stayed on it, returning, so long as there was still a place, always turning home. He was dependable. Stubborn, sometimes, but loyal.
So he didn’t want to make this too painful for him to endure.
…But Alecto wasn’t going to pass up the opportunity either to make him squirm either. Just a little. Just for…fun.)
With his other hand now, he leans in and molds his palm to the side of Joshua’s cheek, his sharp jawline pressing into the warmth of Alecto’s skin, and he turns his agent’s face so that he can kiss him, slow, seductive, sure. It’s by no means obscene nor messy, even though it’s open mouthed, tongue pressed briefly against tongue, their faces angled and perfectly fitted. Instead, there’s a clear calculation to everything, down to the second Alecto chooses to finally pull back.
The whole time, his eyes lock with those of the man, their mark, across the table, who watches him with silent appreciation and no less want. And when Alecto speaks, it’s unclear who its meant for (which is the point): “Good luck.”
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When Josh was first starting out, his initial handler was an older man, with decades of experience and many successful operations under his belt, who had tended to shepherd his particular flock with a light hand through information collection and dissemination missions, notable mainly for being a polyglot and quick-minded jack-of-all-trades, able to grasp general principles but without specifics. Their relationship had been professional and cordial; very little in the way of personal information was ever exchanged, though they had successfully worked their way through multiple short and long-term assignments, establishing Josh's career and reputation early on as personable, cool-headed, and very reliable. But, ultimately, they were colleagues and nothing more; Josh hadn't even known the man was married with three children, one of the many revelations that had come out during the standard battery of retirement activities.
As a handler, Alecto was cut from a completely different cloth.
He'd been working almost exclusively with Alecto for some time now, after a brief flurry of displacement during the changeover. It had been an adjustment, as these things apparently always were, but by now they had a good rapport. His slate of missions had shifted as well - more short term assignments while maintaining his already established assets - and he'd found himself relying far more on Alecto for emergent support in the field than had ever been the case in his prior assignments, which tended to be quiet, with little in the way of excitement for either spice or punctuation. His old assignments had always generally gone smoothly. These new ones had much different stakes, drawing on completely different skillsets. But Alecto was so self-contained - apparently completely by design - setting high expectations, reassuring but demanding, that Josh stretches himself to consistently rise to the challenges set. So far he has succeeded in the majority of his objectives, but at some point he'd come to terms with a mid-conscious underlying aim of coaxing a genuine compliment or a surprised-to-be-pleased remark from the mysterious voice in his ear in their execution.
So he thinks its only fair that his heart beats just a little faster, sticking in his throat, even as he gracefully turns into the kiss with all the synthetic ease and familiarity he can muster up on such short notice, accepting the kiss as his due rather than the surprise it actually was. Before Alecto can fully pull away, he reaches one hand up to gently fold around Alecto's where it presses oh-so-eloquently against his shoulder, and bring it up to his mouth for the lightest brush of lips against his knuckles.
"None needed," he replies, meeting Alecto's gaze while projecting just the right amount of besotted observation that his current table companions apparently expect of his persona. It does not escape his notice how very closely the mark is watching Alecto - and by extension, Josh. "Not while I have you here."
And proceeds to start losing - by carefully planned degrees - quite spectacularly.
This part had been in the plan. Based on their intel, the primary mark was in the midst of negotiation talks with a local arms dealer, and was hoping to fleece Josh's current persona through a series of chance games to have ready cash on hand for a deal they were scheduled to strike in the coming days. Which meant that Josh would not only have to appear tonight, but tomorrow, and potentially even the day after, consistently losing just enough hard-earned money to lull the man into a false sense of security, giving him the illusion of having enough ready cash on hand to be willing to risk over-committing himself financially, ripe for the rug to be pulled out from under him.
But apparently there was yet another angle to this arrangement that he hadn't been briefed on. He can't help but wonder exactly what that was.
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Alecto Crabtree is used to being the one that keeps his agents on their toes, not the other way around.
He rewards this tiny plot twist with a rare smile, the kind that reaches his eyes. You’re really something else, aren’t you, Mr. Archer?
He arranges himself next to Josh then, practically draped on him, placing one hand on Josh’s thigh. This part is going to be tougher, but Alecto’s prepared. The game being played on the table was hardly worth mentioning compared to the real one being waged between their eyes, knowing glances and hints being tossed wordlessly through the tense air.
