[fic] Clandestine Affairs (1/?)
Jan. 16th, 2011 07:19 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
acchikocchiSo the last time I had a plotty WIP (four years ago) I committed myself to posting on a regular schedule and lo and behold, I managed to finish it. Let's see if I can replicate that this time.
Clandestine Affairs (1/?)
Characters/Pairings: Cesc Fàbregas, David Silva, David Villa, others (David Silva/David Villa)
Word Count: 13,300 (part)
Rating: R
Summary: Cesc is just a normal guy living a normal student life, until his flat blows up. Secret agent AU.
Notes:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
nahco3 did it first with Protection Detail. You should go read it if you haven't. Unspeakable amounts of gratitude to meretricula, nahco3, winterspel, and anamuan for proofreading, feedback, and encouragement. :)
Later, Cesc would never quite believe how it all started.
All he'd been thinking of, hurrying back from his last lecture, was how much packing he had to do before returning home to Barcelona in two days. He wasn't expecting to turn onto the rundown little street where he rented a room and see what appeared to be the entire population of his building milling around in front of it. He wasn't expecting the two vans emblazoned with a garish "Abramovich Gas & Electric" logo, or the stocky man in blue coverall standing on the front step with a forbidding expression.
And he definitely wasn't expecting to see his tiny, white-haired Barcelonan landlady two inches from the man's face, giving him an emphatic piece of her mind.
"Mrs. Riera?" he said, half-disbelievingly, when he'd fought his way to the front of the crowd and put a hand on her shoulder.
Mid-gesticulation, she peered up at him through an ancient pair of glasses, gasped, and immediately latched onto his arm. "Cesc!" she exclaimed. "Cesc, tell this man he must let me inside!"
"What's going on?" he asked, looking from his landlady to the guard dog and back.
The man's eyes moved over Cesc. He said nothing. Mrs. Riera said in Catalan, nearly quivering with outrage, "These pigs made us evacuate the building and no one will tell us why – fools, they're a gas company, do they think we are stupid? And Honey is inside all alone and terrified."
Cesc suppressed the face he desperately wanted to make. He liked lapdogs as much as the next guy, but Honey – squeaky, slobbery, completely hairless – was more rat than dog. "That's, um, terrible," he said, without conviction.
"It's an outrage! My poor darling, crying all alone in the dark – " She whirled back to the man and resumed her appeal, forgetting in the process to switch back to English. "Listen to me, you piece of – "
"Whoa, whoa, whoa," Cesc interrupted quickly. He put an arm around Mrs. Riera's shoulders. "Come on, let's go talk where it's quieter. You can tell me the whole story." He held his breath. After a minute, Mrs. Riera nodded, and Cesc gently but firmly led her away from steps.
Sorry, he mouthed over his shoulder at the sucker stuck at the entrance. The man watched them go, not a flicker of acknowledgement in his impassive expression.
"Honey – " Mrs. Riera started as soon as they came to a stop, with a wobble in her voice that presaged tears.
"Honey's going to be fine," Cesc said. He lowered his voice. "Listen, we could keep talking with that guy all day and probably get nothing for our trouble except a restraining order. Or..." He paused for effect. "Or, I could slip in from the back and get Honey myself. Quietly. You know."
Mrs. Riera's eyes went wide. Cesc crossed his toes and prayed she wouldn't ask how exactly he was planning to accomplish this.
"Oh, Cesc," she said, "you're such a good boy."
Cesc squirmed. "It's nothing," he said. "Really." She looked on the verge of tears again, so he said, "Okay, I better go now. I'll be right back with Honey, okay?"
She nodded and patted his hand; then, after Cesc cleared his throat, released him from her iron grip.
He drifted away through the crowd toward the edge of the building, where he glanced around and, in what he hoped was an unobtrusive fashion, slipped through the gap between the two identical blocks of flats.
In the alley, the crowd's restless hum was barely audible. Cesc surveyed the back side of the building. There was his window – fifth over, second up. He felt a pleasantly familiar jolt of adrenaline. This, he'd done a million times.
Against the brick wall, directly under his window, stood a rusting metal dumpster. From behind it, Cesc retrieved a long wooden pole that strongly resembled a broom handle in a previous life. He tossed it on top of the dumpster lid and hauled himself up after it. The accompanying clatter echoed hollowly down the alley.
Many nights of practice had made Cesc fairly expert at locating the decaying notch in the wood of the window frame into which he lodged the pole. Oh-so-carefully, he levered it upwards. There was a brief resistance, and the window lurched up in its frame. Cesc permitted himself a silent cheer.
He dropped the pole and bounced lightly on his toes. One short leap and his outstretched hands caught the windowsill; after a moment of scrabbling, his right foot found a toehold against the edge of an uneven brick. He took a deep breath and pulled upward with all his strength. This time his left foot found purchase as he got one elbow hooked on the sill. Another heave; now one arm was all the way over the sill and the other braced against it, and within seconds Cesc was grinning as he wriggled through the window into his room.
Sometimes Cesc felt a little guilty about sneaking around under his landlady's nose, but Mrs. Riera would probably faint dead away in the middle of the kitchen if she knew how late he stayed out. And what she'd do if she knew how he was getting back inside all those nights he told her he was staying over at a friend's place, he didn’t want to know. Everyone was happier this way, really.
Even as he got to his feet and dusted his hands off, he could hear a barrage of high-pitched yaps from the hall. The second he opened the door, he was assaulted by a manic hairless cannonball aimed at his shins, wriggling and yelping and doing its best to absorb itself into Cesc's legs.
"Okay, okay," Cesc said, grinning in spite of himself. "I get it, you like me." He crouched down and picked up Honey, who immediately began slobbering all over his hands. "I know. I'm delicious. Come on, let's get going. You owe one, mutt."
As he stood up, he heard a sound that sounded an awful lot like the rattle of a doorknob.
Cesc went still.
The rattle grew louder. Honey yipped. "Shh," Cesc whispered, and, as quietly as he could, moved forward into the hall.
They weren't in a really bad part of the city, but it was no playground, either. Cesc edged up to the entryway and held his breath –
The door swung open and revealed a dark-haired man in a blue coverall bearing the legend ABRAMOVICH G&E.
"Oh," said Cesc, and for just a minute relaxed, before he remembered he wasn't supposed to be there.
The man was perfectly still, except for the movement of his eyes from Cesc to Honey and back again. He didn't speak; it appeared the sight of Cesc had dumbfounded him.
"Um," Cesc said, and cleared his throat. "Ha ha. I just came back in to pick up my landlady's dog... Sorry, I know we're all supposed to be out of here." No reaction. "I totally won't get in your way, I'm just about to leave again. Don't worry, she doesn't bite."
The man still said nothing. Something in his expression made Cesc uneasy.
"Well," Cesc said, awkwardly. "I'll just – be going now. Okay. Bye."
He swiveled on his heel and retreated – with dignity – to his room. He could feel the man's eyes on his back the whole way. Safely inside, he held Honey up at eye level and made a face at her.
"Five whole months of coming and going," he said to a panting tongue, "and now someone catches me. Real smooth. You better hope they don't report me for trespassing in my own room. I'm not getting arrested my last week in London for you."
Honey barked and tried to lick his face.
"Yeah, yeah," he said. "That's what they all say. Okay, we better get a move on."
He heard the door open and close, and then voices too muffled to make out. Wincing, he tucked Honey under one arm and hurried over to the window. With his free hand, he jammed it up further, so that he could sit on the sill without relinquishing his charge.
He leaned over and eyed the distance to the dumpster below. He'd never done the drop with live cargo before.
The voices were getting louder and more agitated. Cesc could hear clearly enough now to tell they weren't speaking English, or Spanish. Or Catalan.
He didn't want to wait around to identify whatever it was. "Ready?" he said to Honey, and without waiting for an answer, eased himself off the windowsill.
He landed feet-first on the dumpster with a massive ringing clatter, weight driving him down into a crouch. He held it for a split second before toppling over, and as his arms instinctively flapped for balance, Honey wriggled free, bounded to the ground, and scurried away down the alley and out of sight.
"Honey!" Cesc shouted helplessly, too late. The only response was a distant yip.
He groaned. "Great. Just great." He hoped she'd run off to follow Mrs. Riera's scent, or she probably would get mistaken for a giant rat and – Cesc didn't want to think about it.
He rolled over on his stomach and leaned over the edge of the dumpster, fishing for the pole. He'd better tell Mrs. Riera about the workers in her apartment, or she'd probably see their footsteps and think it'd been burglars after all. He glanced idly upward. The voices, at least, had stopped, or quieted enough to be inaudible even through the open window.
Just as the thought flitted across his mind, there was a hoarse shout, and then a sudden, eerie silence.
For some reason, Cesc went still. The back of his neck prickled.
Something told him, Get down.
He hesitated –
The blast of force and heat threw Cesc to the concrete before the deafening roar even penetrated his ears. For a moment, his body was empty of both breath and thought; he was a mass of nothing suspended in ringing blackness.
