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The mission in and of itself was not overly complicated: get in, get a harddrive, get out. Easy. Despite only being in their late teens, Agents 707 and Vanderwood had done this several times without major issues. They made a good team, in Vanderwood’s opinion: Seven’s skills as a hacker complemented his own infiltration skills, and they understood each other’s thought processes better than anyone else.
This time, their mission was almost laughably simple. It had brought them to a secure office building: allegedly, it was one of the most difficult places to enter without proper clearance. The statement had made Vanderwood laugh – such a thing was child’s play for himself and Seven. It took them a matter of minutes to get the credentials needed, and Vanderwood had walked right in without so much as a second glance given to him. Then, all that was left to do was obtain a harddrive with sensitive information on it, and leave without being caught.
Vanderwood sat at a desk, back to a window with a stunning view of downtown, rifling through it to find the external harddrive in question. Golden sunlight fell around him, illuminating the lavishly decorated office with bright afternoon light, which would have been lovely if it didn’t so blatantly allow his shadow to fall on the designer rugs and act as a spotlight for anyone who may walk by. He had to be fast, in and out, before the security detail made their next rounds.
While Vanderwood carefully searched the office, Seven had opted to stay in the van a few streets over, monitoring the businessman who was currently out of said office. The older gentleman was having a meeting with a ‘shady guy, as Seven had so eloquently put it. At first, Vanderwood had been a little nervous that the harddrive had been taken with the businessman (what was his name? Ah, it didn’t matter, anyways), but Seven had assured him that it was still at the office.
How Seven knew such things, Vanderwood had long since stopped asking.
“Van-der-wood!” Seven’s sing-songy voice crackled over Vanderwood’s earpiece, and the older agent rolled his eyes.
Great, what now?
Before he could reply, however, his partner spoke again. “How much longer do you think you need? I am getting hungry.” Vanderwood could all but hear the joking pout that Seven was almost certainly making.
Predictable.
As the thought crossed his mind, gloved fingers felt a slight divot in one of the drawer backs, and a half-smile quirked his lips. Good thing their target was also predictable. “I left you snacks,” Vander replied, his voice hushed. “Check the messenger bag I left in the van. I knew you forgot to eat breakfast today. Now shut up, I think I almost found it.”
Pressing on the divot, Vanderwood felt something click, and the back of the drawer slid down, revealing his prize: a slim harddrive, nestled atop some documents. Fuck yeah, this didn’t take long at all! The agent allowed himself a smile as he pocketed the device: he had been worried it would be in one of those ‘smart safes’ that were a bitch and a half to hack into, and oftentimes required DNA or a fingerprint or some such thing. Good thing their information had been right about this idiot being old school. How the rich bastard got his hands on this information was anyone’s guess, but that was too far above Vanderwood’s pay-grade to worry about.
“Aw, Vanderwood, you do care!” Seven’s voice was bright, rivalling the afternoon sun. “Oh, wow, and they’re my fa-a-a-vourites too…!” Vanderwood couldn’t help but smile at his partner’s reaction. Who got so excited over chips?
“Okay, I found the harddrive, but there’s some papers with it I want to look through– They might have important information with them. I’ll just need a few more minutes, then I’ll meet you.” Vanderwood’s voice was quiet, gaze flickering up for the briefest of moments to ensure that he still had time. Five minutes. The security team has been like clockwork so far, I should be fine.
“Mhm, sounds good. Don’t take too long, okay?” Seven’s voice crackled through, the rustle of a chip bag audible in the background.
Vander leaned down, leaving the channel open as he did so. “Alright, let’s see what we have…”
The door whooshing open caused claws of cold dread to imbed themselves in Vanderwood’s stomach, his chest tightening as he allowed an easy smile to settle into place. “Oh, the boss didn’t tell you?” he said, feigning surprise. “He sent me to get some paperwork for his lunch meeting, so I’ll just be–” As he spoke, he grabbed some of the papers from the open drawer, shuffling them as his heart pounded a staccato against his ribs.
“You ain’t in the authorised visitors log,” the guard replied, hackles raised. “Hands where we can see ‘em, kid.”