He starts to slide weighted looks to their mark, watching him for his tells, and making sure Josh could be notified (a kiss to the shell of his ear, a tap of the finger on his knee) to act accordingly. But at the same time, he makes as if he bringing Joshua himself blindly to the slaughter, trying to convince their mark he was an insider just for him instead, and not the other way around. It was critical that Alecto maintained this precarious balance at least for the remainder of the night and made his every word and movement intentional, purposeful. Unspeakable international violence and war was the consequence of their failure.
“Let me get you a drink, darling. Provide you some liquid courage.” And Alecto rises like a tide, weaving around the table to the bar behind them, his hand grazing the back of their mark’s chair, fingertips catching just so on the fabric of his textured blazer.
The man twitches. Alecto hides a satisfied grin.
He returns very shortly, an electric disruption, as even the dealer instantly sneaks a look up at him, trying terribly to pretend he isn’t. Alecto slides a martini next to Josh’s free hand and remains standing himself for a moment, wrapping his lips around a slender local beer, making every man around the table wish they were the bottle.
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The game itself proceeds almost terrifyingly smoothly, absolutely according to plan; Josh spaces out several spectacular losses carefully over the course of the evening, dragging things out and subtly encouraging those around the table to play in, expertly giving the impression of losing far more of his own money than the numbers would bear out. He can't immediately follow up on every one of Alecto's cues - he was the one holding the cards, after all - but he acknowledges every single one, utilizes each shared signal to lay traps that spring only five or six rounds later, making back just enough to keep things within the bounds of the mission without completely bankrupting the Agency. It was time they were playing for, not money (he'd essentially been asked only to keep the costs as low and drag things out as long as humanly possible), regardless of what those around the table thought, and in this arena, Josh was very much coming out on top.
He is so absorbed in the interplay (as well as the proximity between himself and Alecto), that the evening is well advanced when Alecto suddenly shifts, offers him a drink, drawing all eyes away for a moment. Josh forces himself not to follow his progress, taking the brief moment of relief to realign and reassess his current state - only about twenty-five million in the red, once everything was tallied up, despite having lost, at one point, a pot that had reached the astronomical heights of two-hundred and thirty million, a spectacular number and sum that the mark was definitely going to focus on to the exclusion of almost all else (Alecto had made very sure of that).
Josh tilts his head, looking transparently and childishly disappointed at not getting another kiss, at the distance between himself and Alecto standing behind him. He slides his fingers along the stem of his martini glass before throwing it back, clearly fidgeting as the attention of those around the table return slowly to the game, his expression turning petulant at the losses. He lets Alecto make a show of persuading him into playing a few more rounds for the benefit of the cover (the mark's eyes approving in a way that gave Josh a sense of both disquiet and triumph), losing each one with higher stakes than the last. But he needs to step away, the night is already veering to dawn, and he glances with naked appeal at Alecto; how convenient, really, that the same look would be interpreted in such different ways for the three separate perspectives of the shared audience.
"You'll make it all back tomorrow, darling," Alecto practically coos at him when he starts to make his excuses for breaking up the table, and if he weren't very much conscious of the situation, he thinks he might laugh out loud at the way the others around the table hang on his every word. "Show me a good time tonight, hm? Let me make it up to you and get your mind off such silly things."
If his eagerness as he gets up from the table is more for the prospect of finally getting to talk freely than for the less savory implications of Alecto's words, no one else at the table can tell the difference, as they comment with condescending good-humor about youth and lust. Josh knows exactly what's expected, hooking a proprietary arm around Alecto's waist and leaning in with every confidence of being indulged, nosing chastely at Alecto's cheek and neck with the implication of far more lascivious intimacies to follow. The mark leans back, satisfied that his big fish is still very much on the hook, with such beautifully poisonous bait dangling in front of him.
They stumble a little, more by design than any alcohol-induced unsteadiness, through the casino and out into the hallways leading to the hotel rooms. He makes sure they are entirely alone before Josh pulls his arm back, reverting to his usual professionalism.
"You could have said something," he says softly, glancing off to the side rather than at Alecto. "I thought you were back at HQ."