He snapped back to full consciousness as pain exploded in shoulder. Dizzy, he gasped for air and nearly choked at the vise crushing his chest. He couldn't see; there was something heavy pinning him down. His head was throbbing so hard he couldn't think. He coughed, managing a shallow, painful breath, and the throbbing multiplied.
He could hear the crackle of flame, and running footsteps, and shouting in – Spanish? That couldn't be right. Then several sharp cracks that sounded almost like gunshots.
Cesc realized, a split-second later, that they were gunshots.
Then he blacked out.
He came to to the sound of slow, crunching footsteps.
He was lying face down, cheek scraping against the concrete. His shoulder was a blaze of pain. He tried to open his eyes, only to realize they were open, and everything was dark.
Cesc groaned pitifully.
The footsteps came to an abrupt stop.
A light voice said, "Who's there?"
Cesc's tongue, when he tried to move it, was thick and clumsy. He made another indistinct sound.
There was the sound of a breath, sharply indrawn, and then a hollow scraping rattle. Several thuds seemed to echo right above Cesc's head, and he flinched.
"Is someone under there? Can you hear me?"
Cesc licked his lips with a dry tongue. "Yeah," he said. This time, the sound emerged more or less as he intended, if hoarse.
"You're with me, good. Keep talking to me, okay? Are you injured? Can you feel your hands and feet?"
With effort, Cesc flexed first each foot and then each hand. The movement set his shoulder screaming again, and it took him a minute to answer.
"Yeah," he forced out, breathlessly. "Can't... see anything."
"You will in just a minute. I promise. Okay – I need you to hold really still, all right?"
"Sure," Cesc mumbled. It wasn't like he was going anywhere soon.
There was the scraping rattle again and then a rumble of sounds like a building crashing down directly above him. Cesc couldn't help flinching again, which sent a fresh jolt of pain through his shoulder and ribs.
Then the world was suddenly flooded with light. Cesc blinked furiously. For a moment he could see nothing but a blur of color; then, as his vision cleared, it resolved into kaleidoscope of shattered glass and smashed bricks.
"Better?" the voice asked, nearer now. A pair of grey-clad legs knelt in Cesc's field of vision.
"Yeah," Cesc repeated. "Better."
"Good," the voice said. "Sorry, I'm just going to – " A light hand ran over his shoulderblades and the small of his back and then skimmed down each of his sides, briefly pausing at his hips, calves, and ankles. Cesc's head was clearing by the second, enough that he had the hazy impression it was a strange way to check for injury. "Okay. Good. I'm going to turn you over now to check for any further injuries, is that all right?"
"I can do it," Cesc mumbled and, before the mysterious pseudo-EMT could do more than put a hand on his shoulder, made a surge of effort and rolled over on his back.
The white-hot spike of pain that seared through his shoulder took away his breath like a punch to the stomach. An involuntary gasp tore from his throat as tears sprung to his eyes, and the voice, sounding alarmed, said, "Careful!"
Cesc whimpered, and a hand grasped his good arm. "Careful," the voice said again, soothingly, and Cesc slowly forced his breathing even, until he could open his eyes again.
The face looking down at him was surprisingly young and sweet. A student volunteer? High-bridged nose, sharp cheekbones, narrow dark eyes, feathery brown hair – as Cesc's vision focused, he could see the stranger wasn't as young as he'd first looked, and that his white shirt and grey trousers were sharply tailored. Neither a student nor a medic, then; just a helpful passerby with basic knowledge of first aid. Only – Cesc struggled to sit up.
Only he was wearing what Cesc was pretty sure was a shoulder holster. And –
The stranger followed Cesc's gaze down to the deadly little handgun in his grasp.
"Oh," he said. "Yes." He didn't put it away.
Somewhere underneath the conviction that he was about to be arrested, killed, or both, a very small part of Cesc's brain said whoa, awesome.
The stranger's dark eyes were watching him closely. Heart pounding somewhere in the vicinity of his throat, Cesc swallowed dryly and met the man's gaze, willing himself not to look at the gun.
After what seemed like an eternity, the stranger appeared satisfied. He glanced around the alley and sat back on his heels. "How do you feel? What hurts most?"
"Chest. Shoulder."
"Right or left – oh." The stranger winced as he glanced at Cesc's left shoulder. "Okay, look at me again." Cesc did so, and the stranger fished a metal rod the size of a toothpick from his shirt pocket. Suddenly, there was a bright light shining in Cesc's eyes, flicking back and forth, and it was a moment before he realized what was going on.
"'M'not concussed," Cesc muttered, jerking his head feebly away; the stranger said, "But you could have been," and tucked the tiny flashlight away. He glanced around again and said, "All right. Want to try standing?"
With some effort, and more incoherent grunts, after a minute Cesc was wobbling on his feet, one arm braced against the stranger's shoulders. To his surprise, the stranger was at least a few centimeters shorter than he was.
"Okay?" the stranger asked.
"Yeah – ow, fuck – not you, sorry." Cesc gritted his teeth and took a deep breath. "Okay. You can let go now."
"Are you sure?" the stranger said doubtfully.
"Yeah, just – slowly – yeah, like that – " The stranger slowly eased out from under Cesc's arm and Cesc swayed for an alarming minute before catching himself with a hand against – it was the dumpster, or what had been the dumpster.
For the first time, Cesc got a good look at the alley.
The narrow street was littered with a carpet of debris: bricks, broken glass, blackened metal. Small tongues of flame licked alongside what remained of the building. Where Cesc's room had been, a yawning hole gaped out on the street, and all Cesc could see inside was a black, sooty ruin.
"So," said the stranger, without a flicker in the helpful inflection of his voice, "why don't you tell me who you report to?"
Cesc said, intelligently, "Huh?"
The stranger's brows drew together. "You don't think I'm going to kill you, right? We'll make sure you get good medical care. It would really help with that if you answered a few questions."
"Kill me?" said Cesc faintly.
"And besides, you might as well get it over with before my partner shows up. He's sort of – " The stranger paused. "Quick-tempered."
Cesc's mind whirred, to no avail. "I really don't – do you mean, like, what department? Or clubs? I'm only here for a semester."
"What?" said the stranger.
"I'm supposed to go back to Barcelona this weekend." The throbbing spot on Cesc's jaw twinged, and he winced. "My sister's going to kill me when she hears about this."
"A semester?" the stranger repeated, and then, in a higher voice, "Are you a student?"
Cesc nodded. "You can ask my landlady, she's probably out front. If she's okay. Were they okay? All the people out there?"
The stranger's mouth dropped open. "Shit," he breathed, and suddenly a voice all of two feet behind Cesc said, "Fuck, a witness?"
The stranger's eyes widened. "No, wait – "
As Cesc turned, there was a sharp stab of pain at the side of his neck, and then nothing.
* *
Cesc's cocoon was warm and fuzzy. He burrowed into it, away from the hot, distant throbbing that seemed to grow by the minute. Muffled sounds echoed from a long way off, like his ears were stuffed with cotton wool. The throbbing was right next to Cesc's head now; he realized, vaguely, that it was his own shoulder. The sounds grew louder, and finally he surrendered and let himself be dragged back to consciousness.
His whole upper body was on fire. He whimpered and bit down hard on his bottom lip.
"Watch out," a soft, familiar voice said. "Your shoulder was dislocated."
Cesc opened his eyes.
The room was narrow and high-ceilinged, like something out of an old hotel: black and white tiled floor, many-paned windows, whitewashed furniture. The curtains were drawn, and in a rickety chair between Cesc's bed and the door sat the slight stranger from the street. His holster was gone, and though he was looking at Cesc the pen in his hand was poised over an untidy sheaf of paper.
Cesc licked his lips. His voice came out as a hoarse croak. "'Was'?"
The stranger shrugged. "I popped it back while you were sed – unconscious." His expression took on a vaguely guilty cast. "I can't do anything about the cracked ribs, though. Sorry, we couldn't take you to a hospital."
The sight of the destroyed alley came rushing back. Cesc struggled up on one arm. "Was anyone else – hurt?"
"No," the stranger said without hesitation, to Cesc's immense relief. "No one except you."
Cesc nodded, and said a silent little prayer to his grandmother's god.
The stranger set his stack of papers on the floor. "Are you hungry?"
Cesc shook his head and said, "Thirsty."
The stranger got up. "I'll be right back," he said. "There's someone who wants to talk to you about what happened."
The police. Cesc nodded. He'd never been questioned before. Carlota would probably want to hear all about it.
The stranger closed the door behind him. Immediately, a low murmur rose outside the room. Cesc strained to hear, but couldn't make out anything. After a moment, the door opened and Cesc's stranger reentered, holding a thermos.
"Thanks," Cesc said and gratefully gulped down mouthful after mouthful of cool water, heedless of the thermos' metallic tinge
The stranger remained standing. "How are you feeling?"
Cesc shrugged his good shoulder. "Like shit." The stranger's expression did something funny. For some reason, his earlier words came back to Cesc, and suddenly Cesc remembered the sharp pain in his neck just before he'd gone under.
