Archive of Our Own ^beta

There’s something about the new quartermaster that intrigues Dream.

You'd think he'd seen it all in his leap from grand larceny to espionage.

But apparently not, as evidenced by the new young quartermaster who just shows up out of nowhere and practically already has the entire agency wrapped around his finger.

Codename 404. Age unknown. Date of birth unknown. Nationality unconfirmed but is obviously English judging from his accent. An enigma wrapped in unprofessional hoodies and way too pristine sneakers. He’s the newest addition to their ragtag group. Still, he’s already carved out a place for himself among trigger-happy agents with penchants for blowing things up and licenses to kill.

Dream first meets him when he returns from a mission in Beijing.

As soon as his plane landed, he wanted nothing more than to curl up in the bed he hadn’t seen in a month and stay there until he was called in.

But he’d been nursing a headache since taking off from BCI, and he just knows the earful he’d get from his boss for not coming in for debriefing would just make it worse. Bad, a stickler for the rules, would ground him for at least a week just to teach him a lesson.

If he wants to remain in bed for the foreseeable future in peace, he needs to head to HQ to debrief and return his equipment.

The stale office air is a welcome reprieve from the smog-laden streets of both Beijing and New York. Dream is pretty sure the same Febreeze plug-ins have been there since he was a rookie. Clearly, the budget is funneled into more important areas, which Dream isn’t sure if he should laugh or grimace at.

He greets Bad’s secretary with a lazy salute.

“Is he in?” Dream asks, leaning his hip into the desk.

“Hello to you too, agent,” Alastair says with a roll of their eyes, “He’s in a meeting with the President, and it isn’t looking like they’re gonna come to an agreement any time soon. I believe I heard something about someone blowing up his favorite room at The Plaza…?”

In his defense, the leader of one of the largest European crime syndicates was about to take off into the night right after it had just been revealed that one of the people he trusted and worked with was actually actively working for the agency trying to get rid of him. Really, who knows when they would have ever gotten an opportunity like that ever again?

Dream’s surprised it took him this long to chew Bad out about something that happened months ago.

Which means he is getting that earful from Bad after all.

“Heard it was a gas leak.”

“Of course, agent.”

The fluorescent lights worsen the pounding in his head.

“How long do you think the President can stay mad about a hotel room?”

“Quite a while, I believe. I’ll ring for you when he’s run out of breath.”

Great. Branch 4 it is then.

Maybe if he’s quick, he can commandeer a bed in Medical for a nap before his headache can progress any further.

Because his mother raised him right, he thanks the secretary before he’s off on his way to the lowest floor of HQ.

Of all the five branches of the SMP, Branch 4 is always the one he looks forward to visiting the most. For one, the techs make for entertaining conversation partners in between missions. Along with the secretaries of Branch 1 and 2, they always bring Dream up to speed with the latest office gossip.

Gossip spreads fast throughout the agency, and the techs are 90% to blame. For an espionage agency, hardly anyone seems to be capable of keeping a secret, especially not when it comes to other members of the agency. Their monthly betting pool of who’s gonna get together with who turned into the agency’s favorite pastime. The only reason the higher-ups in Branch 1 haven’t cracked down on it is that they, too, place their bets every month.

This month, Dream has his money on Jacobs and Agent 010.

The techs are a savvy lot but too gullible for their own good. And when they’re feeling especially generous with lending out their toys, then Dream could hardly complain.

But he’d be remiss to not include their quartermaster as part of the reason he enjoys heading down there so much. 403, this tiny woman who Dream thinks is as old as the SMP itself, always welcomed all the agents down, either to just chat with her or to let out steam by testing one of RND’s latest inventions. In the short time he got to know her, she became one of the smartest, kindest people that Dream knows, and god, if that isn’t hard to find in their field of work. It’s a shame she retired while Dream was in Beijing, he still wishes he could have made her retirement party, but if there’s anyone who deserves to live the rest of their life in peace, it’s Miss Delia.

However, he does wish they could do away with one thing.

When the elevator doors open, his nose immediately is assaulted with the smell of roasting coffee beans and a cheap air freshener. The entire floor constantly reeks of it. It’s hardly surprising when the branch seems to exclusively run on it. If there’s one thing that every SMP employee knows, it’s not to come between techs and their coffee.

Various groups scurry around, talking amongst themselves, carrying trays and boxes of…parts, and generally living up to their name of the branch that never sleeps. Dream catches bits and pieces of their conversations, mainly about coding, but they usually go by a mile a minute.

He tries stopping a few of them to take his gun and earpiece off his hands, but they all direct him to the back of the room.

To the new Quartermaster.

So they’ve already managed to find a replacement for Miss Delia.

Whoever it is, they have some big shoes to fill, that’s for sure.

He follows the wires to the back of the room, taking care not to trip over one of them and risk incurring the wrath of very angry techs. One of them he can handle, but a whole group? He’ll be lucky if he gets one of the dummy guns the rookies use for practice for his next mission.

Strangely, he feels their glare more intensely this time. He makes sure to walk even slower than he usually does.

When he successfully navigates the minefield that is the 4th Branch floor, he’s greeted by the glow of the floor-to-ceiling monitors displaying various security cam footage and target profiles.

And by a man wearing a Supreme hoodie of all things.

The brunet doesn’t even spare him a glance as he peers down at a laptop, one hand typing furiously while the other pushes an empty plastic tray towards Dream. His eyes are hidden behind large wire frame glasses, shadowed further by the glare of the laptop. A pair of headphones cover one of his ears, and an SMP lanyard hangs around his neck. The unstyled hair and the black sweatpants pull the whole “college student showing up for a final” look together, wholly underdressed compared to all the other techs with their collared shirts and corduroy sweaters.

And yet there’s an air about him that has Dream on the edge of being warry. It’s barely there, hardly noticeable. Maybe it’s a combination of the fatigue from the mission and the twenty-hour flight or the fact that Dream might have finally lost it.

But his instincts have never failed him so far. And right now, they’re telling him this man is more than meets the eye.

Interesting.

“Just put your stuff there,” he says in accented English, gesturing to the tray.

“What? Is the new QM too busy for me?” Dream asks, but he unloads his gun and sets it down on the tray anyway. His earpiece follows soon after.

He wonders when he’ll actually get to meet the new quartermaster — probably not too long after today, knowing their schedules.

He isn’t dignified with a response. Or even a look for the matter.

But Dream almost misses the small huff of air the tech lets out when he asks.

If this guy is a new hire — which Dream suspects he is because he’d definitely remember someone like him if they met before — then he must have already been fed all the rumors about the Branch 0 agents.

Or maybe, specifically, the gossip about him.

Like how he’s slept with the entire board to get promoted to the youngest field agent in agency history. Or how he’s supposedly either related to or dating one of the retired field agents. Or how he’s part of the top-secret cyborg program that the SMP is performing on volunteers to get an edge above other agencies.

None of them are true, of course.

Dream made them up himself.

So this guy is either more gullible than all the other techs combined, or he’s just not one for conversation.

“Are you just going to stand there, or do you have somewhere else to be, Double Oh Nine?”

His face is perfectly neutral as he finally peers up at Dream. When he does, only then does Dream notice how young this guy actually looks.

And attractive to boot.

Dream barely gets a word in before the PA system crackles to life, and Alastair’s smooth baritone rings throughout the room.

“Double Oh Nine to Branch One, Double Oh Nine to Branch One.”

Speak of the devil.

He turns to bid farewell to the tech, but he and his tray are both gone.

Later, when he’s finally in Bad’s office, he offhandedly mentions the new young tech in Branch 4. The one with the glasses and the terrible taste in clothing.

“Oh! So you’ve met Quartermaster Four Oh Four then, that’s good,” Bad says as he shuffles some papers together, “How is he?”

Dream has to pick his jaw up off the floor.

So that’s the new quartermaster. Dream doesn’t know what he was expecting, only that the new QM wouldn’t be so…green? Inexperienced? Wet behind the ears? Christ, Miss Delia was at the age where she was considering retirement when Dream first met her. The last two before her were also well into their fifties when they took up the position.

But Dream supposes he, of all people, can’t really judge.

The quartermaster is an all-encompassing job within the SMP. They’re responsible for RND, cybersecurity, and being the field agents’ main handlers.

The newbie might be more interesting than he gave him credit for. How exciting.

“Quiet, kind of a snob, honestly,” Dream shrugs, “Not really much else, but, like you said, we did just meet.”

He doesn’t mention that he could barely get a read on him. But damn him if he isn’t going to try.

“Try to get along with George.” The name is almost too mundane that Dream has half a mind to think it’s another codename. “You and the others are gonna be working very closely with him in the future.” Bad gives him a pointed look above his glasses, snapping a folder shut to punctuate his point.

With an easy smirk, he nods.

“Of course, sir.”

Dream gets his next mission not even a week after Beijing.

He’s in the middle of trying to break his record on the agency parkour course because someone (010) was getting way too close to overtaking it during his month away.

His feet barely touch the next platform before jumping to grab the next beam and swinging himself to the next obstacle. The edge he’s supposed to grab, once black, is now practically white from all the chalk other agents left there. But he takes a different route: a harder one but lets him save more time.

He hoists himself up in one fluid motion then keeps running.

The course stopped being a challenge long ago but has since become his preferred way of decompressing after an assignment. It’s a constant, monotonous loop of pushing himself to go faster and faster and finding areas where he can cut corners to shave split seconds off his best time.

The final jump is right in front of him when he hears the gym doors whoosh open.

Normally, nothing can stop him once he’s going, but familiar accented English breaks through the thundering pulse in his ears. It causes him to jump shy of the final platform, sending him into the soft foam blocks at the bottom of the course.

He almost doesn’t hear him as he lets himself be swallowed by the sweaty-smelling foam. “Double Oh Nine, mission brief in Branch Four at fifteen hundred. Don’t be late.”

And just like that, he’s gone, the automatic doors shutting behind him.

Checking his watch, he finds it a quarter before fifteen hundred. It means on top of not finishing the run that was supposed to beat his current record, he doesn’t even get time to shower.

Sighing, he picks himself out of the foam with an ungraceful shuffle. Before leaving, he grabs his water bottle and towel off the bench.

The only time he’s grateful for the unrelenting chill of Branch 4 is when he’s sweaty post-workout and from spending the better part of the morning in the hot gym.

George is already at his spot at the end of the room, studying some floorplans of a building on the large screens. Bad is nowhere in sight, which is good for both of them. He doesn’t notice Dream as he settles a few steps behind him, completely absorbed in the data on the screen.

“You could have given me the heads up earlier.”

He runs the towel through his hair, over his face, and on his bare arms to punctuate his sentence.

To his credit, the quartermaster doesn’t even flinch.

“Bad finished the meeting late.”

Still, Dream glares at the back of his head half-heartedly just because he can.

“I could have died, y'know. Landed wrong and broke my neck. Or even worse — paralyzed from the waist down.” Dream sighs dramatically, “Imagine, reduced to a life of desk work.”

His eyes dart to the dozens of techs behind him, then back to the quartermaster.

“No offense.”

404 turns to him. He looks significantly more…exhausted than when they first met, evident to anyone who’d happened to be looking. He’s not wearing that Supreme hoodie anymore, but the creased plain beige sweater and black pants are hardly an improvement. Surely the past four days haven’t been that bad, Dream thinks. But then again, they work in espionage. The new QM would probably be lucky if the worst thing that happened was a minor international incident.

“I bet I can do more damage behind this desk than you can do in a year in the field,” George quips back, no heat in his tone, but there’s a hint of defensiveness for himself or his branch; Dream can’t tell.

Then under his breath, he says, “You’re a worse agent than I thought if your quartermaster could scare you into falling to your death.”

“You’re a worse quartermaster than I thought if you’d just let your agent fall to their death.”

He says it airily. Obviously, he doesn’t mean it. But at the same time, a twisted sense of satisfaction curls in his gut at getting the uptight quartermaster to bristle at the quip.

“Whatever…” George mutters. Light pink dusts his cheeks as he looks anywhere but at Dream.

A voice that sounds suspiciously like Bad’s echoes through his head, reminding him to play nice.

“Oh good, you two are already here.”

They both turn their heads to see the man himself cutting through the parting wall of people, Alastair on his heels. His signature black suit and red tie cut an intimidating figure among the wide-eyed techs not used to seeing their boss so up close. Dream catches some of them straightening out their posture upon seeing him. It’s kind of endearing.

Without any further pleasantries, Bad gestures to the QM. “Four Oh Four, pull up the files from case number two seventeen twenty.”