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But there is a subtle shift in Alecto's body language as they weave their way back towards their assigned room, the weight of pretense dropping from his shoulders the moment the elevator doors open, leaving in its place something more tender, kinder, but no less keen. ("You've always been such a sharp child," his mother would have said, clicking her tongue. "Like a drawer full of nothing other than knives." She meant it, of course, as a compliment.) He looks up at Josh (they are nearly the same height but not quite) now with dark, knowing eyes. "It's difficult to fake genuine surprise. And the tension, your nerves - it needed to be real. Convincing. So I decided it was better to surprise you."
There had been far too much groundwork Alecto had laid in the past two months that were at stake. Too many late nights, too many forced compliments, too many hands on his bare skin -
Suddenly, the elevator doors open again and Alecto darts a thinly irritated glance down the hallway. He recognizes the whispered Russian dialect floating over from around the corner and that's not a good thing. "Speaking of surprises..." Immediately, he backs himself up against the wall, one hand grabbing onto Josh's shirt front, practically tugging it loose from his slacks. He pulls, and their bodies collide. "If you want to stay alive, you should kiss me." Alecto's voice is pitched low, once again putting on that faux, seductive color, but carrying now an undercurrent of serious urgency. He leans his face up close, long lashes lowered purposefully. "Kiss me like you want to fuck me into the ground. Now."
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This part he knows - Alecto's voice in his ear, directing, commanding - and he doesn't hesitate for even an instant, his momentum carrying through as he braces an arm above Alecto's shoulder as though to keep him from escaping, his body pressing close and intent, and he leans down - he is just taller than Alecto, a fact that was only now registering with him - to kiss him, hard, possessive, hungry, a desperate commingling of his persona for the mission and his own personal aesthetic appreciation, and the urgency of the moment. His other hand slides down from Alecto's waist to his ass, cupping the delightfully full curve of it in his palm and squeezing, not at all shy. They separate, briefly, then collide again, and he doesn't know whether the almost feral sound he makes into the contact between them is a genuine reaction, an act for the benefit of their audience, or a figment of his imagination.
Perhaps all three.
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[The Long Game]
The mission itself ended up being a complete success; the full combined operation wrapped without him even having to break his cover to provide backup, the mark had given away far more information than was likely wise for his continued health, then turned himself in, and they'd swept up a very unsavory cast of characters from the local criminal underground in the process, for which the local authorities were very grateful.
With the mission over and feeling somewhat antsy, he'd gone back to the exact same tables where he'd marked time out in carefully calculated increments of loss with Alecto at his side in far less metaphorical fashion than ever before, and proceeded to make a tidy sum back, so the Agency had even managed to come out in the black on this.
(But) Alecto himself had left earlier, back to HQ - he'd been managing operations remotely and laying down groundwork on-site for weeks before Josh's arrival (it feels so strange, to not be in that role himself anymore), so it was only logical, of course - but more than once Josh had found himself - almost glancing to the side, to meet someone's eye, to exchange knowing smiles - looking for someone that wasn't there. That didn't really - as far as he knew - even exist.
His earpiece remained completely silent. Just as expected. After all, the mission was over.
His debrief with M was short and relatively painless - a few thoughtful questions about minor details in his carefully worded report that demonstrated beyond a doubt that she'd read and understood every single word (he had no idea how she absorbed things so thoroughly, with all she had to do), a moment of holding his breath under the full pressure of M's complete and undivided attention, her dark, intense gaze fixed on him with knowing amusement, and then she'd expressed quiet, understated, but sincere thanks for him taking the initiative to bring the mission in so spectacularly under budget before dismissing him with a strongly worded recommendation to take the required amount of leave before his next mission. He'd breathed a sigh of relief when the door closed behind him.
He obediently took his two weeks of leave, traveling between home and the office still but bypassing the main buildings for the small on-site airstrip, booking near daily flight time to unwind. He tries his level best to regain his usual equilibrium and fully process his uncharacteristic turbulence under the backdrop of a blue blue sky. It mostly works, he thinks, but there is also next to no possibility of running into Alecto here.
The next time they do run into each other in person, they are in a briefing room with a full support team between them, as the analysts present their read on the situation unfolding from the mission they'd come back from - a marked decrease in weapons sales and insurgent activity in the whole region, for a start, though they were monitoring the vacuum closely - and he finds he can't help glancing at Alecto's side profile from across the room. He wants a look, a smile - even just the slightest hint of a quirk of recognition at the dispassionate recitation of experienced facts - but he's not brave enough to linger, to stare. He's not sure he'd know how to recognize it if he did. The only remaining hint of Alecto's changed demeanor from the mission is the aftermath of his hairstyle from that time - grown out just enough now not to be as stark a contrast, but still very visibly a change from his formerly completely unremarkable appearance - but everything else about him is utterly professional, conservative, sedate and steady - almost nothing at all like the vivacious presence that had draped itself over Josh's arm, touched him, kissed him (demanded kisses in return).
