Chapter Text
Bitter. Everything is so… bitter. From the blackcurrant drink in his hand, to the nauseatingly brilliant glow of the all-too-extravagant chandeliers, to the flowing waves of gowns, to the immaculate dress suits. He’s just so bitter .
There’s a crackling in his ears, “Agent Lester, that better be your first drink,” a voice reprimands. Phil barely restrains his scoff.
“Gimme a break,” He mutters into the glimmering drink. His mask glitters beneath countless vibrant lights when he takes a sip. He would usually get some fruity cocktail, but these business parties are always dreary, and he has to fit in to remain inconspicuous.
Cobalt blue eyes flit around the golden-lit room. There are couples dancing gracefully on the embellished marble floors, fluidly weaving through the soft chimes floating through the air. Clusters of people clutch crisp amber drinks and sparkling flutes of champagne in jeweled hands as they murmur on grand staircases, covered by velvety-red layers of satin.
Maybe not so dreary; although, it won’t be easy to find a culprit in this crowd. Masquerade balls are particularly tricky, with all the damned masks hiding anyone and everyone's true identities. He was barely able to recognize himself when he wore his own royal blue mask, lined with silver studs. Phil sighs and drinks another sip. Blue… it matches your eyes , Louise had told him before pressing it into his hands.
Speaking of Louise, “Someone’s approaching from behind, Lester. Tall - probably ‘s tall as you - black mask, black suit -”
“Here for the food too, I see,” An articulate, unfamiliar voice has Phil’s head turning. He catches a glance: tall, like Louise had said, and wearing all black. His eyes are big and brown behind his jet black mask, and his suit perfectly fits him; it’s like he was made for it. It outlines the curves of his shoulders, and his arms - his suit isn’t skin tight, but tight enough so that the it outlines the curve of his bicep when he moves - down to the prim waist, to the long, long legs, and his thighs dizzyingly fill up his -
“My eyes are up here, sir,” the man purrs, a dimple poking into his cheek as he smirks. Phil’s face floods with mortifying heat. And maybe another kind of heat because of that voice, and he certainly does not want to analyze the tug of heat he felt when he heard the word “sir” roll from the man’s mouth.
“Uh-” Phil rips his gaze away from the gorgeous man in front of him, despite the warning bells ringing in his head, “Yuh - yes. Parties were never really my thing…” he clears his throat. There's a nonverbal agreement to ignore how Phil was just blatantly checking out the man before him. They can forget about that, right?
At Phil’s comment though, the man’s eyes widen slightly, and Phil guesses his eyebrow is raising behind his inky mask. A mask that fits delicately against the curve of his cheek, irritatingly obscuring his identity. He can still see the dimples when he smiles though, “What’s a young man like you doing here, anyway?” mystery man muses as he reaches for a warm roll of bread. His hands are large - they could probably encase the whole roll if he wanted to.
“I could ask you the same,” Phil mumbles around the lip of his glass, avoiding the man’s burning gaze, as well as his own increasingly concerning thoughts. Evading questions has always come naturally to him; it's probably why he's part of this damned mission in the first place. “Besides,” He continues, glancing back towards the man, “you're definitely younger than me.”
The man chuckles, “You really think so?” Those doe eyes are piercing into his own. Even though Phil is wearing a mask, he still feels oddly exposed. Before he can analyze the feeling, the eyes are shifting down, roving over Phil’s body, which has Phil’s stomach violently jumping to his throat. He barely hears the man’s words over the rushing in his ears, “You can't be older than… 30.”
Phil finally huffs out a laugh. He knows his face is tinted pink by the infuriating warmness he feels, “Well,” he starts as swirls the dark liquid in his glass. Why are they discussing his age, again?
He hears a gasp, “No way! You're older than 30?” Phil meets his eyes again, and something blazes within the ocher depths.
Is this man into older people? Phil quirks an eyebrow, “Maybe,” he shrugs, staring into the warmth of the man’s eyes.
“ Damn. ” The word is uttered at such a low, wonderfully velvet frequency that Phil feels something akin to a spark run up his spine - there's no way it's legal to talk like that in public, in this elegant gathering, amidst all these posh people. And really, can this man be any less subtle with his staring? Phil almost wants to return the my eyes are up here comment , but he finds the words trapped in his throat. He internally cries as he watches the man’s teeth sink into the enticing curve of blood-bitten lips. As he drags his eyes away from the supple lips, over to hazel orbs, he has a sudden urge to rip the man’s mask off. He wants to see it. He wants to see the rest of his face, he wants to see if it's as gorgeous as he thinks - it's just curiosity. He's itching to take it off. Phil’s heart is pounding in his chest for an absurd reason, and air fizzles with unbearable heat.
