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Murdoc forces a laugh that sounds somewhat like a donkey giving birth. It could be the tasteful amount of wine he's had, or the fact the collar of his suit is choking him out and not giving him a good time for it.
Either way.
He recoils at the ugly noise that somehow emitted from his throat of all places, but it's enough to make the old fuddy-duddy he's entertaining chortle, raising his glass. There's a drunken twinkle in his eye as he continues to chatter on, and Murdoc is sorely jealous that he can enjoy himself like this without regard for anyone else.
No one knows who he is. One bullet, and this headache's gone. He wouldn't, of course, because that'd bugger up the whole mission, but it's cathartic to picture it as the old man chatters on about his current investments. No, he needs to wait for his target to show. Then he can make his move. Watch the false teeth rattle around in his mouth, fiddle with his ring, and wait.
There he is.
Murdoc slides from his seat at the bar with a quiet apology and simpering smile. Dickhead'll forget him soon enough. He can be a perfect soundboard when he wants to be, and anyone can nod along to finance talk, can’t they?
Eyes locked on his target - his back to Murdoc, but he'd be a fool not to recognise him – he weaves through crowds of guests, gathered in their cliques and whispering amongst themselves. Satan forbid someone was to overhear their conversation.
The target won't know what's coming, head swivelling as he searches. Murdoc knows what he's looking for. Who he's looking for. The thought drags a lazy grin across his face.
He's far too stupid to spot Murdoc, mere metres behind him. This is his chance to attack, to have the upper hand.
Three quick strides, he reaches out, nails sharp, and grabs a handful of the target's arse.
Point-blank.
The target hisses "Shit," whipping around to face him with a scowl.
"I knew it was you."
"Well done, love. Doesn't take a rocket scientist to figure that one out." Murdoc pats him on the back. "No one else is going around grabbing your arse. At least, I hope not."
"Just you taking the piss." 2D could be rolling his eyes, he's never quite sure for the darkness of them. The reason why the agency took interest in him in the first place, and for his odd codename.
Who's Stuart, though, if not odd? Certainly not his.
"It's what I do best, hm?" He smirks, eyes lidded. Murdoc loves to play cat and mouse with his assignments, toying with them before sinking his teeth into their neck.
This game has been years-long. Perhaps betrothing his victim is a little far, but he's nothing if not committed – to his job, to 2D.
Unfortunately, those two things are at odds at this very moment. A pact to hide their relationship had gone so well that their agency had assumed Murdoc would have no qualms about getting rid of one of their agents.
A liability, they'd said. Creative behind the scenes but too slow in the moment. One wrong move and he'd bring down their whole network of operations. Best to dispose of him before that can happen.
Now he has to figure out how to kill him without killing him. Easy. Not that he knows, because what would he think, after they'd spent so long building trust on shaky foundations? It'd all just crumble, wouldn't it?
To pull himself from those thoughts, he grabs the blade of Stu's tie and yanks him in. His sharp instinct lets him pinpoint the exact moment his breath stutters.
"Come 'ere. Your tie's as crooked as your teeth." He jimmys the knot, evening it out, feels Stu's eyes trained on the top of his head. "There. Looking less like you're at your first job interview."
Stu grins, wide and toothy. "Cheers, 023."
(23. The cosmic number of coincidence. The number of man. A perfect fit for Murdoc Niccals. It thrills him when 2D calls him by his codename, even in jest – a throwback to their first meeting. How things have changed since those tumultuous years. Every time Stu’s silver band catches the light he half expects it to snap into two and drop off, all a far-fetched dream. No such thing, a year in.)
"Someone's gotta make sure you blend in because you're not gonna bloody do it yourself." He lowers his voice. "D'you manage to find anything out about the target?"
Right. Murdoc wasn't bullshitting before, he really does have to put a bullet through Stuart's skull, but for now, the two of them are working together on something different, their first mission together in a long while (and if 2D happens to die in the process, wink wink, nudge nudge, says the agency…)
"Yeah. Chatted with a few people. Says he's gone up to the roof with some bird."
Sleazy bastard.
"Shall we crash their little date, then?" He extends his elbow in Stu's direction, an invitation that he accepts with a wobbling smile that all but contains his laughter.
"Alright."
This is what it is, winding up before the kill. If Murdoc eventually has to have Stu's blood on his hands, he'd rather be able to recall the feeling of his face cupped in his palms first.
And if he can't pull the trigger, then he'd rather cherish the memory before the agency puts him out of commission.
Lucky bastard, who'll never know this turmoil.
The rickety stairway leading to the roof is blessedly empty, a reprieve from the bustling festivities below. It’s steeper than he’d like, leaving him suppressing heavy breaths.
“My legs are gonna drop off,” Stuart whines, grasping at Murdoc’s arm for support.