He frowned. "Just now, " he said, "when you were talking about hospitals. You weren't going to say 'sedated', were you?"
The stranger winced. "Um. Yes?" He coughed. "Sorry. My partner got a little carried away. He – does that sometimes."
"Stabs people in the neck?"
The stranger winced again. "No – well, yes. Sometimes. But I meant he gets carried away."
"Oh." Cesc paused to digest this. So he'd been sedated via neck stabbing by a mysterious violence-prone operative who had then transported him to an unknown location, where he was now confined with a man who was familiar with handguns and tended to assume people were gang affiliates.
Cesc was in the middle of thinking he should probably be feeling a lot more nervous when there was a perfunctory knock and the door swung open.
The man who entered the room radiated such sheer magnetic presence that it was a minute before Cesc realized someone else had slouched in behind him, nearly in his shadow. Where the first man moved with all the controlled power and confidence of a big cat, not a thread of his impeccable suit out of place, the shadow projected an aura of simmering belligerence, spiky black hair standing straight up with the force of his glower. A loaded shoulder holster stood out starkly against his plain white t-shirt.
Lion King took the vacant chair. Cesc's stranger and Spiky Hair moved over to take up positions on either side of the door.
Cesc was starting to think this wasn't the police after all.
"So," Lion King said, leaning forward and clasping his hands. "You're Francesc Fàbregas."
"Everyone calls me Cesc," said Cesc automatically, and then, "Hey. What?"
"Let me introduce myself," said Lion King. "I'm Luís Figo." He held out a hand for Cesc to shake.
Cesc just stared at him. "How did you know my name?"
In the background, Cesc's stranger was looking guilty again. Lion King – Figo – folded his hands again and said, "We identified you just as we would anyone else."
"Which is what?" Cesc sputtered. "That's an – an invasion of privacy!"
"I could tell you we found an ID card on you if that would make you feel better," Figo suggested.
"No!" said Cesc. "No, it wouldn't! Who are you guys? Who do you work for?"
Cesc's stranger and Spiky Hair exchanged a glance. Figo merely said, "You haven't heard of our organization. Trust me."
"My sister's in journalism," said Cesc, half-challengingly, omitting the fact that Carlota was in fact a journalism student. "Try me."
Figo sighed and raised his eyes to the ceiling, then uttered three letters. Cesc frowned. He thought, and thought some more. Try as he might, he couldn't get them to mean anything.
Figo gave a faint smile at Cesc's consternation. "We're headquartered in Brussels," he said. "I'm afraid that's all I can tell you right now."
Cesc said, in a voice pitched considerably higher than usual, "Are you spies?"
Spiky Hair snorted. Figo said, "I would say more along the lines of law enforcement."
"So you're – you're, like, secret agents. You too?" he said, looking at the one who'd rescued him. "You're a secret agent?"
Cesc's stranger started. He looked at Spiky Hair, and then at Figo, who gave him a slight nod. "Um – yes?"
Cesc drew in a breath. "Oh man," he said reverently. "That is so cool."
All three looked taken aback. Then Figo's lips twitched, and Cesc's stranger – Cesc's secret agent! – coughed into his hand. Spiky Hair just rolled his eyes.
"So that's why you couldn't take me to a hospital," Cesc said with dawning realization – not that he minded having his shoulder set by Jason Bourne. "Someone's after you."
There was a short silence.
"Actually," said Figo, "someone's after you."
Who was he talki –
"What?" said Cesc blankly. "Me?"
"We're hoping your answers can help us figure out why."
"Me?"
"Cesc," said Figo, "what exactly do you remember from the explosion?"
Cesc realized his mouth was hanging open. He willed himself to close it and rubbed a hand over his eyes. "Um... before or after I jumped out the window?"
Cesc's agent had another bout of coughing. One of Figo's eyebrows went up, but all he said was, "Before you jumped out the window. Start at the beginning."
"Um, well – " Cesc scratched his neck slowly. "I got back from class and everyone had been evacuated from our building. But Honey – my landlady's dog – got left inside, and my landlady was really upset. The guy at the front door wouldn't let her back inside and she was about to cry and everything, so – "
Figo interrupted him. "At the front door? Someone from the gas company?" Cesc nodded. "Did you talk to him? Or did he see you?"
Cesc thought. "Uh – just for a second, I think? My landlady was talking to him when I found her. Why?"
"Silva, notes," Figo said without taking his eyes from Cesc, and at the door Cesc's agent – Silva? Was that his name? – checked three pockets before producing a slim electronic device, which he promptly flipped open. "Keep going," Figo said to Cesc. "I'll explain when you're done."
"Uh – right, so I said I'd go in from the back and get Honey. So I – " Cesc paused, " – got in through my window..."
He trailed off, and Figo said, deadpan, "You've had practice."
Cesc fidgeted. "A little, yeah."
Figo somehow managed to give the impression of amusement without actually moving any facial muscles. All he said was, "Then once you got inside...?"
"I got Honey and just as we were about to go, one of the gas company guys came in."
Figo only leaned forward slightly, but his gaze somehow doubled in intensity. "And he saw you there?" At Cesc's nod, "Can you describe him?"
"Sure," Cesc started to say, "he – "
He stopped. That was funny. Cesc had seen the man perfectly clearly, and he was – he was –
Figo sighed. "Don't feel too bad," he said, as Cesc's mouth opened and closed like a fish. "Most witnesses can't describe a suspect with more than thirty percent accuracy, anyways."
"But he was two feet away, I can remember everything else, I just – " Cesc stopped, one arm flung out. "What do you mean, a suspect? What did he do?"
Figo ignored the question. "Did this man approach you?"
"No," Cesc said. "It was creepy. He didn't say anything, he didn't even move, just watched me leave again."
"He was expecting someone else," Spiky Hair said. His voice was, surprisingly, not deep. Cesc started, but couldn't help asking, "Who?"
"Us," Spiky Hair said, in a voice clearly meant to intimidate, and Cesc realized that – of course – he was the mysterious neck-stabbing partner.
Figo resumed his questioning before Cesc could bring that up. "You left the same way you came in?"
"Yeah. Oh, wait – someone else came in, but I didn't see him, I just heard them talking in the other room. Then I got out the window, and..." Cesc frowned. "There was a shout, or something. And then, boom. Next thing I knew I was on the ground and he – " a nod in the direction of the door, " – was there."
"Silva? Does that sound right to you?"
"Hm?" Cesc's agent, furiously tapping at his little device, jerked his head up. His bangs flopped in his eyes. "Oh. Yes. He was under the dumpster lid – it protected him from the worst of the debris."
So that explained it. Cesc spared a grateful thought for his luck before pressing on. "But I still don't understand," he said. "You said someone was 'after me'. What do you mean, after? What for? What did I do?"
All three agents exchanged a look. Figo sighed and rubbed the side of his temple. "To be honest? We still don't know." Cesc opened his mouth, and before he could say anything, Figo said bluntly, "There is no such company as Abramovich Gas. The men you saw are connected to one of the most dangerous criminal syndicates in Europe, and right now that syndicate wants you."
As Cesc, open-mouthed, attempted to process that, Figo stood up. "Well?" he said to Silva and Spiky Hair.
Silva shook his head. "You're right," he said. "We can't let them know he's alive. It's just too dangerous, at least until we know what they're after."
"Villa?"
"Yeah, great," said Spiky Hair – Villa – "but unless you're planning on locking him in a safehouse with a 24-hour bodyguard, someone just might notice a kid suddenly hanging around our people who happens to match the newest item on Moggi's wish list."
Silva's eyes flicked over to Figo apprehensively, but Figo said, "That's a very good point." He waited a beat before adding, "Thank you for volunteering."
Silva's eyes went big. Villa's entire face convulsed. "What?"
"What?" Cesc echoed, but no one paid attention to him.
"Congratulations," said Figo. "Meet your new trainee, as far as everyone outside this room is concerned. Treat him like a normal recruit – take him to the labs, the firing range, whatever you want. But do not, under any circumstances, let him out of your sight outside of a secure facility. Understand?"
Villa was still dumbstruck, so Silva was the one who got it together to say, "Yes, sir."
"Good," said Figo. He checked his watch. "Perfect timing. I'll take care of the necessary paperwork immediately. I expect you to stay in direct contact with me for the duration. Villa, I'll give Raúl your regards."
Villa, still gaping, revived enough to snarl. "Wait," said Silva. "What are we cleared to tell him?"
One brow arched. "Tell him whatever you want," Figo said. "He's dead."
The thud of the door closing behind him was ominously final.
Silva let out a deep breath and slumped against the wall. Next to him, Villa finally produced a noise. "A trainee?" he exploded, at the same time Cesc yelped "Dead?"
Silva looked from Villa to Cesc and back again, and both hands came up to scrub over his face.
