Page 15 of Set Fire to This Cardhouse

Exhaling on a shaky breath, Toby lets go. His thoughts are a tangled mess, but he has words, always words, enough of them to talk straight past whatever just happened. “Look, if you want to boss me around for an hour, fine. If that satisfies some alpha macho need, be my guest. Need me to shine your shoes? I’ll do it. I’ll do whatever it takes to keep you right here in this room.”

Or maybe Toby has exactly the right amount of words to make it worse.

For the first time since Number Four went down, their gazes meet—meet and hold. Mike’s expression is blank, but his eyes are a little wide, a little crazy. “Toby,” he starts, then stops sharply.

“Mike.” Toby gets up, and he’s not short by anyone’s standards, but he still has to tilt his head back slightly to look at Mike. They’re standing too close, inappropriately close. Toby doesn’t want to take a step back, though, because that would draw attention to his discomfort, would mean admitting that he’s on uneven ground. He clears his throat. “Agent Redding—”

Mike’s mouth twists. Toby does take a step back then, just a tiny one, because that’s how far he gets until his calves hit the bed frame.

“Okay,” he says quietly, rushed. “Jesus, just—stop. Stop. Going back out there? Not a good idea. The worst.” Toby lifts both hands, palms up, and calmly, deliberately holds Mike’s gaze. His heart is beating fast in his throat. “Whatever you need, Mike.”

He knows what he’s offering. He wonders if Mike knows too; if Mike even wants to know. Toby feels strangely off-balance, his thoughts a parade of non-sequiturs. His chest hurts.

Nothing moves for a beat, nothing but the hotel fan slowly whirring above their heads. Then Mike says slowly, testing, “You’re serious.”

Toby lets his hands sink, breathing out. “Yes. I am dead serious, yes. Speaking of dead, you are not going out there alone on some stupid, crazy impulse that can only lead to disaster. Okay? Okay.”

Mike doesn’t move for several seconds. His eyes are still wild, fixed on Toby with heavy intent. Of what, Toby can’t be sure. He holds himself very still and upright, staring back at Mike and refusing to break the silence—he’s crossed a line already; several. It’s for the best of reasons, of course, the very best, whatever it takes to keep them sane and alive.

Fuck, he needs Mike to do something, say something—anything.

Mike reaches out, hesitates. Then he circles Toby’s wrist in a mirror image of just moments earlier. “Tell me I didn’t read you wrong.”

Toby swallows thickly. His heart is the drum and the bass, and there is no way Mike will miss it. “This is a bad idea too.”

“Toby.” Mike’s tone is urgent. “Did I read you wrong?”

It is a bad idea. A fucking awful idea, in fact, with almost as much potential to blow up in their faces as Mike running loose in a foreign country. Toby should be the sensible one here, the rational one, should claim he didn’t mean it—except he did. He can barely hear past the hammering in his ears, his thoughts like dogs chasing their own tails.

He closes his eyes and counts to three. Behind his lids, Mike is already waiting with his arms spread, a human shield made of flesh and bone and stubborn determination. Toby inhales on a rough breath, a phantom shot ringing in his head.

“You didn’t.” He opens his eyes. “You did not read me wrong.”

“Thank God,” Mike mutters.

Then he tugs Toby forward, and even though there’s no real strength behind it, Toby stumbles into Mike, catches himself with a hand on Mike’s chest. Mike smells of sweat and aftershave and hot sand, the warmth of his skin seeping through his T-shirt. His stomach expands on a breath, and Toby slides his palm down to feel the bumps of defined abs. This is so much better than a stolen glance.

When Toby lifts his head, he finds Mike watching him with a keen, sharp focus.

“What?” Toby asks softly.

Mike shakes his head, opens his mouth to speak. Then doesn’t, and suddenly it’s Toby who wonders whether he read it all wrong, whether this was a test he failed. Whether this is the end of their partnership, and it’ll come with a punch to the face. He stiffens, but doesn’t move back, not yet.

“Mike?”

“Yeah.” Mike breathes deeply, in, and out. He covers Toby’s hand with his own, effectively stopping all further exploration, his other hand still wrapped around Toby’s wrist in a firm hold. “Tell me if I’m taking advantage.”

Oh, of all the things...

“You’re not.” Toby tips up his chin and lets Mike see him—the naked strain of the last few hours, the exhaustion, the need for something real. “Not unless I am, too.”

“You’re not,” Mike returns.

There’s a moment, balanced on the edge of a knife, when they can still walk away.

Then Mike moves, forcing Toby back against the bed until there’s nowhere to go but down, down, and Toby lets himself fall, landing heavily on the mattress. Two small bottles get lodged under his back, but before he can dig them out, Mike is right there, trapping Toby with the weight of his body. There’s nowhere Toby would rather be.

We’re alive.

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