Dropped the papers, Vander reached for his gun with practised quickness.
________
The pops of gunfire and shouting over the open channel made Seven jump in his seat, cold dread dripping its way down his back. This was supposed to be a stealth mission, no weapons required – why the hell was there gunfire?! Why was there shouting? He had heard Vanderwood talking to someone, but it seemed to be going well until it wasn’t!
Six shots.
The sound of running.
Then, the rasping of a knife being drawn, the sound of something hitting the ground, more gunfire, shouting, Vanderwood crying out, and then–
Silence.
Fuck, fuck, fuck. Claws of anxiety digging into the redhead’s heart, the chips in his stomach now roiling, Seven drew a deep breath. “Vanderwood?” his voice sounded thready even to him, and he cleared his throat. “Vanderwood, you there?”
Silence and the hiss of the open channel.
Silence that dragged on and on and on and on and–
The cough that sounded in Seven’s earpiece was the best noise he had ever heard, he thought. “Vanderwood, talk to me,” he said, already moving towards the front of the van, shoving things out of his way as he went. “Hey– Hey, Vanderwood!”
A rasping breath was audibly drawn, the sound more akin to a pained hiss. “Hey, Seven.” Vanderwood’s voice was strained, weak, so different from his normally perfectly controlled tone. “Guess I, uh…got found out, huh?” The forced humour fell flat, a pained sound following.
Sliding behind the steering wheel, Seven swore as his shaking fingers failed to turn the keys in the ignition the first time. “Hold on, I’m coming to get you, okay?” he stated, the ignition finally catching. “Just– Just stay where you are, I’ll be right there!”
“Not like I can – ah, fuck – really go annywhere…” There was an attempt at a laugh, Seven though, that quickly turned into a fit of coughing. “Shit, sorry, Seven, I, uh…” Vanderwood’s voice trailed off, breathing laboured. “Listen, I’m…’m glad you’re my partner, y’know that?” Words had begun to slur together, syllables liquid and moulding into something haphazard.
“Shut up.” Seven’s voice was sharp, the order instantaneous, as the vice-like grip of dread clenched around his heart once more. “Don’t talk like that.” Seven swore under his breath as he swerved around a slow moving vehicle, speedometer slowly creeping up. He white-knuckled the steering wheel, jaw set, heart pounding in his chest. “You do not get to talk like this right now, got it? Not now, not ever–”
“No, lis-listen. Seven. ‘t’s bad, and I can’t…” Unsaid words hung heavy in the space between them, the quiet hiss of the open channel underlining a silent statement. “I’m just proud of you, is all,” – and here, a sharp hiss, a moment where a laboured bread was drawn – “and I’m glad we’re…we’re friends. ‘m glad I…I got to meet you, d’spite all this shit.”
That simple statement felt like a gunshot wound of its own, Seven thought, furiously blinking away the prickling in his eyes. Not now, not now, of all times! He sucked in a slow breath, focusing on the task at hand: getting to Vanderwood in the shortest amount of time possible, a ten minute drive turned into four. “Shut the hell up,” Seven snapped, words as sharp as those awful cold claws burrowed into his chest. “I said we are not doing this!”
Slamming the brakes on, throwing the gear shift into park, Seven did not care about any parking – or traffic – laws that may have been broken. Parked behind the building, Seven was content enough with the cover, and, slamming the van door behind him, he hurried to the emergency exit.
“Tell me where you are,” Seven demanded, beginning to try and open the locked door. His hands were still shaking, adrenaline feeling like electricity in his veins, and he kicked the door in frustration. “Vanderwood! Answer me!”
There was a long pause, too long, and Seven felt his heart beginning to sink. I’m too late. I’m too late, I was too slow, and he’s– He was alone. I let him go in alone and he died alone and– A tightness began to grow in his throat, and the redhead fought it back, breathing slowly.
“‘m here.” Vanderwood’s voice was rough, and Seven’s heart leapt. “Still alive. In th’...emergency stairwell.” His words were tense, short and clipped, and Seven nodded, forgetting for a moment that Vanderwood couldn’t see him.
“Right. I’ll be right there.”
