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Ethan walks him through the safe house — gun here, keys to the car parked up a couple of blocks away here, spare magazine and a flashbang in case of fire, first-aid kit there, money and documents here, bed's through there, but you're sleeping on the sofa in the living room. Anyway. Relax, make yourself at home. Will obediently relaxes for about five minutes, sprawled on the sofa, which is too short and too narrow, while Ethan checks his email, checks the situation and tries to get word to Benji that they're up to their necks in it again. Will breathes out, makes himself get up off the sofa and as far as the kitchen, shedding on the way his jacket, which reeks of smoke, blood and gunpowder — the traditional bouquet, you could make an aftershave for real men out of it, call it EthanH or something along those lines. Will works hard at not thinking while he brews the dreadful tea he's found in the kitchen cupboard and takes stock of the supplies, which consist of cereal, a tin of tuna, pasta and a piece of fossilised cheese. He analysed everything he could on the way here; he knows they can't show themselves anywhere, can't even go out to the shop, for the next two days, better three. He also knows Ethan won't sit that long inside four walls, that by evening he'll be climbing said walls out of boredom — all those leaves spent climbing in the mountains have to be good for something — and by morning he'll simply be gone. And Will won't hold him. Not unless he comes up with something effective enough.
While Will is busy in the kitchen Ethan manages a shower. They aren't exactly flush with spare clothes, so Hunt comes out wrapped in a neon pink towel. Will looks him over thoughtfully; nothing escapes him, not the scars, not the drops of water, not the fact that Ethan is studying him just as closely in return.
"You're in good shape," Brandt says. "For a veteran."
"You're not bad yourself. For an analyst."
Will goes into the bathroom, putting his thoughts in order, washing off the caked blood and the tiredness. Ethan gets the last word, but something else matters more to Will just now. He climbs out of the shower, catches one more attentive, tenacious look from Ethan and thinks that he might know how to make him spend a couple of days without putting his nose out of the door.
...
Second time round the tea seems worse than the first, too hot, too strong and bitter enough to lock his jaw. Will chokes under the gaze of Ethan, halted in the doorway.
"What?"
Hunt shakes his head.
"Your kettle's boiled."
...
"What?" Will asks again half an hour later. They're in bed and he is, generally speaking, intending to fuck Ethan in such a way that it won't occur to him to go running off anywhere. For the next eight hours at least. Though, knowing Ethan...
"That. Exactly that," Hunt says, grinning broadly. "If you don't stop fucking your own brains" — Ethan pulls Will in and whispers into his ear, hot enough to send a shiver down his spine — "instead of fucking me..."
"Then what?" Will picks it up. It sounds more like flirting than he'd like, but they haven't been playing chess for the last half hour and he's so wound up his toes are curling.
"I'll treat you like a temperamental beauty," Ethan says, and moves to meet him, taking Brandt's cock all the way in. "I'll start singing serenades, taking you to the opera, sending you flowers..."
Will stops listening after that, it's that good. And he really does forget to think about anything at all except Ethan. Which appears to suit Ethan perfectly well.
...
"You've got an original approach to serenades," a sleepy Will recalls the next morning, finding a half-naked Hunt in the kitchen, purring something about how somebody won't forget him for the rest of their life.
Ethan snorts.
"I was going to start with breakfast in bed."
"Then you should have started about five minutes ago, while I was still asleep and the eggs weren't burnt yet."
It takes Will a moment to work out that there were no eggs in the fridge.
"How long have you been up?" He honestly tries to keep his tone level, but if Hunt has shown his face somewhere...
"Fifteen minutes," Ethan says, shrugging, running water into the pan with the cinders of breakfast in it. "Just long enough to take the shopping off the courier and—"
"—burn our breakfast." Will lets out his breath and laughs at his own suspicion.
"I can offer you something better." Ethan draws him closer by the waistband of his jeans and gives him a look, promising and a little sly. Will is hard from that look alone, and when Ethan kisses him and goes down on his knees the last of Will’s thoughts leave his head.
The day passes between the bedroom and the kitchen. Once they even try out the sofa, rolling off onto the floor in the process. After that Will flatly refuses to fuck anywhere outside the bed, because — he says exactly this to Ethan, while Ethan works over Will's injured back almost professionally — they aren't teenagers who can't manage ten meters for the blue balls. Although Will reminds himself of precisely that, a teenager who has suddenly got at the object of his secret infatuation, mindlessly happy about what's happening and at the same time in a panic that it might all end entirely without warning. The next morning, for instance.
But nothing ends. The next morning Ethan doesn't run off anywhere at all; he's snuffling peacefully on the pillow beside Will, holding his hand in a possessive grip.
And the day after that nothing ends either. In the end Will relaxes — even if it all falls apart later, why not try starting something today. Maybe it won't last long. Maybe it'll last for the rest of his life.