Dream can’t help the way his eyes widen slightly in recognition. Nor can the other people in the room, apparently, as several techs visibly stop what they’re doing to turn to the screen. He doesn’t blame them.

“The SBI case?”

Several pictures of a familiar face flash on the screen, pictures that Dream has studied for hours, poring over every detail until they’ve been burned into his mind. He would know that face anywhere.

The face of a dead man. Phil Watson.

Dream had heard of the SBI long before he became an agent. Before his dramatic career change five years ago, the SBI was always a name he heard of among criminal circles though never really paid attention to due to their centralization in Europe.

As a rookie, the SBI became a catch-all for all the other European criminal organizations. The Italian Mafia, the Belgian Mafia, somehow all the big crime groups could be linked back to the SBI. The groups received orders, weapons, and funding. In turn, they’d carry out the SBI’s dirty work, making their existence hard to even prove.

Watson, their leader, was once the most powerful man in Europe. Under him were two other men, Soot and another person only known as Technoblade, both of whom have gone missing since Watson’s death.

“Double Oh Six reported ongoing activity in one of the SBI warehouses in Belgrade,” Bad says. A satellite image of the building pops up on the screen, along with recent photos captured around the area. Pictures of unmarked trucks exiting and entering the warehouse appear next. Dream doesn’t have to think too hard to guess its contents.

“Agent, your mission is to infiltrate the warehouse and find out as much as you can about their operations. We have reason to believe that despite Watson’s death, it’s still business as usual. Your work was…invaluable to the case, and I’d hate to see it go to waste. If we don’t stamp this out in a few months, it could be like nothing happened, and we’d go back to chasing phantoms in the dark.”

“Why not just send a whole team in? Wouldn’t it be riskier to send just one agent?” 404 pipes in, looking at Bad. Then after a beat, he tacks on a clipped “Sir,” like an afterthought.

“No. A team would risk detection,” Dream says, “If they really are starting to get into trouble again, the SBI would be on much higher alert now that dear ol’ Phil’s dead. That means higher security, higher surveillance, and the risk of wiping their data at the first sign of danger.”

When the quartermaster doesn’t respond, Dream continues, a slight smirk curling his lips. “Why? You don’t think I can handle it?”

Bad clears his throat pointedly. “Is there a problem, Four Oh Four?”

The brunet openly glares at him as he utters a low, “No, sir.”

“If there are no further questions, Four Oh Four will be handling this mission with his Second standing by. Agent, your flight leaves tonight at nineteen hundred hours. Good hunting, agent,” then he inclines his head at 404, “Quartermaster.”

And just as quickly as they entered, Bad and Alastair turn on their heels and head up the elevator. Though not before Alastair sends him and George an encouraging thumbs up over their shoulder.

Once they’re gone, George slaps a thick manila envelope against his chest.

“This better be at least business class,” Dream says, peering into the envelope. Passport, tickets, hotel information, and warehouse floor plan.

“Sorry, but Ryder Cox is more of a premium economy kind of name,” George says over his shoulder as he walks toward the armory. His voice has a smirk he doesn’t have to see to know it’s there.

Dream follows him, half annoyed at the lack of inconspicuousness of the name Ryder Cox and half internally laughing at the name Ryder Cox.

George picks out a slim black box and hands it to Dream. “Beretta M9 with a couple modifications of my own design. Hold the grip until you hear a click,” he instructs. Dream curls his palm around the ridges of the grip until he hears the telltale click that George mentions. “Now that it’s coded to your palm print, only you will be able to fire it.”

Dream hums appreciatively. He also notices a few other minor modifications like weight and increased mag capacity. “Very useful,” he remarks. George has certainly been put to work the past month he’s been here.

He gets handed two more black boxes, smaller than the last. “Your earpiece and flash drive. Just plug it in into whatever system they have over there, and it should give me remote access to all their files.” Pocketing the flash drive and slipping the earpiece in, he glances at George as he puts away the boxes. The brunet has to get up on his toes to return the containers to their shelves.

The fact shouldn’t endear him as much as it does.

His eyes follow his form as they flit back up.

But he quickly dismisses the thought as soon as it forms.

George notices him lingering and turns, brow raised. “What is it?”

“Well, I can’t help but wonder,” Dream begins, clearing his throat, “If this is all you’re sending me out with?”

He knows the gun and earpiece are standard for a stealth mission, but he doesn’t know if 404 knows that.

“A gun, an earpiece, and a USB. This isn’t exactly Christmas,” he remarks innocently. Dream takes a half step closer, not enough to be in George’s space but enough that the lines of his shoulders tense ever so slightly.

“I can send you out with a toothpick and a water gun if you want.”

Because Dream is nothing but the epitome of the belief ‘high risk, high reward,’ so he takes another half step forward, putting him directly in front of the quartermaster’s crossed arms and simmering glare.

“Are you really going to send one of your agents into enemy territory with just this?” He gestures down to his sparse equipment between them.

“...Sir?”

The quartermaster opens his mouth, then shuts it, lips drawing into a thin line.

“One item but nothing bigger than your palm,” 404 says, pushing him back with a hand to his chest. “And nothing that explodes,” George continues, promptly cutting him off.

“Sir, yes, sir.” Dream salutes.

“Stop calling me that. It’s — I don’t even know,” George grumbles, turning to the door. “Just get what you need and leave. I still need to prepare for your stupid mission.”

Dream watches his retreating figure storm out of the armory then lets out a small, satisfied breath when the quartermaster disappears into Branch 4.

The warm metal of the butterfly knife is heavy in his palm, perfectly weighted. At the bottom of the safe handle are three letters, GHD, clearly scratched on unprofessionally judging from the jaggedness around them. Dream flips it open, flips it closed, then stuffs it into his pocket.

George opens comms at midnight on the dot.

At the sound of beeping in his ear, Dream gets up from prone, dusts off his tac suit, and pulls his black beanie over his hair. He’d been waiting on the roof of the building next to the warehouse since twenty-two hundred, the wind making his lashes freeze as he watched guards and trucks move in and out, committing their movements to memory.

“You know that isn’t a real knife, right?” the quartermaster says by a way of greeting.

“Oh my god, no way,” Dream deadpans, sliding 404’s knife into his pocket. He pulls out another standard-issue military knife and slides it into his leg holster.

“Your target is the main office on the second floor, two guards in front of the door and eight roaming the main floor. Armed with MKs.”

He starts running through his pre-stealth mission ritual as George talks, which is to say he first stretches out his arms, his legs, then his neck, checks his gun, secures the suppressor, and finally triple knots his boot laces.

“I have eyes on you,” George says. Other muffled voices are on the other end of the line, but Dream pays them no mind. From the corner of his eye, he spots the blinking red light of a security camera and gives it a small two-fingered salute. Then he starts down the stairs.

“There’s a back entrance on the east side of the warehouse. The two guards just left but you’re gonna have to get over the fence.” Dream nods to himself.

“Copy. On my way.”

Making a right, he ducks into the alley between the building and the warehouse. Using the piles of garbage for cover, he ducks low until he’s in front of the entrance. A floodlight and a security camera are pointed directly at it from the corner of the warehouse.

“Camera on my ten o’clock,” he mutters.

Typing then, “Froze their feed. Move now.”

The fence isn’t so high that he can’t climb over it. Dream pulls himself up and over. As soon as his boots make contact with the ground, he dashes to the door and presses himself flat against the wall. It’s locked with a card scanner. No other entrances that he could see.

“Two guards approaching from your left — just pick the lock — what are you doing?”

Right as George says that, Dream sees the light of a flashlight in his peripheral coming from behind the blind corner.

He grabs his knife, back flat to the wall, and moves to the left.

His eyes focus on the ground, watching for the approaching light, waiting for the guards to round the corner.

“Agent-”

Dream doesn’t hear the rest when he’s grabbing the guard closest to him and driving the knife right through his jugular. Pushing the corpse to the ground, he rips the keycard off the cord by his belt. Before the second one can react, Dream jerks forward to nail him in the jaw with his left and slash his neck with his right.

The two guards breathe their last puffs of cold air at his feet. He takes the keycard between his lips before hoisting the first one up and into the dumpster beside the door, followed by the second, making sure not to step in the blood.

He waves the keycard to the camera as he shuts the dumpster lid.

“Yes, I can see that now,” George monotones.

Wiping off the blood with his sleeve, he scans the card, and the door opens with a click. He switches to the pistol as he peers through the crack of the door. From this angle, he sees the light from under the tall shelves of crates but no guards in this row.

“Is anyone on my left?”

“Two guards heading the opposite direction.”

With a breath, he takes off into a sprint and then uses the momentum to slide into the space under the shelves before the guards’ turn. Holding his breath, he waits for them to move, listening for retreating footsteps. He tries to crane his neck upward to check but there isn’t much room to move besides sliding on his back.

“Anyone coming?” he asks, pistol clutched to his chest.

“Two guards on eastside, they’re moving away, but they’re taking like a billion years,” George responds, clicking his tongue, “Hold your position. The stairs leading to the office should be south of where you are.”

Sure enough, craning his neck to the left, he sees the raised metal walkway and the two guards standing in front of what’s presumably the office door. The tops of their heads are just barely visible from Dream’s position.

“Is the second lane clear? I’m taking the shot at the two by the door,” he says, cocking the pistol.

“Yes — wait, no. It’s too risky-”

“Is anyone looking this way?”

“Double. Oh. Nine. I-”

“Four Oh Four. Is anyone looking or not?” Dream hisses.

He hears the table get hit before another voice pipes in, saying, “You’re clear-”

Dream is already sliding backward to give himself a better angle. When he’s sure he can see more than just the tops of their heads, he pushes his foot against a post and takes two shots in quick succession. He’s still feeling the recoil in his arms when he pulls the rest of himself out from under the shelf.

Vaguely, he can hear frantic typing and muttered threats to his life in a distinctly English accent as he heads up the stairs. Swiping the keycard, he peers through the crack into the dark office.

“The office is clear. Hurry. Any computer would work,” George hisses.

Dream bites back a smart retort; he drags the second guard through the door. He picks a computer facing away from the door, plugs the USB in, and turns the computer on.

“The download should take five minutes. Just keep your head down,” George tells him, and Dream scoffs.

“Nice. Thanks for the advice.”

And he waits.

By minute three, George reopens comms.

“Six guards coming up the stairs,” he says. Dream checks the download but it’s still at 78%. The two bodies are slumped in front of the door. There shouldn’t be anything majorly off that the guards could notice.

“крв!”

Except that.

“One more minute-“

He hears muffled yelling outside the door as someone starts banging on it. Then the telltale click of the lock opening. Dream shuts the monitor off as he ducks below the desk, straining his ears for any sound.

Clothes rustle as the bodies are shoved aside. Heavy boots hit the floor. Guns are being drawn.

“Thirty seconds,” George says.

Then after a beat, “You see the window in front of you? Shoot it when I tell you to, then run through it.”

Despite every instinct in him yelling to grab the flash drive and run the other way, his feet remain firmly planted under him.

As if his body just knows to obey even if his mind does not.

“Just trust me.”

Six versus one. Definitely possible, but he can’t risk losing the flash drive.

The footsteps get closer with each passing second, and the grip on his pistol tightens. He hears them approaching from all sides.

So he has no other choice but to go forward.

“Ready in three, two — ONE!”

Dream grabs the USB as he fires one shot at the window. The guards yell when he barrels forward. Shielding his head with his arms, he crashes into the window.

Glass grazes his arms.

Bullets whiz past his ears.

He feels weightless.

Then he falls into something soft and smelling distinctly like rotting waste.

The lights cut out. Before they peak their heads out the window, he grabs a garbage bag and tosses it into the Danube River behind him. It lands with an audible splash, alerting the guards. One by one, he sees six flashlight beams focus on the water.

They yell at each other in Serbian.

“Told you,” George says, voice rising over the ringing in his ears. “Hang low for a bit. I’ll tell you when to go.”

Hearing the roar of engines start and boats take off along the Danube, he doesn’t dare peek his head out. Even at an awkward angle, he keeps still, not wanting to risk making any noise in his precarious position. So he waits for the go signal.

It must only be a few minutes when the quartermaster reopens comms.

“Status, agent?”

“Flash drive secured,” he reports, “Kinda hungry but otherwise unharmed. Oh, and cold and gross too.”

With an exasperated sigh, 404 says, “Three remaining guards patrolling the perimeter, but you’re clear to move. There’s a silver Skoda Superb in front of the building you were in earlier. Keys are in the glove box.”

“Great,” Dream grunts as he slowly pulls himself out of the piles of garbage bags.

“There’s a change of clothes inside. And the heater should be on,” George adds.

Despite the situation, Dream smiles to himself.

