Page 68 of Set Fire to This Cardhouse

“You caused a car accident. And a traffic jam.” Toby lets himself sink back against Mike because Mike is solid and beautiful and he came for Toby when he shouldn’t even be here. He should be on his way back to the U.S. but instead he’s here, right here, and he casually shoots Ken just as Ken is about to grab a gun off the third guard.

Mike is here. He disregarded everything Toby said.

Toby is maybe in love with him.

“You know that you broke the rules, right?” Toby asks, and can’t manage to sound even a little upset. “Mission first, remember? Men are replaceable. Did you even wait for the upload to finish?”

Mike’s arm tightens. “Well, as a matter of fact, you are not replaceable. And it’s not like I ever read the guidance Liu gave me.”

When Mike lets go and steps back, Toby sways for a moment before he gets himself under control. He barely registers the dented front of the van, no way the driver made it out. More important are the people staring at them, and shit, this is a civilized country with a low crime rate and an active social media landscape; a daylight traffic accident ending in a shooting will end up splashed across all channels. Everyone here’s got a phone.

They need to get out. They need to get the hell out.

Mike seems to arrive at the same conclusion. “I’ll drive,” he says. “You do the upload.” He steps close to deal with the rope around Toby’s wrists, and stills quite suddenly. Twisting his head around, Toby finds Mike staring at the bloody spot where Toby’s fingernail used to be. Huh. Funny how Toby almost forgot about the waves of pain pulsing up his arm. On the bright side, his rib aches distantly—not broken, he doesn’t think so.

“It’s worse than it looks,” he says evenly.

“Fucking bastard,” Mike hisses, and turns back to the van.

“Mike!” Toby would kick him if he could. Instead, he offers his bound hands. “You already shot him. Let’s go.”

Mike sways in place, then turns smoothly back around and returns to Toby’s side. He undoes the knot with precise efficiency, crouches down and starts working on the rope around Toby’s ankles. “We need to take the first flight out,” he says. “Doesn’t matter where, just that it’s soon.”

When he glances up, his eyes are warm and soft, and somehow, it’s suddenly all just a little overwhelming. Toby stares back blankly.

Rope falling to the ground, Mike rises. “Toby?”

“Yeah.” Toby clears his throat and blinks, shakes his head. He still feels wobbly. “Thanks for… you know. I appreciate it.”

“Buy me dinner, and we’ll call it even.” The corners of Mike’s eyes crinkle when he smiles, and Toby can see it: Mike in ten years, crow’s-feet, his hair starting to gray at the temples. Toby wants that. God, yes—he wants to be there for it, wants to be the reason for fine lines of laughter at the corners of Mike’s eyes.

He wipes his bloody hand off on his shirt, fully ignoring the people around them. “That’s yes to a date, right?”

Mike’s smile deepens. “Was there ever a question?”

“Yeah,” Toby says. “Of course there was. You’re the one who’s never been in—”

“You think too much,” Mike cuts him off, and Toby is not a fan of people interrupting him, but Mike’s tone is a cross between fond and amused, so maybe, just this once, Toby can let it go.

With a bright look, Mike turns towards their van. It’s badly damaged, the right fender bent in on itself with the headlight crushed, and Toby is gripped by a brief moment of belated, ice-cold shock because there are so many ways this could have gone wrong, so many ways Mike could have miscalculated the impact.

Toby swallows and heads for the passenger side.

***

They make it through security without attracting unwanted attention, Toby’s bloody shirt exchanged for a clean one, his finger wrapped in a white bandage. Their flight is already boarding by the time they near the gate, but it doesn’t stop Mike from dragging Toby into the nearest men’s room and pushing him into an empty stall. Not that Toby is complaining.

The last call for their flight comes as a rude interruption. Mike’s lips are swollen, his eyes wide and a little glazed. He’s a sight for sore eyes, and Toby wants him, wants this, them, almost enough to let the flight go. But. But thinking. Good decision-making.

He slides his hand out of the back pocket of Mike’s pants and nudges him back.

“Let’s take the next one,” Mike mumbles, moving in again.

For a full five seconds, Toby gives in. Then he turns his head away, exhaling against Mike’s jaw. “We won’t be having sex if we’re in prison.”

“Point.” Mike’s voice dips low as if to tell a secret. “But what a way to go.” He follows it up with a wink.

“You’re not funny.” Toby leans his head against the wall and notices that the fingers of his good hand have twisted themselves into Mike’s shirt. His other hand is caught between them, Mike cradling it to his stomach as though he’s trying to protect it from further damage.

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