It's another month after that, of recertification and testing, of paperwork and classes and poring over analyst briefing documents, of chance meetings in the hallways and by the coffeepot - all the less glamorous parts of being a spy in an intelligence agency - before he gets notice of his next mission, a long-term one with an undercover surveillance component, his (former) specialty.
Scratch that. Their next mission.
They are now a week into the assignment, and Josh is starting to stare a little fixedly out the window at the houses surrounding them in quiet moments, as if daring their neighbors to watch. Not that there was really anything to see from the outside, though that wasn't likely to stop any truly nosy observers from making up whatever they wanted about the sweet new married couple that had so recently moved into the neighborhood and were in the middle of settling down and getting to know the community, thinking of starting a family.
Inside, Alecto had drawn firmly professional boundaries, and Josh did his absolute best to adhere to them scrupulously. It was simply their usual dynamic writ large - Josh following Alecto's lead and direction - compounded by the necessity of adhering to it almost 24/7 for what was going to be several months at least.
It didn't matter that other things had changed.
But even with every good intention of remaining completely professional for the mission, Josh was still getting to see Alecto, the real, genuine Alecto, even obscured by the confounding element of their cover story. Hearing Alecto coming downstairs in the mornings and finding him grimly clutching a mug of what he considered - based on what Josh could piece together of his mumbling - to be inferior coffee. Sitting down with him as they quietly made their combined plans for the day - sometimes on a couch, side-by-side, instead of across a table from each other in a small conference room back at HQ, Alecto looking just a bit more rumpled than his usual carefully curated and put-together self at the office. Working together on setting up all the equipment needed for surveillance, while also overseeing the "move" for their cover story. Simply being in each others' space, near constantly.
In such close, consistent proximity, Josh also can't help but to tuck away some very unprofessional observations for later...consideration. Even if there was very little privacy to be had in the small home, with one of the three bedrooms taken up by surveillance equipment and the other intended for a home office or nursery, depending on which direction their cover developed. They had slept separately so far, between the king-sized bed in the bedroom and the couch downstairs, visibly getting ready in the evenings together before Josh slips down the stairs entirely in the dark, with all the curtains drawn, automatically tucking away the bedding he used each morning, out of sight. Josh had definitely slept on worse, but it was rapidly becoming clear that Alecto was used to better. It was... cute, somehow. If nothing else, Josh was getting to brush up quite a bit on his Italian slang when listening politely to Alecto's muttered complaints about M and the practical arrangements for the mission.
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Because Alecto understands how overwhelming he really can be. He understands the weight of his family name, the jagged edges of his stubborn personality. And how biting and unforgiving and judgmental he is. He wonders, if good, lovely, all-round American Sweetheart Joshua Archer really got to know him for who he was, what would he think? Would he run for the hills? Ask for a transfer? What would he say if he knew the last agent Alecto had under his care and held in his heart had died because of him, because of a call he hesitated to make -
Outside, someone is mowing their lawn. It's giving Alecto a headache.
He trots down the stairs like a breeze and brushes by Josh in the kitchen, past the coffee percolating gently. "Ciao, morning," he mutters automatically, his voice rough and groggy, tinted by a yawn, but he keeps his gaze firmly fixed on the task he has before him - rummaging through the cabinets for sugar and some aspirin. The early dawn is time that Alecto usually allows for the two of them to actively be in contact, to exist to each other outside of their assigned roles for the mission. To talk. To maybe even touch (though that's rare as it's not necessary, is it?). Otherwise he keeps to himself, a figment of the imagination stalking down the hallways of the small house as heedless of the other man here with him as ghosts, in their shadowy rounds, are said to be heedless of the living.
The sounds of hot liquid pouring into a mug, a spoon stirring and hitting the sides, the dull clink of the wedding band (a prop of course) on his left hand against the marble countertop. Alecto goes through the motions and chances a look up at Josh beside him. The sun catches in his blonde hair, makes it shine like hammered gold.
Ah. Che bello.
"I think we should start sleeping in the same bed." The words come out of him too fast but he pretends like he doesn't notice, bringing his drink up to sip, noticing how it's less bitter today.