Cesc had had enough. "Look," he burst out. "I answered your questions, I didn't butt into your weird cryptic secret agent talk, but now you're talking about some kind of plan for me? And apparently I'm dead? I still don't even know why my flat blew up, not to mention why the Mafia has my number!" He crossed his arms over his chest, and leveled his best glare at the two agents.
Villa opened his mouth, and Silva said, without taking his hands away from his face, "David, just – don't say anything. Please."
Villa's expression teetered between injury and outrage. It eventually settled on an even blacker scowl and he slouched against the wall, muttering under his breath. Silva muttered something, too, before taking a deep breath, removing his hands, and dredging up a smile in Cesc's direction.
"Sorry," he said. "We haven't even introduced ourselves yet. I'm David Silva, and that's David Villa."
Cesc blinked. "Really? Is that part of your cover?"
David Villa shot him a look of purest contempt. David Silva merely gave him another smile, marginally more cheerful, and said, "Nope, just coincidence."
"Huh," said Cesc.
"Anyway," Silva continued, "we'll tell you what we can. But Figo was telling the truth – we don't know much about what they want with you." The smile faded away, replaced by a frown. "It doesn't make any sense."
"So what were they doing in my building?"
"There was supposed to be a meeting," Silva said. "A minor gang – cigarette smuggling, lottery skimming, that kind of thing. Our offices don't usually deal with that, but someone tipped us off that they were getting into in narcotics. A planted tip, actually." He shrugged and said dismissively, "As soon as we figured out Moggi's syndicate was involved we knew it was just a lure. They knew we knew, we knew they knew we knew, you know."
"...I don't think I do," Cesc said after a minute of trying to wrap his brain around that one.
Silva paused, disconcerted. "Oh. Um. It's like – a message? That we can't ignore."
Cesc gave him a blank look.
"Okay, well, anyway," said Silva, soldiering on. "David and I were wrapping up another trail in London, so the local office called us in to cover. They figured it was meant to draw personnel away from another area, but nothing unusual seems to have happened..." He frowned again, staring at some point in the distance.
"So..." Cesc prompted after a minute.
Silva gave a little start and flushed. "Um, right. Sorry. Anyway, we were in position next door all morning, there was no sign of anything – and then suddenly 'Abramovich Gas' drove up and ordered the building evacuated. We didn't want to make a move too early, we had no idea what was going on – and then before we knew what was happening..." He shrugged.
"In other words, we have no fucking clue what happened," Villa cut in. Apparently no longer able to stand prolonged stillness, he burst into a restless stride, across the room and back again.
Cesc said, "So the guy I saw inside, and the one out front – they were from the gang? And they want me because... I saw them?"
Silva put a hair in his hair and tugged absently. "That's the obvious answer, but it makes no sense. We identified just about everyone on the scene and we've got half of them in custody now, it's not a secret. They're not even directly part of the Moggi syndicate – they're little fish, the syndicate likes to outsource for minor jobs like that. So what were they doing with heavy explosives, and why – " He stopped short.
"What?" Cesc persisted.
"Why does the syndicate wants you on a platter," Villa said from across the room.
Cesc blanched.
Silva shot Villa a look and sighed. "Or someone who matches your description, anyway. They haven't got much on you yet, but it's only been a few hours." He checked his watch. "Seven. We've closed down the site and floated unidentified casualty reports but that will only last so long. We have to do something with a firm ID before they start to think you're still out there."
It still wasn't sinking in, that some faceless criminal organization he'd never heard of seriously wanted him – dead? Unable to talk? "But you said no one else was hurt," Cesc said. "There's no body."
Silva said delicately, "There's a body."
"Just not yours," Villa said, in a voice that somehow implied, yet.
"We're pretty good at that kind of thing," Silva added.
Cesc decided he probably didn't actually want to know. "So – so you're going to tell everyone that the, uh, body is mine?"
"Already have," said Villa. Silva elaborated: "Figo – did we mention, he's the bureau chief here – gave the orders as soon as he left. First a police report, then press leaks."
Cesc sat bolt upright, ignoring the protest from his ribs. "The press? Oh my god, my family's going to think – wait, are you in touch with them already? Can I send them a message?" When Silva and Villa looked at each other, he pressed, "I mean, you're not going to tell them that..."
Neither agent said anything.
"No," Cesc said immediately. "No way. You can't tell them that, they'll – no."
"Yeah, we can," said Villa, at the same time Silva said, "It's temporary."
"How temporary?" Cesc demanded. He was gripping the blanket, he realized, so hard his knuckles were white. "They'll think, they'll – don't you understand?"
"You want to keep that journalist sister of yours safe?" Villa asked harshly. "Then shut up."
"You shut up," Cesc said hotly and surged forward.
There was a hand holding him down by his good shoulder before he even saw Silva move. He struggled, fruitlessly, until he pulled his other shoulder again and the lance of pain made him jerk backwards with a hiss.
Silva said, like it hurt, "He's right, Cesc. It's protecting them as much as you."
Cesc searched his face. Silva's dark, tired eyes met his, and Cesc knew without being told that it would be pointless to plead, or to run. He stared helplessly at Silva for a long moment. Then he slumped back against the pillows and swore as viciously as his choked throat would allow, until his voice gave out.
"Okay," he said finally, when he ran out of words, and when he was sure he wasn't going to cry. He rolled on his back and stared at the ceiling, jaw clenched. "Okay. Fine. Whatever. I get it. Can I sleep now or do I have to get permission for that, too?"
After a minute, Silva said, "Cesc – " and Villa said, in a voice so low Cesc barely heard him, "Come on."
Cesc refused to look away from the ceiling as footsteps moved across the floor and the door opened and closed.
He could try to steal Silva's pocket mobile device. He could sneak out the window just long enough to find a phone booth. He could drop a freaking letter outside, if he had to –
The wave of sleep that had been looming over him threatened to crash down and swallow him whole. Cesc let it come.
Out in the little kitchen, David sank into a chair and rolled his neck in a slow circle while Villa paced around the kitchen restlessly.
After a moment, David flipped open his laptop and keyed in his password for the secure network. As expected, Figo's effect was immediate. There were the London police reports identifying the body recovered at Cudworth Road as one Francesc Fàbregas, aged 22, Spanish exchange student. Depending on how quickly they released the information to the press, clippings would probably begin to roll in within the next hour.
Next David called up the listing of internal personnel directives. He wasn't surprised to find an order, apparently dated two weeks ago, for the assignment of recruit ID #54104 to agents David Villa and David Silva, Madrid bureau.
Villa wandered over and leaned one hip against the table. "Think he'll actually sleep at all or should we take shifts outside his door?"
"Hm?" said David absently. He glanced up from the screen. "Oh, I drugged his water. So, yeah, probably pretty soundly."
Villa's eyebrows shot up. Then he grinned. "You're something else," he said, and flicked a finger against David's temple. David tamped down on the automatic little flush of pleasure and smiled up at him. Then he ducked his head before he did something stupid and swiveled the laptop around.
"Look," he said. "I guess we've officially got a trainee now."
Villa's grin disappeared. He crossed his arms over his chest and scowled at the screen. "Of all the fucking – We don't even have time for a real recruit. What the fuck are we going to do with some kid who's never fired a gun in his life?"
"Teach him how to?" David offered. Villa gave him a disbelieving look.
"Look, let's think about it for a minute," David went on, trying for persuasive. "This is supposed to be cover, right? It won't be very effective if we hole up in a safehouse somewhere. Figo's not going to stop sending us out, so we might as well make the best of it. The better we handle the cover, the more normal we can act."
After a moment Villa nodded, grudgingly. "What do you want to do tomorrow?"
David thought for a minute. "Take him down to headquarters, I guess, and get him a badge and a gun. If he'll go." He sighed. "I don't think we did a very good job telling him."
Villa's face shuttered. "He'll thank us when it's over."
They were suddenly treading on thin ice.
"They've put a detail on the family," David said carefully. "Just in case. Xavi's in charge."
Villa said, without expression, "Good."
David ran a hand through his hair and cast around for something – anything – to say. Before he could think of something, Villa suddenly put a hand on the table and turned toward David, just a little. His eyes were hooded.
A little thrill ran up David's neck, and his breathing went unsteady.
Villa leaned in, halting, and then abruptly stopped. David looked up at him; his face was a taut and strained. But his eyes were on David.
So David reached up and curled a hand around the back of Villa's neck, drawing him down. As Villa's rough, searching mouth came down on his own, for the first time in weeks David let himself slacken, let himself ease. Let himself think about nothing else but what he wanted – nothing else but this.
* *
more
Clandestine Affairs (1/?)
Characters/Pairings: Cesc Fàbregas, David Silva, David Villa, others (David Silva/David Villa)
Word Count: 13,300 (part)
Rating: R
Summary: Cesc is just a normal guy living a normal student life, until his flat blows up. Secret agent AU.
Notes:
nahco3 did it first with Protection Detail. You should go read it if you haven't. Unspeakable amounts of gratitude to meretricula, nahco3, winterspel, and anamuan for proofreading, feedback, and encouragement. :)Later, Cesc would never quite believe how it all started.