“Aww, quartermaster. You do care.”

He can almost hear the contempt in George’s tone. “It’s my job, in case you forgot.”

“To be fair, that’s not a no.”

“Just get to the car, agent,” he says before cutting off.

Later, when he’s feeling fresher and warmer in clean clothes, he notices on the way back to his hotel that he hasn’t passed any red lights. And as if he needed any more proof that the quartermaster was following him, he comms when he’s a couple minutes away from the hotel.

“There’s a bakery that’s still open if you turn right. It’s supposed to be good.”

But before Dream can thank him, the line goes dead.

Instead of pulling up to the hotel, he makes a quick turn into the next street.

And George was right.

The burek is heavenly.

The next time Dream sees George is the night he returns to New York.

He had handed over his equipment and the USB to one of George’s techs because the man himself was stuck in a meeting. Since George isn’t present, Dream holds off surrendering the other item that he brought back from Belgrade.

He was supposed to come back down after typing up his report, but he wanted to stretch out a bit after sitting for too long, which then escalated into him visiting the gym.

And now it’s twenty hundred, and everyone’s probably headed home. Great.

Ultimately, he just decides to leave the box and knife on George’s desk for him to see tomorrow. There’s a hint of disappointment at not being able to see 404’s reaction to his souvenir, but this most likely won’t be the first time he’ll be gifting one anyway. So Dream showers quickly and grabs both from where they’ve been in his locker the whole day. He waves at the janitor as he makes his way down to Branch 4.

The elevator pings open to a dark room. It’s almost unrecognizable without all the hustle of people save for the few midnight crew techs. Dream takes extra care to avoid all the wires now that he has limited vision. He’s almost near the back of the room when he catches the light from the room overlooking the floor, George’s office.

When he squints through the windows, George is sitting in front of a three-monitor display, thoroughly absorbed in what he’s looking at.

Excitement bubbles in his chest. He’s so excited that his composure slips for a brief second; he bounds up the stairs and knocks just a bit too loudly on the glass. The sudden noise startles George and Dream winces. He almost expects George to not let him in after that, but he hears a soft beep, opening the lock on the door.

“What are you doing here?” George asks as he enters, closing the door behind him.

Dream places the box and the knife on top of precariously stacked files. “I wanted to give you this.”

George gives him a skeptical look before grabbing the box gingerly. He holds it at arm’s length like he thinks it’ll explode.

“What is it?”

“It’s a souvenir, idiot, not a nuclear warhead.”

The word just slips out. Dream doesn’t mean it to be offensive; luckily, George doesn’t seem to think it is.

George still looks like he’s debating locking the box in RND, so Dream grabs it out of his hands and opens it himself. He holds the mug out for George to see. It’s a white mug with Belgrade spelled on it. Dream doesn’t know why he got it. He was waiting for his flight to start boarding, saw it on display in one of the Starbucks kiosks, and had to buy it for the quartermaster. As far as he can tell, George doesn’t even drink coffee or tea, if the absence of mugs on his desk is anything to go by.

So when George asks, “Why are you giving me this?” Dream doesn’t answer for at least five seconds.

“Consider it a thank you,” is what he finally settles on, “For saving my ass.”

The quartermaster just rolls his tired eyes. “The SMP already pays me enough. You didn’t need to get me anything.”

This time, it’s Dream’s turn to roll his eyes, half out of amusement and half out of just wanting the quartermaster to accept the dumb gift already. “Look, are you gonna take it or not? I can’t exactly return it.”

George gives him another look but finally concedes. “Fine,” he sighs, turning back to his computer, “Just put it somewhere out of my way.”

Dream smiles. “You’re welcome,” he sing-songs even as George barely pays him any mind.

As he moves to place it on a nearby shelf next to a row of files, he notices the lack of color in the room. In fact, there are hardly any personal touches throughout the office. Dream doesn’t count the fake potted plant on top of George’s CPU because everyone in the SMP is given one. The most personalized thing in the room is the computer with its ergonomic keyboard and galaxy mousepad. For roughly a month, George has been with the agency, and still nothing that really marks the space as his. He knew Ms. Delia liked to keep her office smelling like lavender. She kept pictures of her and the techs on her desk and had a personalized pink lab coat.

George doesn’t have anything that even implies he has a life outside the office.

A small part of Dream feels a bit of sympathy at that. Dream still has boxes that he hasn’t unpacked despite having the apartment since early last year. Most of his time is spent out of the apartment, in hotel rooms, or in safe houses across the world. So, the apartment feels more like one of those than the permanent residence it’s supposed to be. The fact that he’s helping George settle into this space, whether it’s technically his or not, makes him feel like a hypocrite.

He moves towards the door, ready to leave, when George lets out a string of foul curses, bangs his hands on the table, and gets up from his chair.

“What’s wrong?” he asks before he can stop himself.

“The stupid SBI encryption,” George groans, running his hands through his already messy hair, only for the brown strands to flop back into his eyes.

“Is it that bad?”

“It’s fucking genius,” he says, glaring daggers at the screen, “Which makes it annoying as fuck to decrypt.”

Dream glances at his watch, 10:48 p.m.

Without warning, he steps behind George’s desk, grabs the mouse, and starts scrolling through the lines of code.

“What are you doing? Do you even have the clearance to do this?” George asks but makes no move to stop him. Dream feels him peer over his shoulder, studying the screen.

“I’m helping you,” Dream shrugs. When he sees one line of red in the code, he reaches over to correct it. “If Bad finds out, I can just say it was for the mission.”

The longer Dream scrolls, the more he realizes exactly how much the SBI have upped their cybersecurity since Phil died. From what Dream can tell, it’s layers upon layers of complex countermeasures, some he’s seen used before, but they’re mostly new. Complicated, yes. But not impossible.

“Try running it,” he says, moving aside to allow George to sit down.

For a split second, their fingers touch as George grabs the mouse from him. The sensation lingers for a bit too long, even when the long, nimble digits are running over the keys.

“Shit.”

Another error flash. But at least some progress has been made.

“Alright-” he says as George lets out another frustrated groan.

“It’s close, I know it’s close, it’s just the-” George begins, but Dream cuts him off with a shake of his head.

“I know,” he says, staring at the screen and the blinking error message. When nothing comes after a minute of forcing his brain to figure out the problem, he pulls out his phone.

“Have you eaten?” he asks but doesn’t wait for an answer, “I’m ordering us food; what do you want?”

George has to do a double-take.

Oh, the picture that he makes. Brows raised into his messy hairline, glasses askew, a too-large black sweater that looks really similar to the one Dream has in his own closet, it’s so similar that he can easily imagine it to be his-

Hold on. Pause. Reel it back in 009.

“I haven’t eaten since — whatever — order anything as long as you’re paying. Except anything with raw tomato,” George says, adjusting his glasses and turning back to the computer.

Dream nods dumbly. He pushes the feeling aside to focus on his primary objective: keeping him and his increasingly frustrated quartermaster fed. Lucky for him, he knows the rice bowl place he usually orders from is still open around this time. After ordering two servings of their chicken rice bowls with a side of their garlic sauce, he grabs a chair and makes himself comfortable for the night ahead.

They spend the time waiting for their food in relative silence, save for tapping keycaps and pointing out the occasional flaw in the lines of code. Dream is so absorbed in the task at hand that he fails to notice how close he’s gravitated towards 404, so close that their knees just barely touch underneath the table.

It all comes to a head when he leans forward to point out a mistyped command while George turns at the same time to say something.

“You missed-”

“How do you think-”

Every thought he has comes to a screeching halt.

The agent rarely finds himself at a loss for words. After all, he’s trained to charm and coerce anyone at the drop of a hat. Nine times out of ten, it’s his aim or hand-to-hand combat skill that saves him, but the other one out of ten, it’s his quick wit that lets him live to see another day.

But right now, he feels completely and utterly disarmed.

In the end, it’s George that speaks first.

“You were saying?” he asks with a slight tilt of his head.

Dream finds it very hard to remember what he was going to say when George looks up at him with those soft brown eyes that curve up ever so slightly in the corners.

“I-”

His phone starts ringing.

“I should get the food-” he says, rushing to his feet, “Just keep working on that; I’ll go grab it.”

He’s already halfway out the door before finishing his sentence, leaving George staring at the back of his retreating form.

Their all-nighter proves to be a fruitful sacrifice, yielding locations of where the weapons were being ordered from and their suppliers, as well as names. Two names, in particular, kept popping up more than most.

Zephyrus and Protesilaus.

Codenames, Dream thinks, pretentious ones at that.

They managed to work out the decryption code just as the alarm on Dream’s phone had gone off, indicating that the sun had risen. The relief that washes over both of them is palpable.

But it’s quickly replaced by dread at the realization that they have to be back in the office at nine hundred hours.

“Do you need a ride?” Dream offers as he tiredly stretches out his back. When George shakes his head, he can’t help but feel a little disappointed.

“It’s fine. I have a ride,” George says, yawning.

And that’s how Dream finds out that the jet-black Hookie Wolf he always sees in the parking lot belongs to George. He stares, mouth agape, as the quartermaster slings one long leg over and climbs onto the motorcycle.

“Thanks for helping me. And for the food. I’ll see you later,” George smiles before putting on his helmet and riding out into the empty streets.

And the only thing on Dream’s mind is holy shit.

He is fucked.

That same morning after their all-nighter, George is once again his handler for another mission. This time, he’s putting his license to kill to use and assassinating one of the top supplier names on the decrypted list.

The target is a woman. Codename, Nemesis. They managed to link her back to a picture taken of Phil where she’s in the background. She looks completely unassuming at first glance, but Dream knows better than to underestimate people like that.

She’ll be appearing at a charity (the irony) gala in Munich, meaning Dream is immediately shipped off on the first flight to Germany. He packs light, a suitcase with a fake bottom housing his sniper rifle, and a change of clothes.

He sets up in the building next to the gala hall, right in front of one of the only windows. The window is small, almost too small to confidently make a clear shot, but it’ll have to do. It won’t be the first ‘impossible’ shot he’s had to make.

Since he has nothing to do besides waiting at this point, he comms George.

“Four Oh Four, this is Double Oh Nine. I am in position and awaiting the target's arrival,” he reports dutifully. Nemesis isn’t expected to arrive until the gala is almost over, so he has quite some time to kill.

“Copy. I’ll watch the perimeter for you.”

Thankfully, George keeps the line open. He occasionally hears the muffled voice of one of the techs on the other end, asking their boss for something, but eventually, they dwindle out as the night gets later and later.

Dream knows George is finally alone when he starts making small talk.

“So…do all Branch Zero agents know how to code like you?”

Dream tries to keep his voice as even as possible, not wanting George to hear the dumb smile he has on his face. “No. I’m probably unique in that aspect,” he shrugs. It isn’t an empty claim. He thinks some of his seniors know their way around a bit of code, but not to the extent that he does. Though especially not to the extent he knows SBI code specifically.

“Unique, yes. Humble, probably not,” George scoffs, and Dream can’t help but let out a laugh of his own.

“Okay, Mr. I can do more damage behind my desk than you after a year in the field; talk to me about humbleness. Tell me, how does a twenty-something newly grad land a position as branch head for an international espionage agency?”

And George actually laughs at that, full-on laughs right in Dream’s ear. He wonders if the bridge of his nose would scrunch up like how it does when he gives Dream a wry grin after making a lousy coding joke.

The sound burns itself into his mind.

What he wouldn’t give to see it in person.

“Newly grad? I’m probably older than you, Double Oh Nine.”

“Oh, you can’t blame me for thinking that, not when you showed up to the office with a Supreme hoodie and Ultraboosts.”

“That wasn’t even my fault!” George protests, “My cat got hair all over my ‘office wear,’ and the hoodie was the only clean thing I had. No one’s even called me out for it, by the way — except for you.”

Oh?

“A cat?”

“Don’t even get me started on — what? Yes, I have a cat. He likes chewing on wires, sitting on my computer’s power button, but I let him get away with it.”

The image of the quartermaster in one of his stupid sweaters with a cat weaving through his legs is almost too much to handle. George at his desk with his cat in his lap, trying but failing to keep him from chewing on cables. Not for the first time, he wishes he had a cat of his own, like the one he and his sister used to take care of back in Florida-

No. A cat is a liability he can’t afford. Not to mention his lifestyle would never allow it.

“That’s…cute. He sounds cute.”

The silence that follows makes Dream’s palms sweat.

“Yes. He is.” And that’s that.

Dream clears his throat. “Anyway — you didn’t answer my other question.” Good swerve 009.

“Okay. Why do you even want to know so badly?” George asks, clearly stalling.