The mystery man then promptly shoves the bread roll in his mouth… his unusually large, wide mouth, probably perfectly capable - no , no, no, he can’t go there. Phil clears his throat again and looks away. Again. He’s on a mission. A damn mission. The next sip he gulps down is cool in his parched throat, but it probably doesn’t help his easily-flushable cheeks.
Then he's jolted by the static in his ear, “Phil! We think someone might be tailing you. Act normal.”
Act normal? Phil angles his face away and looks pointedly at the golden rolls of bread. He has a million questions racing through his mind, but the one that surfaces is: “how?”
“Bloody hell, I dunno…” Louise mutters gracefully. There's a pause. He can hear rustling noises, soft whisperings, “...es! That'll work. Get on the dance floor, Phil. You’ll be well hidden there.” Phil’s mind reels.
“You are one picky eater, aren't you?” The smooth voice filters through his ears, cutting through his inner turmoil. Phil tears his gaze away from the golden rolls to meet the man’s eyes. They're honest eyes. Phil must look more confused than he thinks because the man rushes to explain, “You've been staring quite intently at those for a while.” He gestures to the glowing bread and pops the last bite into his mouth.
“I- oh- yes.” Phil plasters a smile to his face as his heart ricochets through his chest. Why is this man still talking to him? How does he get on the dance floor without looking suspicious? How will he ever get to the dance floor in the first place? A distraction - he needs a distraction. Phil chews on his lip. “Actually, I'm not hungry,” he finally decides to say. Louise is gabbling up a storm in his ear, but he can't hear it because the man is apparently loud too:
“ Not hungry?! ” The offended voice rings clearly in the air, and Phil nearly huffs out an irritated sigh.
At this rate he’ll have a pounding headache by the time the night is over. And maybe a few bullet wounds too. Who knows? Finally, Louise’s voice floods into his ear, “With him!” She hisses, “Dance with him! ”
Phil freezes. Who? he wants to ask, but he already knows. There’s no one else here. His hand tightens around the cool condensation of the glass. He’s far too sober for this. On that thought, he promptly downs the rest of his drink and winces as he slams the glass onto the spotless table-cloth with a hollow thunk . A shiver passes through his spine. The drink was stronger than he expected. He feels the man’s curious gaze on him, and he’s definitely not as sober as he thought because his hand is reaching out and yanking on the man’s bread-warmed fingers, and they’re suddenly pressed together, and they’re so, so close. The man’s dark chocolate eyes are wide, his chest rising and falling unevenly. Phil stares down at the motion for a moment before flicking his eyes back up to the round orbs. Mystery man is slightly taller than him, maybe by an inch.
“Dance with me?” Phil breathes. By this time, he already knows he's carved a path to torture. He thinks the face in front of him turns pink for a split-second, but it’s back to normal in a flash. Yet, something curls in his chest when he notices the bright red hue of the man’s ears. And once again, Phil's hit with the urge to rip the mask of. He wants to see the spread of rosiness on his cheeks. He wants to know if his cheekbones are really as high as they seem. Does he have freckles? Is he really blushing? Is he-
“My pleasure,” the man whispers, his breath hot over Phil’s lips. Phil abruptly turns away before he does something terribly uncalled for, and he marches them over to the marble floors. He can hear the devilish grin in the man's voice, “I hope you can dance.” Phil glances behind him to see his brown eyes sparkling beneath the glowing lights.
“Of course I can dance,” Phil shoots back flippantly, “I’ll bet I dance better than you, at least,” he tightens his hand around the man’s wrist. The monochrome flashbacks of the merciless dance practices invade his mind. Dancing… It was a required skill to become a secret agent - a skill that's paying off right now.
When the man chuckles, his breath fans over Phil’s ear, “Is that a challenge?”
Phil shrugs, stopping at the beginning of the sea of interwoven couples. Inexplicably, his heart starts pounding. He looks to the left and then back around to the twinkling eyes, “Only if you want it to be.”
“I'm Dan,” the man introduces, apropos of nothing, as he clasps his hands around Phil’s neck. Dan. The eyebrows behind the black mask raise in inquisition, “And what shall I call you, good sir?”