All he'd been thinking of, hurrying back from his last lecture, was how much packing he had to do before returning home to Barcelona in two days. He wasn't expecting to turn onto the rundown little street where he rented a room and see what appeared to be the entire population of his building milling around in front of it. He wasn't expecting the two vans emblazoned with a garish "Abramovich Gas & Electric" logo, or the stocky man in blue coverall standing on the front step with a forbidding expression.
And he definitely wasn't expecting to see his tiny, white-haired Barcelonan landlady two inches from the man's face, giving him an emphatic piece of her mind.
"Mrs. Riera?" he said, half-disbelievingly, when he'd fought his way to the front of the crowd and put a hand on her shoulder.
Mid-gesticulation, she peered up at him through an ancient pair of glasses, gasped, and immediately latched onto his arm. "Cesc!" she exclaimed. "Cesc, tell this man he must let me inside!"
"What's going on?" he asked, looking from his landlady to the guard dog and back.
The man's eyes moved over Cesc. He said nothing. Mrs. Riera said in Catalan, nearly quivering with outrage, "These pigs made us evacuate the building and no one will tell us why – fools, they're a gas company, do they think we are stupid? And Honey is inside all alone and terrified."
Cesc suppressed the face he desperately wanted to make. He liked lapdogs as much as the next guy, but Honey – squeaky, slobbery, completely hairless – was more rat than dog. "That's, um, terrible," he said, without conviction.
"It's an outrage! My poor darling, crying all alone in the dark – " She whirled back to the man and resumed her appeal, forgetting in the process to switch back to English. "Listen to me, you piece of – "
"Whoa, whoa, whoa," Cesc interrupted quickly. He put an arm around Mrs. Riera's shoulders. "Come on, let's go talk where it's quieter. You can tell me the whole story." He held his breath. After a minute, Mrs. Riera nodded, and Cesc gently but firmly led her away from steps.
Sorry, he mouthed over his shoulder at the sucker stuck at the entrance. The man watched them go, not a flicker of acknowledgement in his impassive expression.
"Honey – " Mrs. Riera started as soon as they came to a stop, with a wobble in her voice that presaged tears.
"Honey's going to be fine," Cesc said. He lowered his voice. "Listen, we could keep talking with that guy all day and probably get nothing for our trouble except a restraining order. Or..." He paused for effect. "Or, I could slip in from the back and get Honey myself. Quietly. You know."
Mrs. Riera's eyes went wide. Cesc crossed his toes and prayed she wouldn't ask how exactly he was planning to accomplish this.
"Oh, Cesc," she said, "you're such a good boy."
Cesc squirmed. "It's nothing," he said. "Really." She looked on the verge of tears again, so he said, "Okay, I better go now. I'll be right back with Honey, okay?"
She nodded and patted his hand; then, after Cesc cleared his throat, released him from her iron grip.
He drifted away through the crowd toward the edge of the building, where he glanced around and, in what he hoped was an unobtrusive fashion, slipped through the gap between the two identical blocks of flats.
In the alley, the crowd's restless hum was barely audible. Cesc surveyed the back side of the building. There was his window – fifth over, second up. He felt a pleasantly familiar jolt of adrenaline. This, he'd done a million times.
Against the brick wall, directly under his window, stood a rusting metal dumpster. From behind it, Cesc retrieved a long wooden pole that strongly resembled a broom handle in a previous life. He tossed it on top of the dumpster lid and hauled himself up after it. The accompanying clatter echoed hollowly down the alley.
Many nights of practice had made Cesc fairly expert at locating the decaying notch in the wood of the window frame into which he lodged the pole. Oh-so-carefully, he levered it upwards. There was a brief resistance, and the window lurched up in its frame. Cesc permitted himself a silent cheer.
He dropped the pole and bounced lightly on his toes. One short leap and his outstretched hands caught the windowsill; after a moment of scrabbling, his right foot found a toehold against the edge of an uneven brick. He took a deep breath and pulled upward with all his strength. This time his left foot found purchase as he got one elbow hooked on the sill. Another heave; now one arm was all the way over the sill and the other braced against it, and within seconds Cesc was grinning as he wriggled through the window into his room.
Sometimes Cesc felt a little guilty about sneaking around under his landlady's nose, but Mrs. Riera would probably faint dead away in the middle of the kitchen if she knew how late he stayed out. And what she'd do if she knew how he was getting back inside all those nights he told her he was staying over at a friend's place, he didn’t want to know. Everyone was happier this way, really.
Even as he got to his feet and dusted his hands off, he could hear a barrage of high-pitched yaps from the hall. The second he opened the door, he was assaulted by a manic hairless cannonball aimed at his shins, wriggling and yelping and doing its best to absorb itself into Cesc's legs.
"Okay, okay," Cesc said, grinning in spite of himself. "I get it, you like me." He crouched down and picked up Honey, who immediately began slobbering all over his hands. "I know. I'm delicious. Come on, let's get going. You owe one, mutt."
As he stood up, he heard a sound that sounded an awful lot like the rattle of a doorknob.
Cesc went still.
The rattle grew louder. Honey yipped. "Shh," Cesc whispered, and, as quietly as he could, moved forward into the hall.
They weren't in a really bad part of the city, but it was no playground, either. Cesc edged up to the entryway and held his breath –
The door swung open and revealed a dark-haired man in a blue coverall bearing the legend ABRAMOVICH G&E.
"Oh," said Cesc, and for just a minute relaxed, before he remembered he wasn't supposed to be there.
The man was perfectly still, except for the movement of his eyes from Cesc to Honey and back again. He didn't speak; it appeared the sight of Cesc had dumbfounded him.
"Um," Cesc said, and cleared his throat. "Ha ha. I just came back in to pick up my landlady's dog... Sorry, I know we're all supposed to be out of here." No reaction. "I totally won't get in your way, I'm just about to leave again. Don't worry, she doesn't bite."
The man still said nothing. Something in his expression made Cesc uneasy.
"Well," Cesc said, awkwardly. "I'll just – be going now. Okay. Bye."
He swiveled on his heel and retreated – with dignity – to his room. He could feel the man's eyes on his back the whole way. Safely inside, he held Honey up at eye level and made a face at her.
"Five whole months of coming and going," he said to a panting tongue, "and now someone catches me. Real smooth. You better hope they don't report me for trespassing in my own room. I'm not getting arrested my last week in London for you."
Honey barked and tried to lick his face.
"Yeah, yeah," he said. "That's what they all say. Okay, we better get a move on."
He heard the door open and close, and then voices too muffled to make out. Wincing, he tucked Honey under one arm and hurried over to the window. With his free hand, he jammed it up further, so that he could sit on the sill without relinquishing his charge.
He leaned over and eyed the distance to the dumpster below. He'd never done the drop with live cargo before.
The voices were getting louder and more agitated. Cesc could hear clearly enough now to tell they weren't speaking English, or Spanish. Or Catalan.
He didn't want to wait around to identify whatever it was. "Ready?" he said to Honey, and without waiting for an answer, eased himself off the windowsill.
He landed feet-first on the dumpster with a massive ringing clatter, weight driving him down into a crouch. He held it for a split second before toppling over, and as his arms instinctively flapped for balance, Honey wriggled free, bounded to the ground, and scurried away down the alley and out of sight.
"Honey!" Cesc shouted helplessly, too late. The only response was a distant yip.
He groaned. "Great. Just great." He hoped she'd run off to follow Mrs. Riera's scent, or she probably would get mistaken for a giant rat and – Cesc didn't want to think about it.
He rolled over on his stomach and leaned over the edge of the dumpster, fishing for the pole. He'd better tell Mrs. Riera about the workers in her apartment, or she'd probably see their footsteps and think it'd been burglars after all. He glanced idly upward. The voices, at least, had stopped, or quieted enough to be inaudible even through the open window.
Just as the thought flitted across his mind, there was a hoarse shout, and then a sudden, eerie silence.
For some reason, Cesc went still. The back of his neck prickled.
Something told him, Get down.
He hesitated –
The blast of force and heat threw Cesc to the concrete before the deafening roar even penetrated his ears. For a moment, his body was empty of both breath and thought; he was a mass of nothing suspended in ringing blackness.
He snapped back to full consciousness as pain exploded in shoulder. Dizzy, he gasped for air and nearly choked at the vise crushing his chest. He couldn't see; there was something heavy pinning him down. His head was throbbing so hard he couldn't think. He coughed, managing a shallow, painful breath, and the throbbing multiplied.
He could hear the crackle of flame, and running footsteps, and shouting in – Spanish? That couldn't be right. Then several sharp cracks that sounded almost like gunshots.
Cesc realized, a split-second later, that they were gunshots.
Then he blacked out.
He came to to the sound of slow, crunching footsteps.
He was lying face down, cheek scraping against the concrete. His shoulder was a blaze of pain. He tried to open his eyes, only to realize they were open, and everything was dark.
Cesc groaned pitifully.
The footsteps came to an abrupt stop.