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But Alecto floats through the space like a will-o'-the-wisp, like something out of the old fairy stories, just a bit too beautiful to fit in without drawing notice, unnaturally restrained by his surroundings. It's an idle thought for Josh, amused and whimsical, wondering if perhaps he'd run across a sealskin or a coat of feathers at some point, and everything would evaporate entirely away, the end of a waking dream.
So when Alecto suggests the change to their sleeping arrangements, he shrugs, perfectly agreeable. It was for their cover, surely, or some other important aspect of the mission. "Well, I won't hate not stubbing my toe on the endtable in the dark anymore." He remarks. It was a big bed. It would be fine. He could absolutely be professional about this. "What brought this on, though?"
Alecto was not at all shy about telling Josh when he was doing something wrong.
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Joshua's warm stare forces Alecto to cut his eyes away. "I've already run this by M. She approves."
At this particular angle, in this light, Alecto appeared briefly very beautiful, in an unsettling, almost mediaeval way which would not be apparent to the causal observer. (And Joshua Archer was by all means, not a casual observer). He reaches a hand up idly to push back a stray strand of hair, effortlessly chic.
After a moment, he takes another slow sip of his drink. It's nearly finished now.
"I also think we should fuck."
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He blinks, feeling abruptly thrown off - as much from the expression on Alecto's face, the graceful economy of his movements, as from the actual content of his words. It takes his brain a few moments to catch up, and he blinks, still processing.
"Um, right now?" He asks, casual and matter-of-fact, seemingly more concerned with the logistics than the far more pressing question of whether or not they should. He's really not sure how M comes (no) into this, but he feels distinctly and irrationally nervous that he should be crossing her mind in this context at all.
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He takes a step forward, thoughtful in his motions, perhaps even a little intimidating in the way he keeps his eyes on Josh's every micro expression. When he speaks again, it's similar to how a teacher might address a student: "Though, if we were to, how would you go about it?" Here, now.
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[Side Mission: The Club]
The other, secret guiding principle, in Josh's opinion, was sadistic amusement.
Hence why Joshua Archer was pulling on a pair of leather gloves (it was really disturbing how perfectly they fit, how exactly they matched his size), the last pieces of the ensemble marked for his eyes that had been delivered to their house in two otherwise unremarkable boxes, along with a coded message containing their mission. Alecto Crabtree, his handler and partner for this particular undercover assignment, had received a smaller box of his own, but his expression after he had peeked into the box had been foreboding, to say the least, and then he had whisked the letter and the box away to another part of the house, and Josh had decided discretion was the better part of valor.
Besides, based on their mission parameters, he was going to find out soon enough what it was.
The mission was simple, on its face. A meeting with a mark, a straightforward exchange of payment for information. Easy enough to do. The only issue was that the only time they would have access to the mark was tonight, and only in a very specific location: a BDSM club a two hour hour drive away from their current cover, which meant they were the only available and appropriate agents for the job (or so M intimated). The club itself was well-known and very exclusive, with a cover charge and membership vetting process that would put some government agencies to shame, promising the utmost discretion for their wealthy and powerful clients as they indulged in some very specific fantasies. So they had to blend in enough at the club to draw no unnecessary attention, locate their quarry, and then maintain an additional set of cover story personas to make it out with no one else the wiser.
Joshua Archer has no idea what strings M had pulled to arrange this, but he really tried his best not to think about M in this context.
Which had been more and more difficult to do, of late.
As part of maintaining their current long-term cover as a newlywed couple that were very much in love, Alecto Crabtree had cited M's hand in their living arrangements, sleeping habits, expressions of public intimacy, and the carefully calculated timetable of sexual intercourse that he expected Josh to comply with (it was color-coded. With footnotes for suggested positions and specific acts). None of these requirements were a hardship for Josh; he was used to thinking of such things only in practical terms, and he was - fond enough of Alecto, and already attracted to him physically, to be up to (as it were) the task of fulfilling these demands to the very best of his ability.
For the mission. Physically speaking, at least.