Frustration gave way to determination as Seven once again tried to unlock the back door without success. Drawing a deep breath, adrenaline coursing through him, Seven attempted to kick the door in, just like he had seen Vanderwood do a few times.
No dice.
Drawing a deep breath, he tried again, this time twisting to give himself a little more force as he kicked where the lock resided, right below the doorknob. Vanderwood had said that was the weakest part of the door, which didn’t seem right, but he had to give it a try, just one more try, then he would–
There was the sound of something cracking, and the door swung open.
“...Huh.” Seven blinked, and, with a renewed sense of purpose, he rushed inside, his own weapon drawn at his side.
The sound of Seven’s footsteps echoed in the empty entranceway as he turned to find himself looking up a flight of stairs. Drawing a deep breath, he began to carefully make his way up, keeping a watchful eye out as he did so.
It was on the landing of the seventh floor that Seven heard something above him: a rusting of movement, and a quiet groan of pain that was quickly stifled. Picking up his pace, Seven took the steps two at a time, making it up to the eighth landing, where a bloodied Vanderwood awaited him.
Backed into the corner of the landing, one hand holding a gun rather unsteadily and the other pressed to his abdomen, Vanderwood sat on the ground, covered in blood and breathing shallowly. His skin was pale, sweat beading his brow, and a wan smile turning into a grimace as he caught sight of Seven.
“Hey, stranger, took you long enough,” Vanderwood greeted him: the bloodied agent looked and sounded like a shadow of himself. Blood was smeared across the floor, a dead security guard laying crumpled at the foot of the steps, and Seven could see the lump of another one on the landing above them.
“You made a mess, Vanderwood,” Seven said, forcing lightness into his tone as he knelt next to his partner. “How bad is it?”
Vanderwood shrugged, the muscles of his jaw tensing at the simple motion. “Bad enough,” he managed, “‘t’s…a lot of blood. Bullet got me while I was movin’, and it…tore.” He grimaced at the last statement, swallowing hard. “But you got here fast, how -- how many traffic laws did you break?”
Vanderwood’s weak attempt at humour made Seven’s stomach churn. The gravity of the situation made it all the more warped; for Vanderwood to be attempting to make him smile…
No, best not to think like that.
“Oh, you know,” Seven replied, forcing himself to smile, though his brow furrowed against his wishes. “At least two or three.”
“Damn,” Vanderwood mumbled, “only two or three?” An attempt was made at what was supposed to be a smile, but it came out more like a baring of teeth, brows pinching together as Vanderwood’s skin grew paler. “Ah, fuck, listen—“
“Shut up.” Seven’s tone was uncharacteristically sharp, and he held up a hand. He knew his partner well enough — hell, he better, after they’d been working togetofr for a few years. “Don’t even try telling me to leave.”
The unspoken: no one dies today.
“Bossy.” Vanderwood coughs out what may have been a laugh, at one point, his eyes glassy. “I don’t think y’can move me.”
“Didn’t I tell you to shut up?” Seven chewed on his lip, forcing himself to think logically. One step at a time, one moment at a time: break it down. That was always the best way to do things.
Don’t get too into your own head.
Jacket removed, Seven lifted Vanderwood’s hand from where it had been pressed to his side, blood soaking shirt and skin alike. “This is going to hurt,” Seven said, and, with little delicacy, the jacket was turned into a makeshift bandage, tied tight across Vanderwood’s abdomen. A hiss of pain accompanied it, Vanderwood’s jaw working as eyes were squeezed shut, and Seven pretended he didn’t see the tears.
“Can you stand?” Seven asked, already knowing what his partner would say.
“‘Course.”
This, of course, was a lie.
Vanderwood’s arm slung over Seven’s shoulders, Seven’s arm wrapped around his waist, it was slow going to make it down even one flight of stairs. Vanderwood was pressed into Seven’s side, the redhead carrying the majority of his weight: Seven tried to not think about the fact Vanderwood’s breathing kept catching, sharp intakes of air that punctuated every step. He did not complain, not once, though Seven could feel the tension in his frame, like a bowstring about to snap.