Phil’s lip quirks without his consent, and he rolls his eyes as he firmly snakes his arm around Dan’s waist. Dan’s other hand finds his own and gently clasps onto it. Ah, ballroom dancing. “Just call me… daddy.” What the hell? Where did that come from? Damn, he’s definitely more drunk than he thinks. He means it as a joke, of course, but he's rendered speechless by the crimson that creeps beneath Dan’s mask.
Dan soon regains his composure though; he presses closer to the planes of Phil’s body and they continue to side step into the crowd, “You sure, daddy?”
Phil's stomach surges, but he can feel his cheeks strain against the edge of his mask when he smiles. It's probably his first real smile of the day. “Fine, fine,” he relents, “call me… Greg.” Honestly, it was the first name Phil thought of. Dan snorts, but doesn't say anything, bless him. His body is warm and firm, and he smells like a delicious mix of pine and some kind of spice - maybe nutmeg or cinnamon - and he can feel the vessels in his blood vibrating together in anticipation. For what? His mind fogs over, and his body moves on autopilot. Phil silently thanks his terrifying dance classes. Dan fits so well in his hands, and he’s pliant in his grip. Phil feels light-headed when they spin into the crowd, and he knows it’s not from all the spinning.
Dan’s mask is galaxy black, drawing Phil in like a black hole. In the new lighting, the shiny black expanse shimmers with every movement, catching and reflecting flashes of the brilliant radiance of the room. His thumb flickers over his collar and burns over the paleness of Phil’s skin. When he hears the velvety voice again, the butterflies that have erupted in Phil’s stomach suddenly swoop into his chest.
“So, Greg.” Dan tightens his hand on Phil’s shoulder, and Phil restrains himself from bursting into laughter at the ridiculous name.
He bites his tongue, hoping his face isn’t as red as it feels, “Hmm?” Phil meets the dark depths of Dan’s eyes.
“You never answered my question,” Dan reminds, his breath warm on Phil’s face. Phil can only stare at Dan, into those oddly honest, intense eyes. Golden lights swim in the background, and his vision whirls as they get pushed further into the crowd of couples. Pearls of light spill from the gaps between the chandeliers and drip over the slope of Dan’s cheeks, and flicker into his eyes, and dance onto the swell of his lower lip - Phil has an urge to lick them off, but he forces himself to rip his eyes away from the tempting lips so that his gaze is leveled with Dan’s eyes. Eyes that are staring intently at him from behind his glittery mask. And his hands - his hands feel too good on him, and he’s already forgotten what Dan’s said to him.
“Sorry, what?” Phil musters. No, he didn’t forget the question because he’s too distracted. He has short term memory loss. That’s gotta be it. Phil internally sighs. He’s on a mission right now. He needs to focus, more than anything else.
“Y’know, only old businessmen come to these kind of events,” The brown eyes detach from Phil’s gaze to look around at the people besides them. Phil follows his gaze - after ogling a bit too long at Dan’s beautiful mask-covered side-profile - and sees the colorful flashes of swaying gowns, and older couples murmuring to each other, swimming in the musical notes. Dan’s voice breaks him from his reverie, “What’s your excuse?”
Phil’s grip tightens on Dan’s waist, and those eyes widen behind the irritating mask. “Wouldn’t you like to know,” Phil grunts. He’s hit with Dan’s natural scent again and his eyes flutter without his consent.
“Well, yeah, actually, that’s why I -”
“For now, just dance, princess,” Phil deflects, his thumb smoothing over the small of Dan’s back in a manner that’s almost intimate. And wow, he really is drunk, isn’t he. He’s drunk on Dan’s hands, and the twirling, and the contact, and the burning, and the heat, and the lights, and the mask, and the sparkling eyes, and his smooth, smooth voice, and… he’s drunk. His words seem to shut Dan up though, judging by the slight hitch in his breath. For some reason, it floods Phil with heat - heat that he does not want to analyze.
The song shifts suddenly. It's mellow, and slow, and maybe a little too sensual for Phil, but he has no choice but to stay on the damned floor. Dan, however, takes the initiative to lock his hands around Phil’s neck, pressing impossibly closer. He can probably feel Phil’s sharp intake of breath because of their closeness.