A light voice said, "Who's there?"
Cesc's tongue, when he tried to move it, was thick and clumsy. He made another indistinct sound.
There was the sound of a breath, sharply indrawn, and then a hollow scraping rattle. Several thuds seemed to echo right above Cesc's head, and he flinched.
"Is someone under there? Can you hear me?"
Cesc licked his lips with a dry tongue. "Yeah," he said. This time, the sound emerged more or less as he intended, if hoarse.
"You're with me, good. Keep talking to me, okay? Are you injured? Can you feel your hands and feet?"
With effort, Cesc flexed first each foot and then each hand. The movement set his shoulder screaming again, and it took him a minute to answer.
"Yeah," he forced out, breathlessly. "Can't... see anything."
"You will in just a minute. I promise. Okay – I need you to hold really still, all right?"
"Sure," Cesc mumbled. It wasn't like he was going anywhere soon.
There was the scraping rattle again and then a rumble of sounds like a building crashing down directly above him. Cesc couldn't help flinching again, which sent a fresh jolt of pain through his shoulder and ribs.
Then the world was suddenly flooded with light. Cesc blinked furiously. For a moment he could see nothing but a blur of color; then, as his vision cleared, it resolved into kaleidoscope of shattered glass and smashed bricks.
"Better?" the voice asked, nearer now. A pair of grey-clad legs knelt in Cesc's field of vision.
"Yeah," Cesc repeated. "Better."
"Good," the voice said. "Sorry, I'm just going to – " A light hand ran over his shoulderblades and the small of his back and then skimmed down each of his sides, briefly pausing at his hips, calves, and ankles. Cesc's head was clearing by the second, enough that he had the hazy impression it was a strange way to check for injury. "Okay. Good. I'm going to turn you over now to check for any further injuries, is that all right?"
"I can do it," Cesc mumbled and, before the mysterious pseudo-EMT could do more than put a hand on his shoulder, made a surge of effort and rolled over on his back.
The white-hot spike of pain that seared through his shoulder took away his breath like a punch to the stomach. An involuntary gasp tore from his throat as tears sprung to his eyes, and the voice, sounding alarmed, said, "Careful!"
Cesc whimpered, and a hand grasped his good arm. "Careful," the voice said again, soothingly, and Cesc slowly forced his breathing even, until he could open his eyes again.
The face looking down at him was surprisingly young and sweet. A student volunteer? High-bridged nose, sharp cheekbones, narrow dark eyes, feathery brown hair – as Cesc's vision focused, he could see the stranger wasn't as young as he'd first looked, and that his white shirt and grey trousers were sharply tailored. Neither a student nor a medic, then; just a helpful passerby with basic knowledge of first aid. Only – Cesc struggled to sit up.
Only he was wearing what Cesc was pretty sure was a shoulder holster. And –
The stranger followed Cesc's gaze down to the deadly little handgun in his grasp.
"Oh," he said. "Yes." He didn't put it away.
Somewhere underneath the conviction that he was about to be arrested, killed, or both, a very small part of Cesc's brain said whoa, awesome.
The stranger's dark eyes were watching him closely. Heart pounding somewhere in the vicinity of his throat, Cesc swallowed dryly and met the man's gaze, willing himself not to look at the gun.
After what seemed like an eternity, the stranger appeared satisfied. He glanced around the alley and sat back on his heels. "How do you feel? What hurts most?"
"Chest. Shoulder."
"Right or left – oh." The stranger winced as he glanced at Cesc's left shoulder. "Okay, look at me again." Cesc did so, and the stranger fished a metal rod the size of a toothpick from his shirt pocket. Suddenly, there was a bright light shining in Cesc's eyes, flicking back and forth, and it was a moment before he realized what was going on.
"'M'not concussed," Cesc muttered, jerking his head feebly away; the stranger said, "But you could have been," and tucked the tiny flashlight away. He glanced around again and said, "All right. Want to try standing?"
With some effort, and more incoherent grunts, after a minute Cesc was wobbling on his feet, one arm braced against the stranger's shoulders. To his surprise, the stranger was at least a few centimeters shorter than he was.
"Okay?" the stranger asked.
"Yeah – ow, fuck – not you, sorry." Cesc gritted his teeth and took a deep breath. "Okay. You can let go now."
"Are you sure?" the stranger said doubtfully.
"Yeah, just – slowly – yeah, like that – " The stranger slowly eased out from under Cesc's arm and Cesc swayed for an alarming minute before catching himself with a hand against – it was the dumpster, or what had been the dumpster.
For the first time, Cesc got a good look at the alley.
The narrow street was littered with a carpet of debris: bricks, broken glass, blackened metal. Small tongues of flame licked alongside what remained of the building. Where Cesc's room had been, a yawning hole gaped out on the street, and all Cesc could see inside was a black, sooty ruin.
"So," said the stranger, without a flicker in the helpful inflection of his voice, "why don't you tell me who you report to?"
Cesc said, intelligently, "Huh?"
The stranger's brows drew together. "You don't think I'm going to kill you, right? We'll make sure you get good medical care. It would really help with that if you answered a few questions."
"Kill me?" said Cesc faintly.
"And besides, you might as well get it over with before my partner shows up. He's sort of – " The stranger paused. "Quick-tempered."
Cesc's mind whirred, to no avail. "I really don't – do you mean, like, what department? Or clubs? I'm only here for a semester."
"What?" said the stranger.
"I'm supposed to go back to Barcelona this weekend." The throbbing spot on Cesc's jaw twinged, and he winced. "My sister's going to kill me when she hears about this."
"A semester?" the stranger repeated, and then, in a higher voice, "Are you a student?"
Cesc nodded. "You can ask my landlady, she's probably out front. If she's okay. Were they okay? All the people out there?"
The stranger's mouth dropped open. "Shit," he breathed, and suddenly a voice all of two feet behind Cesc said, "Fuck, a witness?"
The stranger's eyes widened. "No, wait – "
As Cesc turned, there was a sharp stab of pain at the side of his neck, and then nothing.
Cesc's cocoon was warm and fuzzy. He burrowed into it, away from the hot, distant throbbing that seemed to grow by the minute. Muffled sounds echoed from a long way off, like his ears were stuffed with cotton wool. The throbbing was right next to Cesc's head now; he realized, vaguely, that it was his own shoulder. The sounds grew louder, and finally he surrendered and let himself be dragged back to consciousness.
His whole upper body was on fire. He whimpered and bit down hard on his bottom lip.
"Watch out," a soft, familiar voice said. "Your shoulder was dislocated."
Cesc opened his eyes.
The room was narrow and high-ceilinged, like something out of an old hotel: black and white tiled floor, many-paned windows, whitewashed furniture. The curtains were drawn, and in a rickety chair between Cesc's bed and the door sat the slight stranger from the street. His holster was gone, and though he was looking at Cesc the pen in his hand was poised over an untidy sheaf of paper.
Cesc licked his lips. His voice came out as a hoarse croak. "'Was'?"
The stranger shrugged. "I popped it back while you were sed – unconscious." His expression took on a vaguely guilty cast. "I can't do anything about the cracked ribs, though. Sorry, we couldn't take you to a hospital."
The sight of the destroyed alley came rushing back. Cesc struggled up on one arm. "Was anyone else – hurt?"
"No," the stranger said without hesitation, to Cesc's immense relief. "No one except you."
Cesc nodded, and said a silent little prayer to his grandmother's god.
The stranger set his stack of papers on the floor. "Are you hungry?"
Cesc shook his head and said, "Thirsty."
The stranger got up. "I'll be right back," he said. "There's someone who wants to talk to you about what happened."
The police. Cesc nodded. He'd never been questioned before. Carlota would probably want to hear all about it.
The stranger closed the door behind him. Immediately, a low murmur rose outside the room. Cesc strained to hear, but couldn't make out anything. After a moment, the door opened and Cesc's stranger reentered, holding a thermos.
"Thanks," Cesc said and gratefully gulped down mouthful after mouthful of cool water, heedless of the thermos' metallic tinge
The stranger remained standing. "How are you feeling?"
Cesc shrugged his good shoulder. "Like shit." The stranger's expression did something funny. For some reason, his earlier words came back to Cesc, and suddenly Cesc remembered the sharp pain in his neck just before he'd gone under.
He frowned. "Just now, " he said, "when you were talking about hospitals. You weren't going to say 'sedated', were you?"
The stranger winced. "Um. Yes?" He coughed. "Sorry. My partner got a little carried away. He – does that sometimes."
"Stabs people in the neck?"
The stranger winced again. "No – well, yes. Sometimes. But I meant he gets carried away."
"Oh." Cesc paused to digest this. So he'd been sedated via neck stabbing by a mysterious violence-prone operative who had then transported him to an unknown location, where he was now confined with a man who was familiar with handguns and tended to assume people were gang affiliates.
Cesc was in the middle of thinking he should probably be feeling a lot more nervous when there was a perfunctory knock and the door swung open.