“Fuck it,” Seven mumbled, and, at the next landing, he paused. “I’m going to carry you.” It was a statement of fact, not an asking for permission, though, at this point, he wasn’t entirely sure that Vanderwood even heard him — his eyes were glazed over, and, even as Seven held him up, he swayed.
Scooping Vanderwood off his feet, holding him to his chest, Seven and Vanderwood made their way down the rest of the emergency escape. The unattended broken door that greeted Seven at the ground floor felt like an old friend, almost, a sign that yes, things just might be alright, despite the odds.
(Despite the fact he could feel Vanderwood’s blood starting to soak through the jacket.)
Pushing through the door that hung ajar, seeing the vehicle outside, Seven fumbled with the handle of the passenger’s door, suddenly very glad that he hadn’t thought to lock it before rushing inside. Unceremoniously, he deposited Vanderwood inside, mumbling an apology at the low groan of pain. “We just have to make it to the safe house,” he told Vanderwood, though he was as much talking to himself as his partner. “Then— We’re going to be alright.” You’re going to be alright.
“Uh-huh,” as the only response Seven got, Vanderwood’s eyes closed as he leaned his head back against the seat.
The drive to the safe house was a blur. Seven could not remember if he broke traffic laws, if he tried to be inconspicuous; it didn’t matter, really. None of it mattered.
All that mattered was the destination, and the fact he had to make it there as soon as possible. That he had to keep talking to Vanderwood, and bothering him to keep him awake. That if this ended badly, then…
It wouldn’t end badly.
They deserved better.
They deserved a happy ending, even if it had to be carved with blood and bone.
Unlocking the door to the safe house, then running back to the vehicle. Getting Vanderwood out of the vehicle (oh, god, the bloodstains), and into the safe house. To the bed. Searching for the damn first aid kit, which wasn’t where it should have been, who fucking laid this shit out?! He’d chew them out later, because if it says first aid kit, the damn thing should be there, in case of emergencies, emergencies like this, where Seven prayed that he remembered how to stitch wounds because his mind felt like static—
Calm down. One thing at a time.
Returning to Vanderwood’s side, Seven felt a mixture of anxiety and relief at the fact Vanderwood had passed out. At least he shouldn’t feel this, Seven reassured himself, as he set to disinfecting and stitching.
“Don’t be mad if it’s shitty,” Seven said to the unhearing Vanderwood, “not all of us can be the best at this, okay?”
Stitches completed, bandage in place, and the bloodstained sheets thrown out, all Seven could do was wait — and that, he decided, was its own special brand of torment. The purgatory of not knowing, of uncertainty, of what-ifs and if-I-hads.
Nervous hands worried loose threads on the safe house’s sofa, disassembled and reassembled his own gun, gaze jumping between the task at hand and Vanderwood’s unconscious form. If he looked away for too long, if he stopped checking, then— How would he know if Vanderwood kept breathing?
At some point, Seven fell into an uneasy sleep, adrenaline finally draining away and leaving him feeling empty. Despite his best efforts, the clawing hands of dreams took him, though they offered no respite from the anxieties that plagued him.
________
It was the early morning sunlight streaming through the blinds that pulled Vanderwood from blissful unconsciousness, much to his displeasure. He blinked, squinting against the sudden light, his head pounding as he tried to get his bearings. He was… He was…
He was not dead, Vanderwood realized, as he tried to move and his entire body gave a vehement denial in the form of a wave of pain washing over him.
“Ow.” Eloquently voicing his displeasure, Vanderwood realized his throat was dry, which was followed by the realization that somehow, against all logic, he was in the safe house.
“Good morning!” Seven’s familiar voice greeted him, as bright as ever — though, even through the fog of pain and general discomfort, Vanderwood noticed a certain manner of strain. “How’re you feeling, huh?”
Vanderwood mustered a wan smile, turning his head in the direction of Seven’s voice, finding him sitting in a chair next to the bedside. “Not dead,” he croaked, “and thirsty.”