He didn’t sign up for this. He didn’t sign up for this electric heat that sears over his skin and simmers low in his stomach. Dan’s breath his hot over his ear, and a shudder passes down his spine. His hands are like hot brands into Phil’s flushed skin. And Dan wasn’t lying when he said he could dance, because he can, and it’s intoxicating and simply unfair . They’re so close; Phil just has to turn his head to the side, and he could probably kiss the lights out of him and his tempting lips. Just a turn of the head. Not to mention, the soft symphony of chimes and string percussion simply add to the blooming heat spreading through his chest, where his heart is thudding. And maybe it’s some form of payback, but he can feel the drag of Dan’s thumb on his pale skin, which has Phil gripping his hips even harder. When he feels a puff of warm air beside his ear again, he doesn’t even try to hide his smirk.
Phil would’ve been content with staying in that blissfully tortured moment forever, but alas, all good things come to an end, right? The only warning he gets is the subtle tightening of Dan’s hands around his neck, and the whoosh of air sucked past his ear. Then he’s suddenly sprawled on top of Dan, his forearms braced around his head. His ears ring and his vision swims. People are swarming around, cries of chaotic strings spewing from their lips. The lights are flickering. An unsynchronized thudding of shoes and clacking of heels thunder in his ears.
“...ou okay?” Dan’s voice sounds distant, but Phil is jolted by the gentle hand that cups his face. A warm, tender thumb smooths over his jaw, to the top of his mask, over his cheekbone. Phil’s blurred vision clears to see doe-eyes peering up at him. Their eyes lock briefly before Dan glances aside to see the commotion. The sequins in Dan’s mask sparkle as he turns his head, and the column of his neck is long and smooth, and the top of his collarbone peeks out beneath his white-collared shirt. Phil has an absurd urge to sink his teeth into the soft-looking skin, or to bury his head in the crook of Dan’s neck and inhale . After some difficulty (and some internal berating), Phil drags his eyes away from the entrancing man before him. There’s a cloud of gray smoke billowing in his hazy vision, around the swishing of gold, and pink, and red, and green, shimmering robes.
An explosion. It was an explosion. Phil’s heart hammers in his throat. He needs to leave. Louise is yelling directions in his ear, and he needs to leave. Dan’s hand leaves his face, and Phil feels Dan press a piece of paper to his chest. His heart is blundering beneath Dan’s palm. Phil barely catches the haphazard numbering on the crumpled paper- Dan’s number. Dan’s hand is warm when it grazes over his breast pocket. Phil sucks in a breath when Dan tucks in the piece of paper and pats it twice, and then his thumb presses over the spot where his nipple should be, in a similar manner that it smoothed over his face. It stays there for longer than normally appropriate.
“Feel something you like?” Phil drawls, quirking an eyebrow. His stomach squirms, did I really say that aloud? He can still feel the spike of heat in his gut when Dan chuckles, and Phil watches his ears gradually tint deep red. Phil wonders if he’s a similar shade of red behind his mask. He suddenly wishes Dan’s mask had fallen off in the chaos.
But then Dan is on his feet in a second, pulling Phil up by the hand. The touch lingers, and Phil’s heart stops when he feels a warm breath wash over the prickling skin of the back of his hand, and before he can stop it, Dan is pressing a soft kiss over the pale ridges. It's feather-light, yet searing into his skin. His brain short-circuits. The chaotic sounds drum down to a low murmur, and Phil’s breath hitches, his heart bursting in his throat as Dan’s velvety voice shudders over the crevices of his knuckles, “It was lovely meeting you, sir,” he looks at Phil from beneath his lashes - his long lashes, casting shadows over his inky mask, and then he’s gone with the last appearance of a dimple, and Phil is left there, his skin tingling all over. He’s gone with just a simple turn, swept into the crowd. Phil’s hand burns at his side, where he can feel the soft touch of Dan’s lips there, imprinted onto his hand forever. He can barely hear the static voice of Louise over the blood gushing in his ears.
“... Lester? Agent Lester? Goddamnit, Lester, get a hold of yourself!”
Phil blinks, and shakes away his fogged daze, “Fuck,” he mutters eloquently, “Sorry, what’s the plan, Louise?”
***
The embellished, oaken double-doors are heavy when he pushes them open. Dan steps out into the frigid air. His breath puffs out in misty swirls as he brisk-walks over shiny, crunchy gravel. Spine wrenching with anxiety, he takes a deep breath of the cool night air. It prickles his nose and waters his eyes. His deft fingers are numb as he fishes for his burner phone. He’s still striding away from the extravagant building, but glancing behind him, he can barely catch the small plume of smoke rising from the large structure, glooming its grandeur.