The man who entered the room radiated such sheer magnetic presence that it was a minute before Cesc realized someone else had slouched in behind him, nearly in his shadow. Where the first man moved with all the controlled power and confidence of a big cat, not a thread of his impeccable suit out of place, the shadow projected an aura of simmering belligerence, spiky black hair standing straight up with the force of his glower. A loaded shoulder holster stood out starkly against his plain white t-shirt.
Lion King took the vacant chair. Cesc's stranger and Spiky Hair moved over to take up positions on either side of the door.
Cesc was starting to think this wasn't the police after all.
"So," Lion King said, leaning forward and clasping his hands. "You're Francesc Fàbregas."
"Everyone calls me Cesc," said Cesc automatically, and then, "Hey. What?"
"Let me introduce myself," said Lion King. "I'm Luís Figo." He held out a hand for Cesc to shake.
Cesc just stared at him. "How did you know my name?"
In the background, Cesc's stranger was looking guilty again. Lion King – Figo – folded his hands again and said, "We identified you just as we would anyone else."
"Which is what?" Cesc sputtered. "That's an – an invasion of privacy!"
"I could tell you we found an ID card on you if that would make you feel better," Figo suggested.
"No!" said Cesc. "No, it wouldn't! Who are you guys? Who do you work for?"
Cesc's stranger and Spiky Hair exchanged a glance. Figo merely said, "You haven't heard of our organization. Trust me."
"My sister's in journalism," said Cesc, half-challengingly, omitting the fact that Carlota was in fact a journalism student. "Try me."
Figo sighed and raised his eyes to the ceiling, then uttered three letters. Cesc frowned. He thought, and thought some more. Try as he might, he couldn't get them to mean anything.
Figo gave a faint smile at Cesc's consternation. "We're headquartered in Brussels," he said. "I'm afraid that's all I can tell you right now."
Cesc said, in a voice pitched considerably higher than usual, "Are you spies?"
Spiky Hair snorted. Figo said, "I would say more along the lines of law enforcement."
"So you're – you're, like, secret agents. You too?" he said, looking at the one who'd rescued him. "You're a secret agent?"
Cesc's stranger started. He looked at Spiky Hair, and then at Figo, who gave him a slight nod. "Um – yes?"
Cesc drew in a breath. "Oh man," he said reverently. "That is so cool."
All three looked taken aback. Then Figo's lips twitched, and Cesc's stranger – Cesc's secret agent! – coughed into his hand. Spiky Hair just rolled his eyes.
"So that's why you couldn't take me to a hospital," Cesc said with dawning realization – not that he minded having his shoulder set by Jason Bourne. "Someone's after you."
There was a short silence.
"Actually," said Figo, "someone's after you."
Who was he talki –
"What?" said Cesc blankly. "Me?"
"We're hoping your answers can help us figure out why."
"Me?"
"Cesc," said Figo, "what exactly do you remember from the explosion?"
Cesc realized his mouth was hanging open. He willed himself to close it and rubbed a hand over his eyes. "Um... before or after I jumped out the window?"
Cesc's agent had another bout of coughing. One of Figo's eyebrows went up, but all he said was, "Before you jumped out the window. Start at the beginning."
"Um, well – " Cesc scratched his neck slowly. "I got back from class and everyone had been evacuated from our building. But Honey – my landlady's dog – got left inside, and my landlady was really upset. The guy at the front door wouldn't let her back inside and she was about to cry and everything, so – "
Figo interrupted him. "At the front door? Someone from the gas company?" Cesc nodded. "Did you talk to him? Or did he see you?"
Cesc thought. "Uh – just for a second, I think? My landlady was talking to him when I found her. Why?"
"Silva, notes," Figo said without taking his eyes from Cesc, and at the door Cesc's agent – Silva? Was that his name? – checked three pockets before producing a slim electronic device, which he promptly flipped open. "Keep going," Figo said to Cesc. "I'll explain when you're done."
"Uh – right, so I said I'd go in from the back and get Honey. So I – " Cesc paused, " – got in through my window..."
He trailed off, and Figo said, deadpan, "You've had practice."
Cesc fidgeted. "A little, yeah."
Figo somehow managed to give the impression of amusement without actually moving any facial muscles. All he said was, "Then once you got inside...?"
"I got Honey and just as we were about to go, one of the gas company guys came in."
Figo only leaned forward slightly, but his gaze somehow doubled in intensity. "And he saw you there?" At Cesc's nod, "Can you describe him?"
"Sure," Cesc started to say, "he – "
He stopped. That was funny. Cesc had seen the man perfectly clearly, and he was – he was –
Figo sighed. "Don't feel too bad," he said, as Cesc's mouth opened and closed like a fish. "Most witnesses can't describe a suspect with more than thirty percent accuracy, anyways."
"But he was two feet away, I can remember everything else, I just – " Cesc stopped, one arm flung out. "What do you mean, a suspect? What did he do?"
Figo ignored the question. "Did this man approach you?"
"No," Cesc said. "It was creepy. He didn't say anything, he didn't even move, just watched me leave again."
"He was expecting someone else," Spiky Hair said. His voice was, surprisingly, not deep. Cesc started, but couldn't help asking, "Who?"
"Us," Spiky Hair said, in a voice clearly meant to intimidate, and Cesc realized that – of course – he was the mysterious neck-stabbing partner.
Figo resumed his questioning before Cesc could bring that up. "You left the same way you came in?"
"Yeah. Oh, wait – someone else came in, but I didn't see him, I just heard them talking in the other room. Then I got out the window, and..." Cesc frowned. "There was a shout, or something. And then, boom. Next thing I knew I was on the ground and he – " a nod in the direction of the door, " – was there."
"Silva? Does that sound right to you?"
"Hm?" Cesc's agent, furiously tapping at his little device, jerked his head up. His bangs flopped in his eyes. "Oh. Yes. He was under the dumpster lid – it protected him from the worst of the debris."
So that explained it. Cesc spared a grateful thought for his luck before pressing on. "But I still don't understand," he said. "You said someone was 'after me'. What do you mean, after? What for? What did I do?"
All three agents exchanged a look. Figo sighed and rubbed the side of his temple. "To be honest? We still don't know." Cesc opened his mouth, and before he could say anything, Figo said bluntly, "There is no such company as Abramovich Gas. The men you saw are connected to one of the most dangerous criminal syndicates in Europe, and right now that syndicate wants you."
As Cesc, open-mouthed, attempted to process that, Figo stood up. "Well?" he said to Silva and Spiky Hair.
Silva shook his head. "You're right," he said. "We can't let them know he's alive. It's just too dangerous, at least until we know what they're after."
"Villa?"
"Yeah, great," said Spiky Hair – Villa – "but unless you're planning on locking him in a safehouse with a 24-hour bodyguard, someone just might notice a kid suddenly hanging around our people who happens to match the newest item on Moggi's wish list."
Silva's eyes flicked over to Figo apprehensively, but Figo said, "That's a very good point." He waited a beat before adding, "Thank you for volunteering."
Silva's eyes went big. Villa's entire face convulsed. "What?"
"What?" Cesc echoed, but no one paid attention to him.
"Congratulations," said Figo. "Meet your new trainee, as far as everyone outside this room is concerned. Treat him like a normal recruit – take him to the labs, the firing range, whatever you want. But do not, under any circumstances, let him out of your sight outside of a secure facility. Understand?"
Villa was still dumbstruck, so Silva was the one who got it together to say, "Yes, sir."
"Good," said Figo. He checked his watch. "Perfect timing. I'll take care of the necessary paperwork immediately. I expect you to stay in direct contact with me for the duration. Villa, I'll give Raúl your regards."
Villa, still gaping, revived enough to snarl. "Wait," said Silva. "What are we cleared to tell him?"
One brow arched. "Tell him whatever you want," Figo said. "He's dead."
The thud of the door closing behind him was ominously final.
Silva let out a deep breath and slumped against the wall. Next to him, Villa finally produced a noise. "A trainee?" he exploded, at the same time Cesc yelped "Dead?"
Silva looked from Villa to Cesc and back again, and both hands came up to scrub over his face.
Cesc had had enough. "Look," he burst out. "I answered your questions, I didn't butt into your weird cryptic secret agent talk, but now you're talking about some kind of plan for me? And apparently I'm dead? I still don't even know why my flat blew up, not to mention why the Mafia has my number!" He crossed his arms over his chest, and leveled his best glare at the two agents.
Villa opened his mouth, and Silva said, without taking his hands away from his face, "David, just – don't say anything. Please."
Villa's expression teetered between injury and outrage. It eventually settled on an even blacker scowl and he slouched against the wall, muttering under his breath. Silva muttered something, too, before taking a deep breath, removing his hands, and dredging up a smile in Cesc's direction.
"Sorry," he said. "We haven't even introduced ourselves yet. I'm David Silva, and that's David Villa."
Cesc blinked. "Really? Is that part of your cover?"
David Villa shot him a look of purest contempt. David Silva merely gave him another smile, marginally more cheerful, and said, "Nope, just coincidence."