It was the emotional side of it that was quickly getting out of hand, no matter how much he tried to rationalize it to himself, to stay logical and straightforward, mission-focused. It did not help that he'd had feelings for Alecto that predated their cover story, no matter how much he'd managed to stay professional in their prior relationship of spy and handler. He has a feeling he hadn't been as successful as he'd hoped, but he didn't think there was any shame in not being able to hide such things from Alecto - even as a disembodied voice that lived in his head and demanded absolute trust on life-threatening missions - and M - a not-entirely-metaphorical mind-reader and the most terrifying and terrifyingly competent woman Joshua had ever met in his entire life.
Who also, apparently, knew every single one of his sizes, and had ordered tens of thousands of dollars worth of clothes custom-made to fit him perfectly, down to the underwear and aftershave he'd been instructed to wear for the meet tonight.
He checks himself over again in the mirror; it was still him, but likely completely unrecognizable to their neighbors in this quiet suburban neighborhood. Once he'd shifted into the right mindset, he would at least look the part of the clientele that patronized the club they would be heading for.
It now really remained to be seen if he could act the part, along with Alecto.
He waits by the door leading to their half-empty garage - M had arranged for a car service, which would pick them up soon - holding a black leather suitcase containing a discreet black velvet bag with a obscene amount of clean and pristine cut diamonds, and a few other items that he was trying hard to block out of his memory that M had sent. For you both to blend in.
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Although it wasn't explicitly required, Alecto does take the time to shave all over, to do his hair and makeup as well (he's not about to half-ass this, alright. If he's going to do something, he'll do it right, damn it), lining his eyes with a thin red streak that brings out the pale shine of his eyes and trimming his dark brows.
Alecto is starting to wonder if this mission was really just an excuse for M to continually torment him, personally.
He comes back down to the door, an absolute vision of sharp lines, foxy and lithe, and glances at Josh’s outfit. He can’t help but suck in a very sharp, nearly alarmed breath. Josh looks…so handsome, sharp. Vicious. So different from his usual soft palette. The cologne he has on is seductive and earthy too, mature and just a bit spicy.
Alecto licks his lips, but doesn’t realize it. (God those gloves. Alecto idly wonders how they’d feel gripped around his wrists, his thighs.)
"...you have to help me put this last bit on,” he says by way of announcing his presence. He keeps his face absolutely stony, as unreadable and serious as marble as he hands over a thin, leather collar and the attached leash.
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And Josh's gaze, unfortunately, was very very interested.
"Oh! Right," he says, realizing Alecto is waiting for him. He reaches one gloved hand out for the collar, slides the length of the leash between his fingers, testing the tensile strength. Even if he can't touch it directly, he can tell it is of high quality, flexible and well-conditioned, able to be tightened without catching or snagging on anything or predictable in a way that definitely leant itself to... other activities.
He tries to focus his gaze, even as his eyes start to wander - Alecto had... really been thorough in his preparations - but focusing on whatever was above Alecto's neck had the side-effect of catching the way he'd licked his lips, apparently in reaction to something about Josh.
"Turn... turn around," he says. He almost adds a 'please,' but he has enough presence of mind to know that was not a habit he wanted to fall into, tonight. He raises the soft length of leather to rest against Alecto's slender neck, gloved fingers drifting briefly over his shoulderblades, above the low collar of the mesh shirt, before he stops.
"We still have a long drive ahead," he says, quietly. "Maybe I should wait to put it on when we arrive?"
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In the car (which arrived in an unsurprisingly timely manner, thank you, M, ever punctual), with its tinted windows and stiff seats, Alecto shifts so that his back is towards Josh again, his neck bared for him. "Now. Do you mind?"
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"We'll be in the car for two hours," he points out, but something about Alecto's immediate insistence, the calm, collected, matter-of-fact way he turns, presenting his back and neck to Josh, makes him bite his tongue against further protest.
"Alright. Now." He says, and it is not his usual polite, courteous tone, the respectful way he usually conversed with Alecto when they were in the field on a normal mission, when they weren't pretending to be other people. Because, apparently, for Alecto, when they'd gotten in the car, the mission had begun.
He could do this. He could match that.
He lets his gloved hand slide gently along the elegant lines of Alecto's spine and shoulderblades, just above the mesh of his shirt, and then brushes his fingers lightly over his graceful nape. He has the collar in his other hand, and he wraps it carefully around Alecto's neck, breath warm against his skin as he leans in, before slipping the ends through the beautifully designed buckle, and pulling it not-quite taut.
"Is this tight enough for you?" He asks quietly, but there is something additional in his tone, something warm and intent. Expectant. He is not quite demanding an answer, but it hovers so close to a command, something well outside his usual demeanor. He's not sure what impulse seizes him that he continues with, "My pet?"