He presses the burner phone to his ear, and after one beep, there’s a curt response. Dan barely hears it past the blood boiling in his brain, “Adam, where the fuck are you,” he hisses. His footsteps clunk along the pavement as he turns into a narrow alleyway. Outside of the shadows, the lamplight illuminates the small particles of mist hovering in the air.
“Dan, calm dow -”
“I don’t need any of your ‘calm down’ bullshit,” Dan snaps, “These guys are professional. They’re probably onto me already.”
Dan hears a scoff, “Dan, stop being so paranoid.”
Dan restrains himself from flinging the flimsy phone at the wall. Instead, he clutches it in a shaking grip, “Fucking hell, Adam. Next time I’ll be the puppetmaster in the back, and we’ll see how you like that, yeah?” Dan nearly spits, venomous, “How does that sound?”
“Dan,” Adam sighs, “I already told you the reason for why -”
“Will you two cut it out?” A new voice in the background interrupts their redundant squabbling. “If we need to get out of this alive, both of you need to shut it, like, now.”
Dan lets out a slight sigh of relief once he recognizes the voice. He trusts Veronica far more than Adam, although, “ I ,” he corrects. “If I need to get out of this alive. You guys aren’t even here.”
“Yes, fine,” Veronica huffs, “if Dan needs to get out of this alive, okay?”
Dan is about to grunt a response when he hears distant murmurings of, yeah, I can hear something from there… I’ll go investigate. Dan freezes, his heart pounding in his ears. He can hear the thud of footsteps drawing near.
“Shit,” He mutters, backing against the grimy wall. “Fuck.”
“What’s wrong?” Veronica’s voice sounds slightly more panicked. It’s not reassuring, but it feels better to know that he’s not the only one who’s distressed.
The voice is getting closer. Dan squeezes his eyes and takes a sharp breath before opening them and glaring at the glittering pavement. “I need to get out of here,” Dan whispers, “ now .”
“Okay.” Dan hears heavy breathing on the phone. Veronica’s probably hyperventilating. He can imagine her mussing through her wavy locks of jet-black hair, her usual-tan skin blotchy with sweat. “Okay. Okay, so. Fuck, Dan.” Another series of short breaths. There’s a soft bloody hell , which is probably Adam looking over her shoulder. “It’s a dead-end. You're in a dead-end.”
Dan takes a sharp breath. He starts to fidget. There’s too much nervous energy flowing through his system right now. Not to mention, the adrenaline pumping in his veins has him on edge, apart from the sounds that are drifting closer. His heart jackhammers. “Okay,” Dan manages to say on an exhale, “what do I do.” It’s a demand, not a question.
“Hide,” Adam proposes. His voice sounds distant over the blood roaring in his ears. Dan’s blurred vision sees the yellow light of a flashlight spilling onto the uneven concrete. It’s too late. Dan must’ve said this aloud in his fogged panic, because a shrill Veronica is insistently shrieking in his ear, “It’s not too late!”
Except it is.
“Hey, you there! Freeze!” Dan recognizes that voice. His stomach wriggles. It can't be… “Drop all your weapons. Show me your hands,” the voice commands.
The burner phone clatters noisily onto the wet asphalt. Dan crushes it under his expensive shoe with a satisfying, final crunch . He turns slowly, and sure enough, it’s the same man he had danced with earlier this evening. All porcelain skin behind a shimmery mask, and inky hair quiffed above a pale forehead, and crystal eyes. He meets those bright blue eyes, which have widened to the size of saucers behind the navy blue mask. It’s gleaming silver in the moonlight. The man’s jaw falls open, which has Dan’s lip twitching. It’s certainly not appropriate to smile in this situation, but it can’t be helped. The pure expression of shock that flickers over the man’s features is so surreal and blissful that Dan wishes he had taken a picture of it. It washes away all the previous regrets of the night. This is why he does this job. He lives for the electric adrenaline coursing through his blood, he lives for these priceless reactions, he lives for the chase, he lives for the fight, for the blood, for the fear, for the sweat. It’s simply what he does.
“Dan…?” The stupefied man’s grip is loose on the shiny black barrel of the gun. Dan’s chest surges. It’s his only window of escape. Now! an urgent voice in his mind hisses. Dan knows what he has to do.
He runs.