"Huh," said Cesc.
"Anyway," Silva continued, "we'll tell you what we can. But Figo was telling the truth – we don't know much about what they want with you." The smile faded away, replaced by a frown. "It doesn't make any sense."
"So what were they doing in my building?"
"There was supposed to be a meeting," Silva said. "A minor gang – cigarette smuggling, lottery skimming, that kind of thing. Our offices don't usually deal with that, but someone tipped us off that they were getting into in narcotics. A planted tip, actually." He shrugged and said dismissively, "As soon as we figured out Moggi's syndicate was involved we knew it was just a lure. They knew we knew, we knew they knew we knew, you know."
"...I don't think I do," Cesc said after a minute of trying to wrap his brain around that one.
Silva paused, disconcerted. "Oh. Um. It's like – a message? That we can't ignore."
Cesc gave him a blank look.
"Okay, well, anyway," said Silva, soldiering on. "David and I were wrapping up another trail in London, so the local office called us in to cover. They figured it was meant to draw personnel away from another area, but nothing unusual seems to have happened..." He frowned again, staring at some point in the distance.
"So..." Cesc prompted after a minute.
Silva gave a little start and flushed. "Um, right. Sorry. Anyway, we were in position next door all morning, there was no sign of anything – and then suddenly 'Abramovich Gas' drove up and ordered the building evacuated. We didn't want to make a move too early, we had no idea what was going on – and then before we knew what was happening..." He shrugged.
"In other words, we have no fucking clue what happened," Villa cut in. Apparently no longer able to stand prolonged stillness, he burst into a restless stride, across the room and back again.
Cesc said, "So the guy I saw inside, and the one out front – they were from the gang? And they want me because... I saw them?"
Silva put a hair in his hair and tugged absently. "That's the obvious answer, but it makes no sense. We identified just about everyone on the scene and we've got half of them in custody now, it's not a secret. They're not even directly part of the Moggi syndicate – they're little fish, the syndicate likes to outsource for minor jobs like that. So what were they doing with heavy explosives, and why – " He stopped short.
"What?" Cesc persisted.
"Why does the syndicate wants you on a platter," Villa said from across the room.
Cesc blanched.
Silva shot Villa a look and sighed. "Or someone who matches your description, anyway. They haven't got much on you yet, but it's only been a few hours." He checked his watch. "Seven. We've closed down the site and floated unidentified casualty reports but that will only last so long. We have to do something with a firm ID before they start to think you're still out there."
It still wasn't sinking in, that some faceless criminal organization he'd never heard of seriously wanted him – dead? Unable to talk? "But you said no one else was hurt," Cesc said. "There's no body."
Silva said delicately, "There's a body."
"Just not yours," Villa said, in a voice that somehow implied, yet.
"We're pretty good at that kind of thing," Silva added.
Cesc decided he probably didn't actually want to know. "So – so you're going to tell everyone that the, uh, body is mine?"
"Already have," said Villa. Silva elaborated: "Figo – did we mention, he's the bureau chief here – gave the orders as soon as he left. First a police report, then press leaks."
Cesc sat bolt upright, ignoring the protest from his ribs. "The press? Oh my god, my family's going to think – wait, are you in touch with them already? Can I send them a message?" When Silva and Villa looked at each other, he pressed, "I mean, you're not going to tell them that..."
Neither agent said anything.
"No," Cesc said immediately. "No way. You can't tell them that, they'll – no."
"Yeah, we can," said Villa, at the same time Silva said, "It's temporary."
"How temporary?" Cesc demanded. He was gripping the blanket, he realized, so hard his knuckles were white. "They'll think, they'll – don't you understand?"
"You want to keep that journalist sister of yours safe?" Villa asked harshly. "Then shut up."
"You shut up," Cesc said hotly and surged forward.
There was a hand holding him down by his good shoulder before he even saw Silva move. He struggled, fruitlessly, until he pulled his other shoulder again and the lance of pain made him jerk backwards with a hiss.
Silva said, like it hurt, "He's right, Cesc. It's protecting them as much as you."
Cesc searched his face. Silva's dark, tired eyes met his, and Cesc knew without being told that it would be pointless to plead, or to run. He stared helplessly at Silva for a long moment. Then he slumped back against the pillows and swore as viciously as his choked throat would allow, until his voice gave out.
"Okay," he said finally, when he ran out of words, and when he was sure he wasn't going to cry. He rolled on his back and stared at the ceiling, jaw clenched. "Okay. Fine. Whatever. I get it. Can I sleep now or do I have to get permission for that, too?"
After a minute, Silva said, "Cesc – " and Villa said, in a voice so low Cesc barely heard him, "Come on."
Cesc refused to look away from the ceiling as footsteps moved across the floor and the door opened and closed.
He could try to steal Silva's pocket mobile device. He could sneak out the window just long enough to find a phone booth. He could drop a freaking letter outside, if he had to –
The wave of sleep that had been looming over him threatened to crash down and swallow him whole. Cesc let it come.
Out in the little kitchen, David sank into a chair and rolled his neck in a slow circle while Villa paced around the kitchen restlessly.
After a moment, David flipped open his laptop and keyed in his password for the secure network. As expected, Figo's effect was immediate. There were the London police reports identifying the body recovered at Cudworth Road as one Francesc Fàbregas, aged 22, Spanish exchange student. Depending on how quickly they released the information to the press, clippings would probably begin to roll in within the next hour.
Next David called up the listing of internal personnel directives. He wasn't surprised to find an order, apparently dated two weeks ago, for the assignment of recruit ID #54104 to agents David Villa and David Silva, Madrid bureau.
Villa wandered over and leaned one hip against the table. "Think he'll actually sleep at all or should we take shifts outside his door?"
"Hm?" said David absently. He glanced up from the screen. "Oh, I drugged his water. So, yeah, probably pretty soundly."
Villa's eyebrows shot up. Then he grinned. "You're something else," he said, and flicked a finger against David's temple. David tamped down on the automatic little flush of pleasure and smiled up at him. Then he ducked his head before he did something stupid and swiveled the laptop around.
"Look," he said. "I guess we've officially got a trainee now."
Villa's grin disappeared. He crossed his arms over his chest and scowled at the screen. "Of all the fucking – We don't even have time for a real recruit. What the fuck are we going to do with some kid who's never fired a gun in his life?"
"Teach him how to?" David offered. Villa gave him a disbelieving look.
"Look, let's think about it for a minute," David went on, trying for persuasive. "This is supposed to be cover, right? It won't be very effective if we hole up in a safehouse somewhere. Figo's not going to stop sending us out, so we might as well make the best of it. The better we handle the cover, the more normal we can act."
After a moment Villa nodded, grudgingly. "What do you want to do tomorrow?"
David thought for a minute. "Take him down to headquarters, I guess, and get him a badge and a gun. If he'll go." He sighed. "I don't think we did a very good job telling him."
Villa's face shuttered. "He'll thank us when it's over."
They were suddenly treading on thin ice.
"They've put a detail on the family," David said carefully. "Just in case. Xavi's in charge."
Villa said, without expression, "Good."
David ran a hand through his hair and cast around for something – anything – to say. Before he could think of something, Villa suddenly put a hand on the table and turned toward David, just a little. His eyes were hooded.
A little thrill ran up David's neck, and his breathing went unsteady.
Villa leaned in, halting, and then abruptly stopped. David looked up at him; his face was a taut and strained. But his eyes were on David.
So David reached up and curled a hand around the back of Villa's neck, drawing him down. As Villa's rough, searching mouth came down on his own, for the first time in weeks David let himself slacken, let himself ease. Let himself think about nothing else but what he wanted – nothing else but this.
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*__*
Date: 2011-01-28 12:48 pm (UTC)I'm totally in love with your secret agents, I've been looking for something like this for ages!
Your writing style is very good, and the story is simply breath-taking and very interesting with all the unanswered questions *__*
Plus, Agent Silva is adorable <3
Re: *__*
Date: 2011-01-28 09:56 pm (UTC)Re: *__*
Date: 2011-01-29 03:56 pm (UTC)Everybody loves Silva =) especially when he's half-asleep <3
Cesc is great too, I love the way how he is caught between "Ohmygod what the hell is going on O_o" and "Ohmygod, secret agents *__*"
And that security guy Martinez is Javi Martinez, right? =D (another boy I adore...)
Re: *__*
Date: 2011-01-29 11:12 pm (UTC)Yes! You're the first person to catch that. :D They're a little weird up in Security - all that time looking at computer screens in a dark room - and so is Javi (I say this with love!), so it's a good match, I figure.
Re: *__*
Date: 2011-01-30 09:20 pm (UTC)Very good match, in my opinion ^^
I'd love to know a little more about that (lovely) weirdness of the Security guys, that sounds interesting ;) (and since Javi's involved, it's cute as hell <3)
I hope you'll continue the story soon, I'm already addicted ^^"
no subject
Date: 2011-05-29 01:16 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-05-29 03:10 pm (UTC)