Seven was already reaching for a bottle of water that stood on the nightstand, fussing with it a moment as he unscrewed the cap. “Here,” he said, raising the bottle to Vanderwood’s lips, which, after attempting to raise his arm to insist he was fine, Vanderwood decided was a good idea. Moving too much — at all, really — felt like… Well, something bad. Metaphors weren’t coming to him too easily.
Swallowing water, which tasted like ambrosia if ambrosia had a slight plastic aftertaste, Vanderwood took as deep a breath as he dared. “…Help me sit up,” he said.
“What—? Are you sure that’s a good idea?” Seven protested. “I had to patch you up, you know! And it wasn’t easy!”
Vanderwood mustered his most glacial glare — not up to his normal standards, of course, but it seemed to do the job as Seven piled a few pillows behind him and helped him sit at least a bit more semi-upright.
“Thank you,” Vanderwood said, though he was beginning to regret his request. His whole body ached, and he was a little lightheaded, but laying down made him feel like he was on his deathbed.
(There was a joke there, but it felt too soon, Vanderwood thought.)
“Hey, Seven,” Vanderwood began, looking away from his partner. “I…wanted to apologize.”
“Hah—? What, why?” Seven opened his mouth to continue, but Vanderwood shot him a look, and Seven fell silent.
“Would you let me finish, Jesus…” Vanderwood rolled his eyes, though the familiarity of this all caused a small smile to tug at his lips. “I was…careless, and I put you into danger because of it.”
Seven did not reply for a long moment, studying Vanderwood before he spoke. “I wasn’t in danger,” he finally says, “but you almost died.”
Vanderwood went to wave a hand dismissively, but thought better of it – it wasn’t worth the pain.
“You almost died,” Seven repeated, the gravity of the word almost enough for its own solar system. “And I…” He paused, something unsaid – something that should never be said – hanging in the air between them. “Don’t do that again, alright?”
Vanderwood settled for nodding, looking away from Seven as he did so. Those golden eyes, those familiar golden eyes, were too searching, and Vanderwood felt that sometimes Seven could see straight through him, to his very soul.
(Right now, he was afraid of what Seven might see.)
Swallowing hard, Vanderwood studied the blanket that covered him: surprisingly blood free, he thought, fingers worrying the duvet cover. He should reply, he thinks, he should say something, anything, thank Seven for saving his life, for not leaving him to die: but to put it into words, to acknowledge the gravity of it once more…
“I’m too stubborn to die,” he finally says, still not looking at his partner. “You know that.”
His words got the desired response, Seven huffing out a quiet laugh.
Comfortable silence fell between them, Vanderwood closing his eyes. He felt safe, in this moment, safe and as comfortable as a man who should be dead can be.
“...Hey, Vanderwood?”
An indeterminate amount of time having passed, Vanderwood cracked an eye open and tilted his head towards Seven. “Hm?”
“So, did you mean all that you said, before?” A teasing lil coloured Seven’s words, and Vanderwood couldn’t help but stifle a (admittedly mildly amused) groan.
“What are you talking about?” Vanderwood asked, though he knew full well what Seven was referring to. (God, certainly it was in a moment of weakness, to put it lightly, but he had a feeling that Seven was not going to let it go.)
Seven’s smile was bright, impish glint at home in his sunset-golden eyes. “When you said you were glad that we had met, of course, silly! What else would I be talking about, huh?”
Vanderwood shook his head, sighing. “The ramblings of a man suffering major blood loss,” he stated, fighting a losing battle against a smile that quirked his lips. “Don’t look too deeply into it, Seven.”
“Ooooh?” A pout slid onto Seven’s face, the exaggerated expression accentuated by him cupping his own cheeks. “Ow, my heart, Vandy! I’ll never recover!”
“...Don’t call me that.” A roll of Vanderwood’s eyes accompanied his response, the ghost of a smile still playing about his lips. It was amazing, really, how despite it all, despite the fact he felt death brush against him, how Seven could still make him smile.
“Awww, Vandyyyyy…”
The bickering, familiar and natural, eased an unnoticed knot in Vanderwood’s chest, made the pain feel far away, at least for a moment. For now, at least, they were alright. They were safe, and they were together: the tiny safe house, lit by golden sunlight, was a haven, a haven just for them, and, for now, that was enough.