Page 63 of Set Fire to This Cardhouse

“Would it be a problem” —Toby’s fists are already clenched— “if I punched him? Because I want to. Is that healthy? I don’t think that’s healthy.”

Of course Mike doesn’t reply. Toby is watching closely enough, though, that he notices it when Mike’s muscles bunch. A second later, the tables have been turned and it’s Ken with his back against the car, bracketed in by Mike’s hips.

When Mike rocks forward, Ken groans, eyes sliding shut. Mike repeats the move, crowding Ken in, and Toby’s vision goes a little funny, throat constricted to make breathing harder. He’s not even pretending to stare at his phone anymore, yet he still almost misses the moment when Mike flattens both of Ken’s hands against the car’s metal, into the very spots Mike wiped clean with his earlier shifting. Gasping, Ken arches his back.

Mike is staring straight at Toby.

Two heartbeats tick by to the white rush of noise in Toby’s ears.

Then Mike blinks and looks away, steps back from Ken. “Which way?” he asks, his voice notably rough. Toby bites down on the inside of his cheek to keep from making a sound when Ken peels himself away from the car, grinning in broad anticipation as he adjusts his pants. Asshole. Fucking asshole. Maybe Toby can find some excuse to punch him later.

Instead of following Mike and Ken, Toby clutches his phone in one hand and focuses on the grounding scrape of concrete against his shoulders when he shifts, the wall solid behind him. Get yourself the fuck together. Things to do, handprints to retrieve, conversations to tape.

Toby would rather drink acid than listen to Mike getting it on with another man—and to think that this was Toby’s plan to begin with. He wonders what that says about his masochistic tendencies.

Probably nothing. Probably just that when it comes to compartmentalization, he needs a refresher course. In the absence of one, he’ll have to dig his nails into his palms some more and try not to put his fist through a window.

***

Toby cuts the comm link as soon as Mike gets Ken to point out the correct door.

(“Tanai. That you?”

“No, next one. Tan. Ken Tan, that is me.”

“Arthur Dent. It’s a pleasure to meet you.”)

Cutting the link might be unprofessional, but it’s either that or yelling at Mike in the middle of a job. Toby chooses the lesser of two evils.

Once blessed silence surrounds him, he attempts to lose himself in the painstaking process of turning the print into a glove that will fool the CTS scanner. It takes the better part of an hour, the sharp stench of chemicals clogging up his nose, slowing his thoughts down even though they keep churning at the back of his mind, a constant hum that keeps him company. After leaving the glove to dry in the bathroom—it’ll be fit for use in five hours—he spends ten more minutes isolating the passage with Ken’s name, enhancing the clarity. He’s overly aware of the breathless edge to Ken’s voice, a sick fascination keeping Toby glued to his screen as though the computer-generated frequency curves are holding the key to some deeper truth. All they unlock is a new wave of nausea.

Eighty-seven minutes pass between Ken stating his name and Mike’s return, not that Toby is keeping track. He just happens to glance at the clock. Repeatedly. While fighting to stem the flow of his imagination.

When the door opens, he takes his sweet time looking up from a detailed map of CTS Consulting’s executive floor. For all that he tries, he doesn’t succeed in keeping the derision out of his voice. “Have fun?”

“Why would you care?” It’s a terse question. Mike nudges the door shut with a hip and comes to stand at the edge of the room, hands shoved deep into his pockets. Something about his expression is off: a strange tilt to his mouth, uncommon tension in his stance, blinking too quickly at the bright lamplight—Toby can’t quite put his finger on it.

God, he’s so fucking tired.

“You” —he drops the pen with a clatter— “are an asshole.”

Mike’s smirk is devoid of all humor. “Takes one to know one.”

That doesn’t even make sense, but Toby jumps to his feet anyway, his chair tilting back and landing on the carpet with a muffled thud. Toby nearly trips over its legs. “Did you enjoy rubbing it in my face? Did you—”

“I wanted it to be you,” Mike cuts him off. He sounds disoriented, eyes wild. “That’s never happened to me, so just... fuck you. Fuck you for jerking me around like it’s—”

“Stop.” Toby takes a hurried step back. His hip hits the edge of the table, sending a sharp sting of pain zagging up his side. It claws its way up his chest, burning in his throat. “Just shut up. Shut the fuck up. This isn’t the time, okay? We can’t—it’s fucking dangerous, is what it is.” He draws a rough breath while staring at Mike. God, he wants. He wants so fucking much, and Mike wants too, but there are so many ways this could go wrong, and the last thing they need is to be distracted right before walking into the lion’s den.

Toby swallows against the ache in his chest and throat. “We need to keep our minds on the job. Just until that’s done, and then I’ll partner with Jesy and we’ll find you—”

“What?” Mike interrupts. His expression frosts over, and he walks forward until he’s right in front of Toby, trapping him against the table, eyes sharp and a little frantic.

He’s quiet for the space of a heartbeat. Toby doesn’t dare move, doesn’t dare breathe.

“Fuck you,” Mike hisses, voice dangerously quiet. “Fuck you, Toby.”

Two seconds is how long it takes Toby’s brain to catch up. It’s enough for Mike to move past him towards the bedroom, and Toby stumbles after him.

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