Dream shrugs, “Professional curiosity, I guess. Just give me the bare minimum if it’s redacted as I think it is.”

When George doesn’t respond, Dream continues. “I can tell you my story in exchange. Though I’m pretty sure some of it’s already in my file anyway, but whatever.”

He has no idea what compels him to make the offer. The only other person that knows the entire story is Bad, and only because he was directly involved. Not even his own mother knows.

But then again, it’s probably better if she just thinks he cut all ties with their family when he moved to New York. It’s probably less painful than knowing that her only other child was killing people in the name of maintaining a semblance of world peace.

George takes another moment to mull it over. This time he hears the creak of a chair, presumably to make sure none of the midnight crew are listening. He imagines him swiveling in his chair like he’s seen him do when he’s deep in thought.

“Whatever, I guess it doesn’t really matter if I tell you,” the quartermaster sighs. Dream tries not to overanalyze the use of you in the sentence.

“You probably heard about that huge data leak that happened a couple years ago? The one where all the big western intelligence agencies got involved?”

“No way — you’re HD?”

Dream heard about HD when he was still a junior agent, the hacker that leaked the dirty secrets of the West’s biggest intelligence agencies. This hacker replaced every single image the CIA had in their database with stock pictures of cats. This person remained a complete mystery for his entire career.

That HD is his fucking quartermaster.

“You’re lucky this line is secure,” George hisses close to the mic.

“MI6, Interpol, and the CIA wanted me dead. The rest of them wanted me locked up for life. The SMP offered me immunity, a clean slate, and job security in exchange for replacing Four Oh Three. No one except Bad and the rest of Branch One knows I took the offer. To everyone else, it just looks like I dropped off the face of the earth.”

Dream has to bite his tongue to keep from bursting into laughter because of the sheer absurdity.

The story checks out, too; as far as he knows, there hasn’t been any news of HD since at least a month ago, which aligns with when George presumably became quartermaster. Dream thought HD died or was imprisoned by one of the agencies out to get him. This whole time he’s been telling Dream to jump out of buildings and directing him to really good local bakeries.

“That’s…wow,” he breathes, “Wait, so does that mean the CIA was harder to hack than the SBI?”

“That isn’t even a fair comparison, but — well, that’s in the past now,” George coughs awkwardly. “Now tell me about you.”

“Well, now I don’t know if my story can even compare.”

Dream can practically hear George roll his eyes. “Answer the question, agent. That’s an order from your quartermaster.”

Warmth floods his cheeks, and he knows it’s not from the mid-November chill.

“You were probably right to tell me, out of all people, by the way,” he muses, “It’s not like I could rat you out.”

“Okay. Why?”

He almost doesn’t know where to start. It’s not a particularly tragic story; he thinks there were more highs than lows. However, it just feels so long ago, like a completely different lifetime.

“Do you know who XD is?”

“No. Was that you?”

Dream shakes his head, letting out an amused breath. “Nope. I guess I can’t imagine why you’d know him. XD was my mentor.”

“XD was a thief and a really good one. Not like HD — not like you with hacking into government secrets or something-” The quartermaster just lets out a hum. “XD stole paintings, cash, jewels, stuff that rich people locked in safes within safes.”

“He wanted a prodigy, and I passed his stupid test I guess.”

“What was the test?” He can practically hear George lean into the mic. Dream doesn’t blame him. The story sometimes still feels like something straight out of a movie.

“I stole his wallet,” Dream says, laughing. He remembers how stupidly relieved he was when he could buy groceries for an entire month and the toy his sister was begging for with the money.

“That’s it?” George asks incredulously.

“Hey, I don’t claim to know what was going on in his head. Turns out — the fucker had a tracker in his wallet and found out where I lived just so he could scare me half to death and offer me a job right after.” The thought still makes him shudder.

“I took the job because fuck if he didn’t make it sound like he was going to kill me if I said no. We only stole from old rich people who wiped their asses with oil money — that’s how I justified what we were doing to myself for over four years.”

Everything he learned from XD, every skill, every mannerism, has probably helped him in some way in his career as a spy. The man wasn’t even a good teacher. He just had a penchant for dropping Dream in situations with no prior preparation to test how he’d react on the fly, or now that he’s thinking about it, just to watch him squirm.

“Then what happened?” George asks, bringing Dream out of his thoughts.

“Then he died — I don’t know how but he left me with all his money, assets, and skills.” He donated most of the money, though not before setting aside enough to keep his mom and sister living comfortably, and sold next to all of XD’s properties until he was left with just his cuts from their previous jobs. “I could have just quit, and I would have had enough to live well for the rest of my life — but I just had to do one more job.”

He remembers the desire to prove himself, to prove that he didn’t need his mentor anymore.

George is silent as he talks, which Dream is thankful for. Though he knows he’s still there from the light breathing he hears over the line.

“It was supposed to be a simple get. Upper East side Manhattan apartment, not even close to the jobs we used to pull. Of all the fucking apartments I could have picked — guess which one I chose.” He’s grinning to himself.

“Some government guy?”

“It was Bad’s apartment.”

Then George lets out the most undignified snort that Dream’s ever heard.

“No way.”

Sometimes Dream can’t even believe it himself. “Instead of calling the cops, he tells me to sit in his living room and offers me tea. The second he offered condolences for XD, I thought he was gonna go ahead and finish the job. You can probably imagine my surprise when he tried to hire me.”

Then Clay became Dream. He entered the Branch 0 program, emerged a year later, earned the moniker 009 after his work with the SBI, and the rest is history.

George’s laughter rings through his ears, clear enough that it almost feels like he’s right next to him at his desk and not in some dilapidated building across the ocean.

Nemesis really needs to hurry and make her appearance so he can finish this damn job already.

“Does Bad just like taking in ex-criminals or something?”

Dream shrugs as he peers into the sight of his rifle. “Maybe he likes the extra security knowing that he has something over our heads if we ever decide to double-cross the SMP.” He has to admit it’s kind of genius. George hums consideringly.

As a thoughtful silence washes over them, he takes the opportunity to observe the partygoers. There’s a haze about them as they sip from champagne flutes and feed on tiny hors d'oeuvres like they’re untouchable by the rest of the world. He recognizes a few faces from the potential targets XD used to consider; old money, corrupt government officials, and people who had no business attending charity galas.

The longer he peers through, the more he notices something about the attendees.

“Do you have a visual inside the building?”

He counts three in his head — no five.

“Yes. Why? Has Nemesis arrived?”

“Do you see the pins some of them are wearing? The x with the diamond in the middle.” He doesn’t think he’s ever seen the symbol or anything similar. It could also be nothing, but it’s worth looking into, at least.

“The symbol isn’t in any database.”

Dream’s suspicion grows when a black van pulls up to the building, and out of it steps Nemesis, in a red body-hugging gown, with the pin on her lapel.

“Nemesis just arrived,” George says.

“I see her.”

Her lips move like she’s talking to someone.

“Can you intercept who she’s talking to?”

“Wait, wait-“ George types quickly, then, “Got it. Patching you through.”

“—his death was only a minor setback,” a man’s voice crackles through the earpiece, “Zephyrus will not affect our plans.”

George’s breath hitches on the other end at the mention of the name. The quartermaster instructs one of the techs, but Dream barely hears it. Eyes widening, he strains his ears to listen.

“Of course, sir.” Then all he hears is static as Nemesis slips into the building.

He steadies his breathing as he slips on his ear protection. Every other sound fades into the background except a faint ringing at the back of his head. Range finder reads 366 meters. He lets out a deep breath, shoulders tensing around the rifle, boots anchored to the wall in front of him.

Then he waits.

Time goes by slowly as he waits for Nemesis to enter his sights. Yet, all the while, he maintains his position, rigid and unmoving.

Until he spots red in the corner of his scope.

“Target stopped. Man in a blue suit to her twelve o’clock. Man in a black suit to her five o’clock. Am I clear?”

His grip tightens around the rifle.

“Confirmed. Fire when ready.”

In.

Out.

Pull.

The bullet shatters the glass and travels straight — right through Nemesis’ neck. He ducks under the window as soon as the shot hits.

The first thing he hears is George’s sigh of relief on the other end. “Kill confirmed. Good shot, agent. Cutting power for one minute. Get out of there, and I’ll see you at HQ tomorrow.”

“Copy that,” he says as he takes apart his rifle methodically, his ears still ringing. Before George can cut the comms, he opens his mouth to say, “It’s Dream, by the way.”

“What?” The question almost gets lost among the screams from the other building.

“My name. It’s Dream.”

“Oh,” George breathes, “Well — good shot, Dream.”

Then the line goes dead.

Dream’s chest warms all the way back to the safe house. It stays warm as he buys another Starbucks mug at the airport the next day.

Dream actually gets a whole week off after the mission in Munich this time. Bad apparently saw it fit to bench him just as they’ve started really cracking into the case, citing something about letting him rest for the last time before everything hits the fan.

The confirmation that Phil, aka Zephyrus, had someone he was closely working with and is still active seemingly made the agency busier than they already were. Agents with active missions were being told to keep tabs on SBI bases if they were in Europe, while others were tasked with going through the list of weapons dealers whenever one of them would blip the SMP’s radar, not enough to raise suspicion within the SBI’s ranks, but enough to hinder their operations slightly.

Which means that Dream gets a break.

But George doesn’t.

Because crime syndicates never rest, the SMP has multiple missions ongoing simultaneously. The last time he saw George, he was directing 001 through her mission in Prague while ordering an extraction for 005 in Rome while handling surveillance for 010 in Madrid. That was all just yesterday when Dream headed towards the firing range.

And it was also yesterday that he learned George had a habit of forgetting to eat when he had a lot to do.

Technically, Dream doesn’t have to come in until Monday next week — however — someone had to take on the task of keeping the quartermaster fed. The techs were already busy as is with the added workload.

So naturally, the job fell to Dream.

Really, it was a matter of global security. The quartermaster of the SMP has his hands in practically every outgoing operation the agency has. Ensuring that he’s functioning properly would almost guarantee the success of those operations. Not to mention that it could even be considered negligence on the SMP’s part, not caring for one of their most valuable assets.

Needless to say, Dream takes his mission very seriously.

They developed a routine — or more like Dream developed it based on George’s routine. Once they figured out what he was doing, the techs, headed by Karl Jacobs (George’s second in command that caught 010’s eye even before the new quartermaster arrived), quickly joined in on his efforts to keep their overly focussed quartermaster fed.

Now that he actually has time to cook, breakfast and lunch are usually homemade. They’re handed off to Karl, who’s tasked with placing the food in the optimal spot for George to find while the techs remind him to eat whenever they need to approach him.

Instead of handing dinner off to Karl, Dream usually brings it to George himself. It’s usually the last thing he does before leaving HQ.

If George figures out that his own subordinates are conspiring against him, he doesn’t say anything. Either way, he eats the food Dream brings him, and that’s all that matters.

The result of the routine is that Dream ends up spending more time in Branch 4 than he spends out of it. He gets roped into beta testing RND’s latest gadgets, helps with carrying heavy boxes of equipment, and sometimes gives his own input when one of the agents needs George’s help. All that, plus keeping their boss functioning, catapults him to their favorite Double Oh, a fact that Dream is now coveting over his fellow agents.

“No fucking way, you’re on top of their list now?” Sapnap, 010, asks him once he returns from Madrid on Saturday.

“Just bribe them with food,” Dreams says to him on their way down to Branch 4 with another order of dinner. He doesn’t mention that it’s their boss Sapnap has to pay particular attention to, choosing to keep that to himself.

The branch reminds him of a big ant colony. The techs are fiercely protective of one of their own, their quartermaster most of all. Whether it’s because of a branch solidarity thing or because George is younger than more than half the branch, Dream will never know.

Now he looks forward to the routine. He likes the confirmation of knowing that his frie-quartermaster is fed. He likes knowing that the other techs are getting a bit of a break amidst the chaos of the new developments. Their relatively good mood puts him in a good mood, a small respite from the world that awaits him outside HQ.

So as soon as the elevator doors open, he knows something’s wrong.

For one, it’s unusually quiet, even for the night shift. Then Dream notices George isn’t at the helm. Instead, it’s Karl watching over the large monitors at the back of the room. The quartermaster is usually the last one in the office, or he doesn’t leave until he knows he’s done with all his work.

The first place his eyes go to is George’s office. The lights are off, and he doesn’t see him inside. He tells Sapnap to hand out the food and then makes his way to Karl.

Sensing his approach, Karl takes off his headphones and turns to him.

“Where is he?” His voice sounds rough to his own ears.