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But that's a pointless endeavor to maintain in the end. Because Josh has to go and say that.
Although Josh can't see it, Alecto's eyes widen right then and his breath catches in his throat. My pet - the term settles into his bones with a full-body shiver, sending a wild heat shooting down his spine and straight to his groin. It creates this odd sensation that seems to tame him, helping him slide into the right demeanor and role with immediacy and ease. Little by little, his body language seems to soften, becomes pliant and so much more willing. His walls and daggers withdraw, leaving behind a coquettish, sly little creature who gasps, gently, "Tighter, please," a breath, "master."
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[Side Mission: Gunplay, Aftermath]
"I'm sorry," he whispers, painfully sincere. "I shouldn't have - That was deeply irresponsible of me."
It had been almost entirely instinctive and automatic. On its surface, it was simply a return to their established identities on another side mission - intercepting a dead-drop this time for a hostile party - that should really have been quite simple. But the contact they'd linked up with had been deeply engrossed in an informal display by a business associate and his sub for the night that had shifted into poorly negotiated gunplay, with the man clearly playing to his audience rather than responsible, safe practices, and Josh couldn't help but speak up, as diplomatically as he could, particularly when he'd seen the man flick off the safety, but all the same -
Ironic, then, how very poorly negotiated the scene between him and Alecto had been.
He lets go of Alecto's wrist, but doesn't step back, doesn't pull away. "I'm here," he says, "Just me. For whatever... whatever you need, that I can give. But please don't just push through this, don't ignore it."
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And tonight, Joshua Archer had done just that.
"It's not your fault," he reasons. He knows that Josh didn't do any of that on purpose. It wasn't his choice to shove a loaded firearm up Alecto's ass and fuck him with it until he was forced to cum, despite the pain, sobbing. Their lives were on the line. The mission was at stake.
Even now, Alecto ignores the constant cold sweat haunting him, giving him gooseflesh, making him feel an eerie, out-of-body sort of sensation.
"I'll be fine," he says, but it's not at all convincing. The words are just a gut reaction, a wall that he's used to putting up so that he can buy himself the time to recollect himself. He can't seem to meet the other man's eyes. "I just don't...like guns."
It's an odd admission, considering his line of work. But there was a reason why Alecto never carried a firearm and preferred not to work jobs in the field where he was required, for his safety, to even handle one.
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A sigh gusts out, ruffling Alecto's hair, once damp with sweat but starting to dry up. "You've walked me through so many debriefs," he murmurs, pleading. "Please let me do this with you."
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"There's a few things you should probably know about me," he says suddenly, the words shockingly soft and vulnerable. Alecto turns now, moving back and out of his agent's hold so that he could look at him. Usually, Alecto's stare is arresting and sure, the kind of gaze that locked a person in place. But right now, it's epicene and wavering.
"...Though, I'm not really sure where to start." This very thought - so unprepared, so uncertain - seems to disturb him and he looks deeply uncomfortable, as if ashamed at himself for not having all the answers for once. "I guess it all comes down to the same man in the end. The one before you."
A beat. Alecto's hand rises to touch briefly against the center of his chest where his small locket usually rested, the one he never allowed anyone to peer into. The one he never entertained any questions about. The one that had the photo of someone he once loved.
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"You don't have to explain anything you don't want to," he says, soft, quiet, gentle. "I just want to help. Whatever you need." But Joshua can't help but be deeply interested and curious. These few halting sentences were the most Alecto has ever really revealed about himself and his past explicitly, rather than by subtle implication.
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He pauses and runs through his own words again in his head. The jab of them in his own chest is so familiar. They're words he's resigned himself to for a long time in this line of work.
But the way Joshua is looking at him...it makes Alecto feel very bare, very stripped down. Too seen.
"...You deserve to know," he repeats, with a slight amendment to his original word choice, as if trying to convince himself - to push himself - to go through with it already.
Gingerly he sits on the edge of the bed, wincing, his body still aching and protesting from what it had to go through earlier. He ignores it. Things like this, they'll heal. Of all the wounds he bears, the ones his body physically bear are hardly a concern. He takes a breath.
"Have you ever looked into why you were reassigned to me? I don't mean the reason for the reassignment in general, mind you. I mean specifically why you were paired with me. Be honest."
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