“You’ll vault over walls and jump from storeys up, but you’re bested by some sodding stairs?” Murdoc arches an eyebrow as if he isn’t glad for the break from climbing this conversation made them have.
“Well, yeah, that’s the…” He pauses, searching for the right word. It used to infuriate Murdoc, who thought it was all a facade. Turns out he’s just slow. If he were a sop, he’d call his nose, scrunched in thought, endearing. Mary and Joseph – he is a sop. This man does stupid things to him. “...Adrenaline. Yeah.”
“Well, if it’s adrenaline that you need–”
In one fluid movement he pulls Stu in, arm wrapped around the small of his waist, hand reaching up to cup his face, and presses rough lips to his.
Like second nature Stu melts into the kiss with a sigh, entangling fingers in coarse, black hair and pulling ever so slightly, as if to bring him even closer. They’ve done this countless times, but as Stu parts his lips with a soft gasp, heart hammering and flush against his own, Murdoc feels a needle of desperation that has him pressing his tongue inside.
They shouldn’t be doing this, really. Years ago, when the line between rival and rival-with-benefits was blurring, one barbed quip ended up with 2D on his knees, derailing the mission a little. A lot. They still bested the target, because Murdoc won’t take a failure, but only by the skin of their teeth. They’re older, more settled, and should know better now.
When they pull away to catch their breath, darkened eyes meet with a wanton gaze. Shaking exhales, a silence so impossibly loud, parted lips red and spit slicked, Murdoc could swear he’s trembling with anticipation. (Or adrenaline.) He’d be a fool to push Stu away looking like this. Murdoc’s traitorous heart flutters as he drags him back into a kiss, hands frantic as they grab at him in any way he can. He’s barely tipsy but drunk off of Stu as he dips his fingers below the waistband of his trousers, teasing. Completely unacceptable that he can elicit that sort of needy groan from Murdoc, but there it is as he leans into his trailing touch.
Perhaps if he hadn’t been so wrapped up in Stu they would’ve heard it earlier – a distant, humming sound, coming from above them. The roof. Pulling apart, they exchange a glance, all forgotten as they sprint up the stairs..
The sounds amplifies as the door’s swung open, and Murdoc throws a hand up at the sudden, blinding. It pulses in his ears, coursing through his blood, deafening, and he recognises the sound of a helicopter before his eyes adjust to its lights. The wind pushes them back, dragging them towards the door by the roots of their hair and clothes. He stutters though stays firmly planted in place, one hand gripping Stu lest he fall back down the stairs.
Murdoc squints, just spotting a man inching himself into the helicopter, struggling up the last few rungs of a rope ladder. Spitting a curse, he fishes his pistol from his pocket – too late to follow suit – as they pull the ladder up. Firing once, twice, thrice – there – their target’s leg jolts from the hit, and if it were quiet, he’s sure he’d hear his cry. It’s futile though, as the door slams shut, and the blades roar as the helicopter lifts up and off into the night.
Shit.
“Shit,” Murdoc says, stuffing his pistol back into his pocket. “What now? We got fuck-all to go after him, and we have no idea where he’s going.”
“I s’pose that’s why they don’t put us together on missions anymore.” Stu’s shoulders slump. He heads to the edge of the roof and leans against the wall with a sigh. “We can always explain. Maybe they’re not gonna have our heads then.”
Murdoc joins him, barking a bitter laugh. “Explain what? Explain that we were getting off like hormonal teenagers? G will love that.”
G, their boss, won’t love that, and Stu notes that with a sigh. “Our first failed mission. High five?”
Murdoc pauses, irritation welling in his chest at this, his first failure – but, really, if there’s anyone he’d rather fail with, it’d be Stu. So, they tap their palms together, and he watches that ring shine in the moonlight. Still intact.
“Whaddya think it’ll be? Euthanisation?”
Stu snorts though the subject matter is anything but funny. “Maybe they’ll let us off easy with a quick bullet to the head.”
“No, too messy. G’s neurotic about that stuff.” An odd thing, knowing he’s going to die. Murdoc’s never been scared of death, but he hadn’t expected to welcome it. Perhaps it’s because he’ll face it hand-in-hand with Stu.
Well. It was going to end like this either way, with his assignment. One of them would have to die in the end. Isn’t this better?
Murdoc swallows. Stu dying goes against every principle he’d sworn to the moment he’d placed that ring on his finger. If only he’d been assigned that mission when they first met, when he would’ve had no qualms about it.
“I need to kill you,” He says. Stu deserves to know – plus, a plan’s forming in his mind.
“What?” Black eyes blink at him, surprised. It took him a long time to learn to read them.
“The agency. Asked me to take you out.”
“You did.” Stu chuckles, on the edge of nervousness. “We went out for Italian last week, remember?”