“Firing range-”

He’s already moving to take off before Karl stops him by grabbing his sleeve. He hates to admit that he almost pulls the tech along with him in his rush.

“Agent — wait. Please.”

He stops despite himself, even as every instinct in him screams to get to George.

Karl can’t even look at him, his leg bouncing in place as he thinks of what to say. Dream doesn’t have time for this.

“Karl, I swear-”

“It’s Double Oh Three,” Karl blurts out, “Four Oh Four was handling his mission when he-”

Dream doesn’t let him finish. He practically throws whatever he’s holding at the table before taking off for the firing range.

One lane is lit up out of the dozen. A lone figure stands in the middle, body perfectly poised to shoot.

As quietly as he can, he enters the room and settles a couple steps behind him. The last thing he wants to do is startle a clearly unstable man with a loaded gun in his hands. So he resolves to speak up once George uses up all his bullets.

But to his surprise, George beats him to it.

“You don’t need to be here.” His voice is hard and steady, but Dream doesn’t fail to notice it’s a bit too watery around the edges.

He slams his hand on the button that sends the paper target towards him.

Eight misses. Seven perfect headshots.

George tosses it aside, right into the growing pile at his feet, all with a concerning number of holes through the head.

“It wasn’t your fault.”

“I don’t need you to tell me that.”

George just clicks another full magazine into place and takes aim. Dream doesn’t pretend that his chest doesn’t constrict when he says that, but he presses on.

“All the agents know the risk when they become an agent. There isn’t a single Double Oh that joins the program and thinks they’ll live to see retirement.”

“Stop-”

“George, listen to me. Double Oh Three knew the risks and still chose to carry out the mission. It was his choice to accept knowing that,” Dream cuts him off, “His blood is on the SBI’s hands — not yours.”

George doesn’t lower the gun. However, he doesn’t take another shot. His body is coiled so tightly that it feels like any outside force could shatter him at any moment.

Dream knows the feeling all too well.

“Just leave,” George says, voice breaking, still avoiding his gaze, “Please.”

Every day that Dream steps out into the field, every mission he accepts, every time he chooses to come into the office, he is confronted with his own mortality. The day will eventually come when he isn’t fast enough or when he’ll make a choice that will cost him everything.

The day where he's anything less than perfect.

Death started following him the day his mentor died; now, it’ll never leave until it finally has him in its reach. He only hopes that when it does, his death will have meant something in the grander scheme of the world.

The day XD died, he didn't cry.

But he does remember the heavy, all-consuming regret of not being able to do anything, of being completely powerless.

So his feet stay firmly in place.

“I SAID LEAVE,” George yells, “THAT’S AN ORDER, DOUBLE OH NINE.”

“Throw me out then,” Dream says.

His breath gets caught in his throat when George finally turns to him.

Brown eyes are bloodshot behind his glasses. His hair looks like it's been pulled in every direction. His hands quiver as they grip the pistol pointed to the ground.

Then the quartermaster surges forward, grabbing onto the lapels of his shirt so violently that he hears threads snap.

Up close, he can see the flecks of copper that dot his sneering lips, the angry red of his cheeks, the unshed tears that threaten to spill. Dream keeps his hands plastered to his side.

Even as a loaded gun is inches away from his face, the only thing on his mind is that he regrets not coming sooner.

“Throw me out, and I won’t come back,” he says slowly, carefully — afraid of what would happen if he raised his voice.

George’s white-knuckled hands tremble against his chest. His eyes dart across Dream’s face repeatedly, searching for something the agent can’t place. Then his lip starts quivering. Dream watches as his expression morphs from steely anger to broken regret.

As soon as the tears start falling, Dream reaches up, flicks on the safety, and gently coaxes it out of George’s death grip. The hands on his lapels tighten when he moves to put the gun away. He places it on a nearby table and pushes it aside, far away from them.

Then he slowly moves to wrap his arms around George. He makes sure to give enough room in case George doesn’t want him to but he shows no indication, nor does he say anything. So he keeps his arms where they are. One hand at the middle of his back and the other at the back of his head.

George’s entire body trembles in his hold. That only makes him hold on tighter.

Fuck.

“C’mere-” Dream breathes softly.

The non-existent distance closes, and George buries his head into Dream’s chest. The most awful, full-body sob rips from his throat. Dream feels it in between his ribs, in his bones. And all the while, he doesn’t let go. Instinctually, he curls himself into George, like he’s trying to shield him from some invisible threat. George just cries even harder.

Dream doesn’t know how long they stay there, nor does he care. He wouldn’t move even if the entire building was collapsing around them.

“I-Dream-I-I-“

“Shh shh-I promise it wasn’t your fault, George,” he whispers into his hair. It becomes a mantra that he repeats over and over until he feels his grip loosen ever so slightly around his collar.

He feels George catch his breath. “I tried — b-but they — his head-“

And when his quartermaster looks up at him with tear-streaked cheeks, he immediately moves to wipe them away with his thumb, his touch feather-light over the soft pale skin. He swipes a hand through brown locks, pushing them out of his eyes. And George lets him.

Green eyes hold George’s watery gaze, trying to convey something along the lines of, ‘It’s okay, I have you, I’m here, I’m not going anywhere.’

Then George’s eyes widen, and a hand pushes at his chest. Dream drops his hold instantly.

“Fuck — I just left Karl-“

He breathes a small sigh of relief, quickly sobering. “Karl is fine. He was handling another mission when I arrived,” Dream interjects gently. “He’ll be fine, George,” he says when the worry doesn’t fade, “You’ve trained him to know what he needs to do.”

He starts shedding his jacket. “C’mon, I’m bringing you back to your apartment-“

Worry is replaced with confusion. “What? I don’t-“

“If you think I’m letting you ride back like this-“

“I still have work to do, Dream-“

“You won’t be able to work properly like this and you know it,” he protests, “I know you haven’t eaten since lunch, too, which means you’re tired, hungry, and emotionally compromised.”

George’s mouth sets into a hard line as he watches him fold up his jacket and dig out his keys. “Here,” Dreams says, handing him both. He stares at them for a second before reaching out to Dream’s relief. “My car’s the black Mercedes — I’m gonna grab your food from the office; what else do you need me to get?”

George’s eyes flit up from the jacket in his arms to Dream, then finally, he says, “Just my laptop. It should be next to Karl.”

Dream nods then heads for the exit. But instead of stepping out into the hallway, he gives George one last look over his shoulder and sees him tidying up his lane, Dream’s jacket clutched to his chest.

Several heads turn to him when he enters Branch 4, all of the techs looking at him expectantly.

“He’s fine,” he announces. A collective sigh of relief washes over the room, then business continues as usual. Karl’s shoulders visibly sag at the news as he approaches. “Karl, his laptop?”

“Here,” the tech says, holding out a black messenger bag and the plastic bag he brought earlier.

Just as he’s slinging the bag over his shoulder, Karl opens his mouth. “Thank you — for uh, whatever you did,” he says, glancing at the undeniable wet patch on his shirt. At least he has the decency to not make it obvious. “We were all a mess when he just left; we weren’t sure what to really do, which is so dumb, I know-”

Dream cuts him off with a sharp nod.

“Come get me if he ever — if something like that happens again.”

Karl’s eyes narrow slightly, but he nods anyway. “Yeah, that would probably be best.”

With that, Dream stalks out of the office and into the elevator. He practically runs out into the parking lot as soon as the doors open, not wanting George to be alone for a second longer. The light in his car is off, but he spots George in it anyway, curled up against the window in the passenger’s seat.

He sees George wearing his jacket when he opens the driver's side. It’s as big and droopy on him as he imagined. Since it’s a bit oversized on him, it practically engulfs George’s much slighter frame.

Dream pushes the thought aside. Focus 009.

They don’t speak, save for the directions George gives him. The whole time, he just stares out the window with a blank expression. The ride is both painfully long and too short at the same time.

They get to his apartment, but George doesn’t even realize they’re there until Dream opens the door for him.

“Let me bring you up,” he says, holding his free hand for George to take. The quartermaster looks up at him, eyes cloudy, but reaches out to take it. His hand is cold in Dream’s.

His hand doesn’t leave even as they ride the elevator up to the top floor. It doesn’t leave as he gets pulled to one out of the three doors on the floor. It doesn’t leave as George moves his bangs and glasses aside for a retina scan, types his passcode, and inserts his key into his door. Dream doesn’t know if George is doing it consciously, but he doesn’t point it out.

George only lets go when he enters his apartment and picks up a bundle of gray fur that barrels straight at him. Dream just watches from the doorway as he adjusts his hold on the cat, cradling it like a baby and leaning in to whisper something intelligible. The cat looks up at George with the biggest, roundest eyes that Dream has ever seen. He recognizes the look of pure adoration when he sees it.

He stays there, feet frozen in place, until George realizes he’s still there.

“What are you doing? Get in, idiot.”

Dream moves with a start, toeing off his shoes like he saw George did and placing the laptop and food on the kitchen island. For a second, all he can do is take in his surroundings. The apartment is spacious, with floor-to-ceiling windows, minimal decoration, and absolutely zero personal touches aside from the cat tower by the window and the box of toys next to it.

“I-Do you want me to heat up your food? It should still be a bit warm, though,” Dream offers, eyeing the kitchen that looks straight out of a cooking show. His apartment doesn’t have a hanging pot rack, he thinks enviously.

George shakes his head. “No, it’s fine — I think I’ll just try and sleep,” he says, his thumb rubbing circles into gray fur. “Make yourself at home, though. Use anything in the kitchen if you need it, but you’d have to find the stuff yourself. I hardly know where anything even is…” The last part is muttered under his breath, barely audible.

“Oh. Okay. Of Course. I’ll just put your food in the fridge then.”

“Thanks. I-I’ll see you tomorrow, Dream.” George offers him a small smile. “Goodnight.”

“Goodnight, George.”

Dream’s eyes follow him when he turns, cat in arms, to his bedroom. The door shuts behind him with a resounding click then Dream is alone in his quartermaster’s apartment.

The first thing he does is locate a tupperware to store George’s food in. After opening all the doors and drawers, he finally finds them at the back of one of the cabinets. None of the cookware looks like it’s ever been used, which is such a shame, Dream thinks. He’d cook every single day if this was his kitchen.

When he opens the fridge, he finds it modestly stocked with freeze-dried fruits and vegetables and a couple drinks. He puts the tupperware right in the middle where George can easily find it.

Then he realizes the date. It’s Saturday.

He’s probably gonna be sequestered off to some European city come Monday.

Which means that he won’t be here to bring George food.

Before he realizes what he’s doing, he’s grabbing ingredients from the fridge and the pantry and carefully pulling down pots from their shelves.

Of fucking course, the stove is induction too, he thinks as he places a pot of water over one of the hobs. Dream would have preferred to work with fresher ingredients, but he supposes the quartermaster has mostly freeze-dried and canned stuff because he rarely cooks. A Branch 0 agent is taught to work with what they’re given and adapt on the fly. Plus, he knows he can make the soup and pasta taste good, regardless of whether the ingredients came out of a can.

While the pasta is cooking, he starts heating up the tomatoes and mashing them. Basil, parsley, salt, pepper, a cup of pasta water, and two sprigs of thyme follow before he covers the pot. When the pasta is at the right texture, he takes it off the heat, drains it, then dumps the noodles into another tupperware. He uses the pasta water to boil the frozen vegetables for the soup.

Eventually, he loses himself in the monotony of cooking, moving on autopilot. An hour goes by, but he hardly notices.

As he’s checking on the pasta sauce, he hears a muffled meowing coming from George’s bedroom. At first, he dismisses it and goes back to adding seasoning to the soup. Cats meow for no reason all the time, he tells himself.

Then the meows become louder until Dream can’t ignore them, the sound ringing over the boiling water.

This is the second time tonight that his chest is threatening to split itself in half at the thought of George being in any form of pain. He finds his feet automatically moving to the shut door after lowering the heat — but the realization of what he’s about to do hits him as he grips the doorknob.

George’s bedroom is an entirely different territory than the SMP firing range. This is his home, his space, and Dream’s about to violate it based on a hunch.

No, he shakes his head; it’s better to at least make sure everything’s alright first.

He raises his hand to knock, but instead of wood, his hand only hits the air.

Then he finds himself eye to eye with the bloodshot eyes of his quartermaster.

“Dream?”

“What are you still doing here?” George asks, rubbing his eyes.

His cat nudges his head into George’s legs, letting out a much quieter, calmer mew at his owner. The quartermaster side-steps him, and Dream can’t help but look into the space he left behind. He notices the sheets on the floor and his jacket laid on the other side of the bed before a tiny mew causes him to avert his gaze.

The cat remains in his spot, blinking at him with those big yellow eyes.

Dream blinks back.

He comes to two realizations. One, George’s cat is adorable. And two, George’s cat kind of looks like-

George lets out a hum as he enters the kitchen. “Were you cooking at 1 a.m.?” When he tears his eyes away from the cat, George is peering into the soup pot, inhaling the wafting steam.

“Well — I figured I probably wasn’t gonna be here next week, so I just-” He gestures at the kitchen, face warming.

Fuck. Now that he thinks about it, isn’t there some kind of boundary crossed when he’s taking his time to meal prep for his quartermaster in his own kitchen?

George blinks at him, cheeks considerably more flushed. Dream doesn’t know whether it’s from the steam or something else.

Then a small laugh escapes George’s lips, the first one he hears from him since — fuck — the Munich mission. He doesn’t know how much he missed the sound until now.

“That’s really — that’s — very sweet, Dream. Thank you,” George says quietly.

Dream’s heart beats a mile a second. Strange that those simple words make his heart race more than staring down a target through the scope of a rifle.

“Y-Yeah, of course. I just — yeah…” he stutters out, the last part trailing off awkwardly. George lingers in the kitchen, eyeing the various ingredients laid on the counter. Dream clears his throat after a second.

“Are you alright?” he blurts out, unable to keep himself from asking, “I just heard your cat like, freaking out and-“ Said cat zooms past Dream and into the kitchen before getting scooped up into George’s arms.

He looks anywhere but at Dream. “Yeah-I-um — it’s just a dumb nightmare, that’s all.”

Ah.

Dream walks over slowly, turns off the stove by George’s hip, and starts cleaning up. A second later, George joins him. They work in silence until George speaks up.

“Do you get nightmares?”

“Occasionally, yes.”

“Does it ever stop?”

The blond looks over to see George stop what he was doing, his hands holding onto the edge of the counter. Brown eyes look at him through their periphery, asking, pleading for an answer that Dream isn’t sure he can honestly give.

“No. Not fully,” is all Dream says. George looks back down at his hands, something unreadable crossing his face.

“It’s just so — I don’t even know how to explain it — it was like I was watching myself in third person, and I’m screaming at myself to warn Double Oh Three, to make him turn another corner, but I just can’t move.” The quartermaster shakes his head, voice monotone like he’s discussing something trivial like the weather. “Then, all of a sudden, the agent appears — I didn’t even realize it was him at first, but he says something that I can’t remember.” George pauses, then fully turns to face him but doesn’t look at him.

His face, unlike earlier, is blank, void of emotion. But as he’s come to notice, George’s hands are just as expressive as his face, and right now, they still haven’t let go of the counter edge.

“Can I-”

“Will you stay?”

Dream’s heart thuds painfully in his chest.

The world feels like it shifted on its entire axis.

All this time, their relationship, or whatever it is they have, toed the line between the professional confines of agent and quartermaster and a tentative but ever-present possibility of something more. Dream doesn’t pretend that he wasn’t flirting in those moments in between, nor does he pretend that George wasn’t flirting back. He doesn’t pretend that what he was doing the past week with bringing George food was necessarily something someone with strictly platonic intentions would do. He doesn’t pretend the thoughts he entertained were anything less than daydreaming something more, something akin to a relationship.

He’s hidden behind flimsy excuses, all because he’s scared. Admitting that he genuinely cares, values, wants the man in front of him scares him to the bone. The moment he entered the program, it was drilled into him that emotional attachments would get him killed. It took him months to get over his own family thought he was dead. He never attempted to get into a relationship, no matter who came into his life.

Because why would he be capable of anything other than what he committed his entire life to.

But he smells the aroma of the soup he made, hears George’s cat let out a soft meow at their feet, and thinks maybe he’s been lying to himself.

“Nevermind, I wasn’t-“

“Yes.”

It isn’t a hard answer to give. Not to George.

He comes to his third realization of the night: that he’d do absolutely anything that George asked him to.

The thought should scare him, but when he thinks about it, he doesn’t seem to really mind.

The only other person who has that much power over him is Bad. But that’s only through pure circumstance.

George makes him want to relinquish that power willingly.

George lets out a breath, letting go of the counter. They don’t shake but Dream feels the indent of the counter in his palms when he takes them in his.

“You think you can go back to bed?” he asks, leaning in.

He gets a small shake of the head in response. Dream exhales through his mouth. “Okay…” he trails off, considering his options. All the while, his thumb unconsciously trailing over the back of George’s hand.

“Movie?” George asks, inclining his head towards the living room.

“Yeah. Of course. Whatever you want,” Dream says quickly. Then he smirks, “Now it really feels like a sleepover. What’s next? Are we gonna talk about boys, too?”

George snorts. And then his lips stretch, and his shoulders heave until he’s laughing with a mix of disbelief and self-pity. Despite that, he laughs the exact way Dream imagined. “God, nevermind, idiot. I literally hate you-”

“Oh my god, George, I’m kidding. Go pick a movie. I’ll finish cleaning up,” he says, smile softening as he rolls his eyes. When he tries to let go of George, pale hands tighten around his, causing him to stop in his tracks.

“I-Don’t take too long, okay?”

Then he lets go to pick up his cat and walk into the living room.

If there’s a world record for fastest time to clean a kitchen, Dream breaks it; if there isn’t one, he sets it.

He almost burns himself in his haste to make two bowls of pasta, but in under a minute, he has the two servings and follows George into the living room. The quartermaster is curled up on one end of the couch, his shirt stretched over his legs so only his socked feet are poking out. On the TV is a movie Dream knows George picked to fuck with him.

“Mr. and Mrs. Smith?” he asks incredulously.

At the sight of him, George tears his eyes away from the screen to reach up for the bowl in his hands. Handing him the fuller bowl, he plops down next to him and raises his feet onto the coffee table. Thankfully, George doesn’t chastise him. Instead, he gives Dream a shit-eating grin.

“To be fair, it is kinda funny.”

“Because we’re spies?”

“It’s called field research; ever heard of it?”

Dream hides his dopey grin behind a tactical forkful of pasta.

“Whatever you say, George.”

Between eating and watching the movie, Dream keeps up a steady commentary about the stunts and entertains George’s queries into details of past missions, expanding on the sanitized files the quartermaster had read about them. In turn, Dream pesters George into recreating the equipment they use in the movie. In the middle of convincing George to at least consider designing x-ray binoculars, he feels the couch dip beside him.

When he looks to his side, George is leaning his head back, eyes focused away from the screen. Looking at him, looking at Dream.

“Who knows? I can’t really confirm or deny if we’re already doing that,” he says lightly, giving Dream a small shrug.

His stomach flips. How is it that a gaze can make him feel this insane — can get under his skin even when torture couldn’t?

Dream supposes it’s its own kind of torture to witness George as he did. To see him at his best, then to his worst.

At this point, he’s only half paying attention to the movie. He’s so lost in thought that when a warm, furry weight lands on his lap, he almost jumps off the couch.

Dream internally curses at himself for allowing his guard to lower to the extent a cat managed to jumpscare him. The cat in question just tilts his head at him and blinks slowly. There’s not much he can do besides sit and try to seem as non-threatening as possible.

Lucky for him, Cat seems to believe it because he starts kneading Dream’s lap before curling up into a tight ball, pinning him to the couch for the foreseeable future. Tentatively, he lays a hand flat on his back. When Cat doesn’t move, Dream slowly drags his fingers through the downy soft fur.

To his left, George’s expression turns soft.

Behind him is a view many only dream of seeing. The small bright lights stark against faint silhouettes of concrete monoliths and the dark horizon makes for a pretty picture. But Dream can’t find it in himself to tear his eyes away.

Eventually, the movie finishes, fading to the black of the credits. The apartment falls into darkness, save only for the hazy glow outside the windows. George doesn’t move, silhouette stark against the starless New York sky, and neither does Dream. And yet despite that, Dream can still make out the features that have followed him into sleep for nearly a month. He stares at his nimble fingers that can dismantle complex security systems and can cradle his cat like a baby, to the eyes usually veiled with fatigue shining like gold in his kitchen light. George is a juxtaposition like that, Dream realizes, only making him grow ever more curious about what else lies beneath.

“Dream?”

“Yes?”

George’s eyes flutter closed. “Don’t leave,” he says into the pitch-black space between them.

“I won’t, George.”

A cold hand wraps around his and doesn’t let go for the rest of the night.

He wakes up a couple hours later to something soft brushing against his cheek. Blinking his eyes open, he’s greeted with a head of brown hair on his face.

‘George is still asleep,’ he thinks when he comes to.

Which is then followed by, ‘George is still asleep — on his shoulder.’

The apartment is colder than earlier, which might explain why his quartermaster’s entire body is practically pressed against his left side. His eyes adjusting further reveals small, white specks floating from the sky outside the window.

Snow, the first of the year.

But the outside world quickly fades away, his world narrowing to the inside of this apartment and nothing more.

With the weather and with George and his cat using him as a personal heater, Dream can’t help but feel his eyelids grow heavy with a combination of drowsiness and fatigue from earlier. Soon, his eyelids shut, and he moves just the tiniest bit to the left.

Before he drifts off, he finds himself thinking of sandy blond hair, kind green eyes, and a mouth that would make a sailor blush. 003, although they didn’t see each other much, was always pretty friendly with Dream, never without a good story tell on the rare occasion they were both grounded simultaneously.

Dream isn’t a religious man, but he finds himself hoping that 003 is resting easy, wherever he may be.

The next day, Dream not only wakes up without Cat on his lap, but also George is nowhere to be found. A blanket is thrown over his legs, but Dream finds it a poor substitute for the cat who is currently tearing up a scratching post like he has a personal vendetta. Just as he’s about to get up, he hears the door behind him open, answering his question of where the other half of the duo is.

Clearly fresh from the shower, his hair is wet and pushed back on his head.

If Dream wasn’t so far gone already, he thinks this might have tipped him over the edge.

George convinces him to eat more of the food he made last night while he convinces George to take the day off and just come back to work tomorrow. It isn’t hard to ply him into eating food he knows is good, nor does it take much convincing to get George to call in. For one, he thinks yesterday’s situation is a perfectly reasonable excuse to warrant at least a day off. Secondly, for a more selfish reason, he wants his quartermaster to take a god damn break.

Neither of them mention last night.

Instead, they talk about more pressing issues, like how other spy agencies are catching on that the SBI aren’t as inactive as they thought they were, as evidenced by 002’s run-in with MI6 in London. The other agency was running an investigation on one of the SBI members that disappeared after Phil’s death.

Wilbur Soot is a man Dream knew worked closely with Phil, directly under him specifically. He knew he handled a lot of the networking but not much else. Still, when Wilbur disappeared, he took with him the connections to numerous influential contacts, which in their line of business is just as, if not more dangerous than wielding a weapon.

After eating, George points him in the direction of the shower, reveals where he keeps his spare toothbrushes, and tells him to use anything from his closet that he thinks will fit. Basically, letting him stay for another day without actually saying it.

The shower makes him feel more like a human again, the hot water chasing away the lingering chill of the morning. He picks a green toothbrush from the pack and sets it next to the only other one in the holder when he’s done. The only shirt that fits him is a plain black one at the back of the closet; even then, it stretches too tightly over his shoulders. At least George has one loose pair of gray sweats that stops mid-calf.

He manages a glance at himself in the mirror, and he can’t help but think he looks so…domesticated.

George just laughs when he steps out of the bedroom.

They spend the rest of the day alternating between watching more spy movies and using of George’s old video game consoles that have been collecting dust under the TV. There’s no mention of work, the SBI, or other agents, and Dream finds himself enjoying how easy it is to trash talk his boss when he gets blue-shelled in Mario Kart.

Eventually, good things come to an end as night falls, and they both realize they have to go to work the next day. George invites him to stay the night again, and Dream promises to drive him to work tomorrow.

That night, George doesn’t come to him with another nightmare, but Dream sees the heavy bags under his eyes that weren’t there yesterday.

When they arrive at work, he feels several eyes turn toward him and George.

Maybe he incriminated himself by wearing the same clothes he wore on Saturday. Or perhaps it’s that they were both spotted exiting Dream’s car. He already knows their names are in the monthly betting pool; 010 told him as much. If George knows of its existence, he sure doesn’t seem to make it obvious, considering it’s running out of his own branch.

They find Bad waiting for them at the helm of Branch 4.

An hour later, Dream is prepping for a mission in France.

Honey pots are Dream’s least favorite aspect of being a spy.

He’s done his fair share as part of his training and after becoming 009. Partners, children, and relatives of powerful people. Some of them know of their loved one’s business. Most of them have no idea.