“Don’t.” Head in his hands, Murdoc turns to face the cityscape, easier than facing Stu. “G said you were a liability on missions, too slow, got it done but put people in stupid danger doing it. So you have to die.”
Stu’s silent for a moment as he processes this, gnawing at his lip – he’d pull him in his arms if it weren’t his fault. Instead, he watches ant-sized couples walk hand-in-hand through streets below, and imagines putting a bullet through their heads.
“You’re a maverick. You never listen to what G says, you refuse to work with most of your coworkers, you’ll do things your way if it can be helped. And you’re just rude. You do a good job but you’re too much to handle, with too much collateral damage.” Stu pauses, pursing his lips. “That’s why I was assigned to get rid of you.”
One wrong move and Murdoc feels as if he’ll topple over the edge. His mouth is parted though the words get stuck in his throat, choking, why and when and how and, most importantly, what the fuck.
He swallows his rising panic and says, “They wanted us both to die tonight. They thought we would.”
“And if we didn’t…” 2D puts the puzzle pieces together. ”...They had a reason to do it themselves that they wouldn’t have otherwise.”
“The higher-ups offing agents if they hadn’t broken the code would be ridiculous. The others would find out. They’d revolt. Especially with how long we’ve been working there.” Murdoc rubs at the stubble along his jawline. “But if we failed a mission, breached safety? That’d be fine.”
“D’you think the target was in on it?” 2D says, offhand.
He was in on it. This was a complete set-up.
Shit.
“Shit.” He straightens up, now, facing Stu with renowned fervour. “Listen. I got a plan. I’m not fucking letting them off me. But I’m– I will die. Just not by their hand.”
“Murdoc…”
He’s frantic now, words spilling from his mouth like vomit. “We’ll kill each other. Pull the trigger at the same time. I’m not letting their bollocks system put an end to me. I want it to be you.”
“...D’you think you could kill me?” Stu says softly. “‘Cause I know I can’t pull the trigger.”
Murdoc groans, hair in his fists. “Come off it, you’re not gonna live with the guilt for long. You don’t even have to think about it.”
“I’d rather off myself.”
“Don’t.” Murdoc shakes his head. His perfect plan is going down the drain. “Don’t say that.”
“I would. If you’re hellbent on your idea, I’ll do it. You know I will. I’ll just put it through my own head.” Stu pulls his pistol from his pocket, turning it in his hands. It hangs above the big drop below. “I s’pose it would’ve been nice to get married before we died. I thought we had more time.”
“Yeah.” He swallows. His throat burns. Tentatively, he rests himself by Stu’s side, who stuffs his gun back into his trousers, as they watch the oblivious city go about their lives. What he would give to be one of them, hand-in-hand and bundled up in winter clothing. These suits are stifling. “Really wanted that chocolate fountain.”
Stu snorts. “All the free gifts. And the drinks.”
A public wedding would’ve been impossible, of course. It’s nice to indulge in stupid fantasies, fool themselves into thinking they could one day have a normal life. Little comforts in a harrowing situation like this. Murdoc grasps Stu’s hand, gripping tight. He watches the blood drain from his knuckles, the shake of his fingers, the ring shining. Still in one piece.
“What if we disappear?” Stu says. “Completely?”
This sort of fantasy is dangerous because it gives them hope. “Don’t be stupid. They’ll find us in no time flat.”
Stu shakes his head, steely resolve forming in his eyes. “No. We’ve worked with them. We’ve worked close to G. For years. We know how they work. We’d know how to do it.”
Hope is perhaps the most dangerous thing he’s faced in his years as an agent.
“Come on. We still got a chance to win this mission. We didn’t fail yet.”
Challenge sparks in his chest at that. “...This is stupid. We get caught, we’re fucked.”
You’re fucked is his immediate thought, but Stu grins at that. “Let’s not get caught, then.”
And, fuck, this life had been thrilling when he had nothing to lose, but now that the burden of loss weighed heavy on his mind, he wanted nothing more but to leave. They’re done either way if they stay, but this fantastical plan gives them a chance. A small one, at that, but a chance.
“We die or we die,” He resigns.
“We die or we die,” Stu affirms with a nod.
He sighs.
“Let’s live, then.” Murdoc grips their hands together, finger resting on Stu’s ring. “Let’s win.”
An agent clears his throat.
“A Letter has arrived. Addressed with your name. It’s been scanned – no malicious intent. No fingerprints, either…”
A raised eyebrow. Impossible. “My name?”
The agent pauses. “Addressed to G.”
That makes more sense. “Thank you. Hand it over. You may leave.”
The agent leaves. Interesting. A plain envelope, G scrawled on the front. Nothing else – no classified, no urgent. Reminiscent of something familiar.
An invitation, of all things. A smile quirks at G’s lips.
Clever bastards.