The facade of having to act interested in someone, and the careful balancing act of keeping them interested without acting suspicious, are all things to keep track of. It got tiring about the third time he had to do it.

Today it’s Alessio Vernier: son of one of the SBI weapons dealers. His mother is one of the most elusive and redacted names on the list. Alessio apparently has a penchant for tall, blond Americans, so Dream was the first choice to play honeypot.

Right after 003.

He receives his equipment, brings Karl aside to remind him of their agreement, and hops on a plane to Strasbourg. While on the plane, he reviews Alessio’s profile. 24 years old, graduated from Oxford with a bachelor’s in business management, likes fast cars, long walks on the beach, and impressing men with his mom’s money. He’s pictured lounging on a Saint-Tropez beach with an overly tanned, muscular blond man that Dream recognizes from a protein powder commercial.

By day two, he’s made contact with Alessio in a bar that he frequents — or rather, Alessio makes contact with him. Dream is chatting up someone else and pretending to be acutely unaware of the way his mark eyes him from across the bar when he gets approached by Alessio. With how he rudely butts into the conversation, Dream can already tell he isn’t used to being denied anything. He just brushes it off and introduces himself with a calculatedly charming smile.

His sharp eyes widen ever so slightly upon hearing him speak of spending the winter in France to escape from the stifling California heat. Alessio is painfully obvious in showing he’s interested, from the way he orders the most expensive drinks for them to the way his eyes rake over Dream’s figure. Eventually, he asks to take the conversation somewhere more private.

Hook, line, and sinker.

Alessio’s kisses taste like expensive whiskey; it takes every ounce of self-restraint to not gag. The man kisses like he’s trying to suck Dream’s soul out, taking and taking with no regard for his partner. Still, Dream gives as much as he gets and has Alessio screaming the name ‘Luke’ in no time.

The routine continues for the next few days. He spends his days getting shown around Strasbourg before ending them in some high-end restaurant or bar of Alessio’s choosing, leaving him with little time alone. Dream regales more of his cover story as an aspiring model to keep him interested, listens to him ramble about stocks, then they fuck in Alessio’s apartment.

Every time he sees the blinking red of a security camera in the corner of his eye, he plasters on another innocently interested smile and pretends to not wish he was on a plane back to New York.

A week in, Dream is already exhausted.

On the eighth day of playing Luke the model, Alessio comes to the place he’s renting, clearly drunk and upset. Brushing aside that he never told him where he was staying, he lets the man in to comfort him. Holding a crying mark in his arms after fucking him was not a string of events Dream ever thought would happen. Yet, here he is.

“Will it fucking kill her to just be there for once?” Alessio sobs, getting snot and tears all over his chest, “Just because she’s so busy in London — I’m her only son, for fuck’s sake-” Then he starts going off in French that Dream only understands a few snippets of. Hopefully, his phone is picking up on it.

He holds Alessio until he passes out from drunkenness and exhaustion. For the son of a black market weapons dealer, he gives information way too easily once he’d had enough to drink. He leaves him in his bed to go relay the info to HQ. To his surprise, it’s not George who’s on the other end; it’s Karl.

Still, he tells him about London and how Alessio’s mother is transporting weapons under MI6’s nose.

Before he disconnects, he asks about George.

“Is that a professional or a personal inquiry?”

“Just tell me how he’s doing, Karl,” Dream sighs.

“How ‘bout you just ask him yourself. As much as I would love to, I don’t wanna mess with my boss’ love life,” the tech teases.

“We’re not-” he begins, but he’s cut off by the line disconnecting. When he checks his phone, an email containing his tickets and flight info for tomorrow morning pops up.

He doesn’t regret having to leave Alessio in his bed with no note or indication that he left. Sure he pities the man, but glaring mommy issues aside, Alessio’s just an awful person in general. Dream quickly packs up his stuff and leaves for the airport. As soon as he checks in, he calls George.

The phone rings for a full thirty seconds, then goes to voicemail.

“If you get this, comm me. Please.”

George never does.

The first thing Dream does is report into HQ.

He takes the elevator up to Branch 1, deciding to get the briefing done as quickly as possible before heading to find George. Instead of their usual pleasantries, Alastair tells him to head straight to Bad’s office. Waiting for him is the man himself.

And the quartermaster.

“Have a seat, agent,” Bad says, gesturing to the empty chair beside George. The quartermaster’s eyes are trained on his lap as Dream pulls out the chair.

“Did something happen?” Dream asks, looking between George and Bad.

Bad sends George a look and shakes his head. “No. Thanks to your intel, we traced Vernier’s dealings back to the Royal Opera House. Double Oh One was able to uncover the schematics for the bombs she was transporting.”

“But?” Knowing the SBI, they don’t attack without reason. This means there’s a target big enough to warrant this level of attention.

“The Royal Opera will be having its annual Christmas production and dinner. Many important people will be in attendance, including the UK’s Prime Minister.” Then after a beat, Bad sighs and gets up. He gestures to George. “Four Oh Four, please explain.”

“The bombs are designed to go off if someone tries to stop one of them,” George says, sliding a copy of the schematics over to him, “The SBI are gonna plant, as far as we know, four of them around the opera house.” Dream scans the file, noting the complex wiring housed in the casing.

Despite having an idea of what’s coming, his stomach sinks when George confirms what he’s thinking.

“It’s technically possible to stop them if I can get close enough. I’d be able to disarm them simultaneously to not set them off if I can get access to just one of them,” he says, looking at Dream. His eyes are hard and betray none of the emotion he’s no doubt feeling.

And yet he’s fiddling with a pen in his left hand.

Dream turns to Bad. “Sir, respectfully,” he begins, trying to keep his voice even, “Four Oh Four isn’t a field agent. You’ll be sending one of our own into a place crawling with SBI, untrained, underprepared — hell, you’ll be practically sending him to his death!”

“Agent,” Bad snaps, “You are out of line.”

“Have MI5 take care of their mess while we focus on actually tracking down the SBI and-“

“Dream,” George interjects, “I asked to be assigned to this mission.”

The agent’s mouth clicks shut, eyes searching the quartermaster’s face.

“Five couldn’t stop a single hacker from getting into their system. What makes you think they can disarm four bombs at the same time?” he says, and there’s an air of finality around his words. However, it doesn’t mean Dream has to like them.

“Okay. Why am I even here then?” George hands him an envelope.

“Your tickets, passport, floor plan of the opera house, and copy of your cover story. You’re my security detail.” Dream looks to Bad for confirmation, and his boss just nods. Sure enough, everything that George lists is in the envelope. However, one word catches his eye when he skims through the three-page, font size 11, single-spaced cover story.

Couple.

He glances at George, who has his arms crossed over his chest. The quartermaster doesn’t offer any explanation. Then he turns to Bad, who says it’s to ensure that he can be in close proximity to George without raising suspicion.

They’ll be going undercover as a newly wedded couple on their honeymoon, Dream as fine arts post-grad, David Anderson, doing his dissertation on Italian operas, and George as his silicon valley husband, Gareth Black. They met on a European cruise during David’s gap year, fell in love, and married against their parents’ wishes, but eventually managed to rebuild themselves.

It’s not an unusual cover story.

“Do you want me to pick someone else?” George asks.

“No.”

And yet, for the first time, Dream is dreading having to see it through.

Bad clears his throat. “Alright. Four Oh Four, you’re dismissed. Agent, stay for debriefing, then head to Branch 4 for your equipment.”

George nods before collecting his things and leaving without another word.

Leaving just him and Bad.

“Did you pick the cover story?” is the first thing Dream asks.

“No!” Bad exclaims. “And watch your tone. I’m still your boss.”

Dream just wrings his hands together as Bad looks at him carefully.

“George gave you an out. You don’t have to do the mission with him if you’re not up to it, and someone will take your place,” he reminds him slowly.

“That’s not it,” Dream mutters.

“Is it a personal thing then?”

The agent fixes him with a look, and Bad just shrugs.

“You should know how fast gossip spreads around here. If two of my agents don’t show up to work the day after going home together, I start putting two and two together.” Bad drums his fingers on the table contemplatively. “I hope you’ve filled out the proper HR paperwork at least?”

Dream blinks at him.

“We’re not together,” he monotones.

“Muffins — You just lost me a lot of money. God, Double Oh Eleven’s gonna win at this rate…”

Quackity always does win agency-wide bets, so it’s no surprise he’s probably gonna win this one. Whatever this one even is.

Dream just groans as he drags his hand over his face. He doesn’t even drink, but this situation makes him wish he was slightly inebriated. Maybe his drunken brain could piece together the complicated feelings his sober brain couldn’t.

Then Bad’s eyes narrow. Suddenly, Dream feels like he’s back in that apartment six years ago, sitting across from the man he thought would kill him. “Well, either way, you two need to work it out before you leave in a couple days. If this mission is jeopardized because of some interpersonal hangups-”

“Sir-”

“I’m sure you’re aware of the consequences.”

And knowing what he knows about George’s recruitment into the SMP, he’s sure those consequences will carry over to him too.

“Of course, sir,” he mutters.

George is waiting in his office by the time Dream finishes debriefing. Karl tells him as much with a wink as he returns his equipment.

Christ, he just knows that the betting pool is thriving right now.

“Finally,” the quartermaster huffs impatiently when he enters, gesturing to a box on his desk, “Your ring.”

“Right.”

Dream picks the plastic box up and opens it, revealing a black titanium ring about half a centimeter wide. A single band of silver runs through the middle. Simple, unassuming, but nonetheless sleek. He glances up at George and sees he’s wearing the matching one on his left ring finger.

“What are you doing? Just put it on.”

He slides the ring on. Strangely, it fits almost perfectly; not loose that he’s afraid of it flying off, nor tight enough that he can’t remove it.

Before he can ask George about it, his hand is pulled into the quartermaster’s scrutinizing gaze. He watches as George twists his hand from left to right, inspecting the ring. Its partner sits perfectly on George’s own hand, catching the light and making Dream acutely aware of its presence.

“Didn’t know Four also made jewelry,” Dream murmurs.

“I’m not sure if Cartier can also embed trackers in their rings; I’d have to check,” George says dryly, looking up at him with a deadpan expression. He lets go to grab something from his desk: a tracker about as big as a sequin pinched between a pair of scissors. “Our first prototypes of subdermal trackers; still too big to actually implant, though. I decided to reuse them for the rings.”

Turning away to check something on his computer, leaving Dream to stare down at his hand.

“How was Strasbourg?” George asks lightly, peering at him through the corner of his eye.

Dream hums. “Cold — but pretty,” he says, recalling the few glimpses of the Rhine under the moonlight and the blooming rows of flowers that lined it. Under different circumstances and with better company, he thinks he’d want to go back.

“How was the mission?”

George looks at him expectantly. His arms are crossed, shifting his weight from one leg to the other.

“It was fine. Honeypots are always shit, but Alessio was…something else.” Not to mention the fact that he wanted to leave the entire time. “Though he did show me around the city, which was the only nice thing he did that week.”

“Oh, So you ended up having fun?”

Dream had to do a double take to make sure he didn't hear things.

“What?”

“Did you have fun? With Vernier?” he asks lightly, but Dream hears the underlying edge to it.

His brow furrows. “George, what are you talking about? Why would I have fun with a mark?”

Then the quartermaster flushes, his face almost the same shade as his red sweater. “Y-Y’know what I mean, idiot. Like the walking around or like the— sex or whatever,” he stutters, turning redder with every word.

And Dream just laughs because holy shit.

George almost sounds like he’s jealous.

He takes a single step into the quartermaster’s space, causing him to back up. He runs his thumb over his ring. The metal is cold against his finger. “I never took you to be a romantic, George,” he says with a wry grin.

“I’m not,” George protests. Even he doesn’t sound convinced of his own words.

“Sure, I guess it’s fun.” Dream shrugs. “Though it wouldn’t be the same if it was with someone you actually wanted,” he says wistfully, eyes never leaving George. The quartermaster’s fingers dig into his sleeves.

“And you want someone?”

Dream almost doesn’t hear the question.

“Is this why you didn’t comm back, 404?”

George’s mouth opens then closes. Teeth digging into his bottom lip, he stays silent, glaring up at Dream.

Realizing he might have taken it too far, an apology forms, but as he’s opening his mouth, George cuts him off with a wave.

Karl knocks on the door as if on cue, holding a formidable stack of files in his arms. Sighing, George points a finger at him, saying, “Don’t lose the ring.” Then he stalks out the door, grabbing half of the stack of folders.

Over his shoulder, Karl just sends him a sympathetic look.

So much for working out those interpersonal hangups.

In the days leading up to their flight, they spend them apart doing their own thing. Dream spends his time in his apartment, the gym, and the firing range. On the other hand, he knows George has been spending his time preparing his branch for his absence.

They only see each other when they share an elevator going to their respective destinations.

In those instances, Dream’s gaze will flit to George’s left hand and find the ring still there. He doesn’t ask George about it.

Dream himself hasn’t taken his ring off, either.

Sometimes, he'll check the tracker when he leaves earlier than George, as indicated by his motorcycle still being there as he climbs into his car. He leaves it open as he prepares dinner, peripherally watching that blue dot blink in one spot. He’ll keep it open until the dot moves and stops at George’s apartment.

Sometimes, he leaves it open for the rest of the night.

They agreed that Dream would pick George up from his apartment on the morning of their flight. The quartermaster texts him to come up as he’s just finishing a few last-minute things and to wait in the living room. Cat isn’t there when he opens the door, presumably at a sitter. With nothing else to keep him occupied while waiting, he starts going through his phone.

“We’re gonna be late,” he calls when there’s still no sign of George after 10 minutes.

Dream doesn’t have that many irrational fears. But being late to the airport is one of them.

“Just wait, you idiot-” George yells back, slamming his door open.

“Finally-”

Then he actually turns and sees George.

The first thing he notices is his hair. It’s shorter. And swept back. Still messy, with some locks curling away from his face, but it looks deliberate. His glasses are perched on his nose, slightly askew, making Dream just want to reach out to fix them.

Passport clamped between his teeth, he looks expectantly at Dream as he lugs his suitcase behind him. The blond practically leaps out of his seat to help him.

Up close, the next thing he notices is George’s clothes. They’re not the usual sweatshirt-sweatpants combo he’s come to know so well, replaced with a navy wool mock-neck, a Burberry jacket, and pressed beige trousers. Instead of the usual Nike or Adidas, his shoes are plain white leather sneakers.

He looks exactly like what his cover story described him like he belongs in Silicon Valley. It’s a good look, Dream thinks.

A complete 180 from his usual attire.

Yet Dream finds himself adoring both equally.

He carries George’s suitcase into his trunk then finds the quartermaster already waiting for him in the passenger’s seat. Taking off into the deserted streets, the agent glances at George through his periphery. His eyes are on his lap as he fiddles with his ring.

Dream clears his throat awkwardly. Might as well get it out of the way now, he thinks. “Do you uh-is there anything you don’t want me to do? Like anything that’ll make you uncomfortable?”

“What d’you mean?”

“Well-we’re supposed to be acting like a couple. As soon as we arrive at Heathrow, London’s gonna be crawling with SBI looking for anyone that looks suspicious. They watch CCTVs, they’re on the streets, they-”

“Okay, I get it,” George interrupts, “You’re asking how far I can go to make this look believable.”

“Yeah. Basically.”

He feels George’s gaze on him before he says, “I mean-I don’t care, I guess. Whatever you think will work. I trust you.”

“Okay. Cool. Cool,” Dream says, running a hand through his hair, leg bouncing. “I don’t care either, by the way. Just so you know.”

That’s not entirely true. He doesn’t mind having to play a couple with literally anyone else. However, he does mind that it’s George.

He sees George nod and sighs internally.

The rest of the ride continues in silence until they get to JFK. Just as George is moving to exit the car, Dream tugs on his hand, causing him to face him.

“Don’t worry about anything besides disabling those bombs and staying alive, alright? Let me handle everything else.”

George squeezes his hand back, a small, wry smile curling his lips. “Isn’t it your job to keep me alive, though?”

A matching grin soon spreads across his lips. “Then don’t make it hard for me then, hm?” he says teasingly.

Despite the long lines due to the holidays, they breeze through check-in and TSA without a hitch because of their business class tickets. Immigration is the only time they actually have to wait in line. All throughout, he sticks close to his quartermaster, watching him closely. At one point, he starts wringing his hands together while waiting in line at immigration. It’s a little thing but Dream would rather not risk it.

So he places a hand on George’s, halting his movements. The TSA worker, openly staring at them, finally averts his gaze. Dream practically curls himself around the brunet, shielding him from view.

“Alright?” he asks, whispering in his ear. To anyone looking, they look exactly like what they’re pretending to be: a newlywed couple who can’t keep their hands off each other on their way to their honeymoon.

“I’m fine,” George says reassuringly. Yet, brown eyes fail to meet his, flitting around their surroundings. Briefly, he wonders if he was this antsy on his first international mission.

“Hey,” he says, nudging a finger against George’s cheek to get him to stop, “That idiot TSA worker isn’t looking anymore. After immigration, no one’s gonna bother us. I’ll make sure of it.” He puffs his chest out, causing his quartermaster to let out a small laugh.

The brunet bumps their joined hands against his chest teasingly. “Oh? Are you going to intimidate them to death?”

Dream gives him an indulgent smile. “Just you wait.”

It’s another half an hour of waiting. Dream occupies himself by playing with George’s ring and mentally guessing where some of the other people in line are headed to. They have to split into different rows when they're at the front. Before letting go, he squeezes George’s hand.

The quartermaster ends up in the row to his left. Luckily, he seems to have schooled his nerves. He doesn’t even notice he’s been staring for an abnormal amount of time until his immigration officer clears her throat.

“Your boyfriend?”

“Excuse me?” he asks dazedly.

“The guy on the left. Are you traveling with your boyfriend?”

“Husband, actually,” he answers automatically, lips curling into a smile that feels too genuine.

“Ah. Knew it. I look at my partner the same way,” she says, winking conspiratorially, “Look into the camera, please.”

Jesus, he thinks as he leans down, is he that obvious?

But then he realizes it’s a good thing his glaring, neon-lit crush on his quartermaster is so damn obvious. At least in this situation.

She hands him his documents back with a smile. “Enjoy your trip, sir.”

And when George catches him with a dopey grin, he doesn’t say anything.

“Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to London, Heathrow, terminal five. The local time is five hours ahead of the New York area, approaching eleven in the evening. The ground temperature is around seven degrees Celsius or forty-four degrees Fahrenheit-”

“Dream, we’re here.”

He wakes to George gently shaking him. Blinking his eyes blearily at him, he realizes he must have dozed off at some point despite not being tired during boarding. He slowly stretches out, waiting for the other passengers to grab their stuff.

The drive to the hotel passes by in a daze. Their cab driver is blessedly silent the whole ride. Dream watches through the corner of his eye as George gazes out the window. The harsh weather keeps the streets clear, allowing them to arrive at the hotel before 2 AM.

As the valet helps them with their bags, Dream plasters on a smile that’s too chipper for this time of day.

“Reservation for Anderson-Black, please?” he asks.

“Ah yes. The honeymoon suite, is it?” The receptionist’s expression turns warm as he runs through the reservation details, politely brushing over the undeserved tired glare George gives him.

“Don’t mind him. Some of us managed to get some rest on our flight,” he chuckles lightly. Leaning down into George’s space, he whispers audibly, “Gareth, honey, I know you’re tired but will you please stop glaring at the nice receptionist.”

The receptionist just lets out a polite chuckle as he hands them their key.

“I completely understand, sir. Flights are quite hectic this time of the year. I can have a list of the top restaurants sent to your room tomorrow if you’d like.”

Dream smiles his first genuine smile since JFK.

“That would be great, thank you. Though maybe at a later time. I want to at least try and surprise this one,” he says, looking at the quartermaster.

“Of course. Please have a restful stay, sirs.”

In all his mental preparation for this mission, from making sure that George is comfortable and consenting to whatever they have to do to locking his feelings up for the time being, somehow, he failed to consider this.

“I can sleep on the floor,” Dream offers before he can process what George is saying. He turns to the quartermaster, eyes wide.

“I said it’s a big bed,” George repeats. Even after hearing it for a second time, he has a hard time wrapping his head around it. “It’s basically the size of my living room.”

The agent glances down at the rose petal-covered sheets and the champagne chilling in a bucket of ice.

George isn’t wrong. The bed is massive. He’s had to share smaller beds in worse conditions before. But none of those conditions were with the quartermaster currently looking at him with those eyes and making him regret every single decision that led up to this point.

“Are you sure? Just give me like two pillows and one of the towels-”

“Don’t be an idiot, Dream,” George says, punctuating his sentence by tossing his laptop bag onto the bed and sending rose petals into the air. “I told you, I don’t mind. Besides, it’s not like we haven’t slept together before.” The quartermaster shrugs with his characteristic nonchalance as he toes his shoes off.

“What. D-Don’t make it weird like that, idiot. Okay-”

He quickly retreats into the en suite bathroom. With a door between them, he lets out a shuddering breath. Four days, he tells himself. This is just for four days. After four days, they return to the SMP, Dream can go back to pining from a safe distance, and George will be none the wiser. Normal.

Eyeing the shower, Dream decides that he more than deserves one after the day he’s had. So he quickly turns it to the hottest setting he can handle, hoping to disguise the burning of his cheeks by making them indistinguishable from the rest of his body.

One quick existential crisis later, he shuts the water off once he can’t stand the heat anymore. The steam sits heavy in his lungs. Flushed from head to toe, he grabs a robe and ties it loosely around his waist to keep him warm as he gets dressed.

But in his rush, he forgot to grab his suitcase.

No big deal. He has his robe. George is probably on his laptop. It’s fine.

“George, I’m just gonna grab my-”

“Wait-!”

But it’s too late.

He sees a flash of skin as George sprints to grab something to cover himself up. Dream immediately squeezes his eyes shut. To be sure, he even turns the other way.

“Dream!”

“S-Sorry! Holy shit — I’m so sorry!”

“Oh fuck-” George mutters under his breath before Dream hears a muffled thud, “It’s fine. Just — a warning next time? You can open your eyes now.”

Sheepishly, he says, “Yeah. Of course. My bad. I’m sorry.” Slowly opening his eyes, he’s greeted with the beet red face of his quartermaster, now in a gray shirt that reaches his mid-thigh.

He realizes he’s staring.

Then George’s eyes dart down, causing Dream to follow his gaze.

Realizing, he moves to yank the robe over his chest.

“Right. Sorry. Let me just-”

Not wanting to make the situation worse, he quickly grabs his suitcase and makes his second tactical retreat back into the bathroom. Raking a hand through his hair, he slides against the closed door, face burning and heart thudding painfully.

There’s no way he imagined it.

There’s no way he missed George’s eyes going to his chest.

Dream doesn’t get a wink of sleep that night.

The next day, Dream has resolved to firmly move on from last night.

Starting with taking George to look around the Royal Opera area.

To do that, he has to wake him first.

Light filters in through the translucent curtains, bathing the room in the glow of a winter morning. Or afternoon. Dream isn’t entirely sure. His quartermaster is still fast asleep, not that Dream blames him. He looks peaceful, with only the top of his head peeking out under the piles of blankets. The agent can almost delude himself into forgetting the actual reason why they’re here, content to watch the steady rise and fall of George’s frame and trying very hard not to fall more in love.

Slowly, he reaches out over the distance to brush away a stray curl. But he freezes as George stirs.

“George?”

The quartermaster lets out a groan that shouldn’t be considered that endearing for a man older than him.

“Whu’ time izzit?”

“All I know is that it’s too late for breakfast.”

“Booo…”

Eventually, after some persistent coaxing, they both wander down to the lobby around noon. As promised, the receptionist from last night discreetly hands him that list of restaurants, which he receives under a map of the city with an exaggerated conspiratorial wink. Dream picks a bistro across the opera house, wanting to have a lay of the land before tomorrow night’s events.

The weather isn’t so bad that they can’t take the 10-minute walk from their hotel to the bistro, so they choose to forgo hailing a cab — or rather, Dream chooses to forgo the cab while George begrudgingly bemoans about it on the way there. Though, he does end up feeling a little guilty when he catches him shivering under his heavy coat.

However, he certainly doesn’t mind when it causes George to crowd up into his side, sapping away at his warmth.

They get a window booth with a full view of the street in front of the Royal Opera. At this time of day, the bistro is packed. Families, couples, and groups of friends fill the tables. He and George blend right in, maybe save for their overly dressed appearances. But for all intents and purposes, they look completely ordinary.

So when one person sitting at the bar stares at them for too long, Dream notices.

Judging by how George still looks like he’s chasing off sleep, he doesn’t seem to have caught on.

“George,” he says, hiding his mouth behind a sip of water, “When I put my arm around you, just lean into me, alright?”

The brunet stops mid-bite to glance at him through his periphery. “What’s wrong?”

Dream snakes an arm around the lithe waist, thumb looping through his belt loop. Taking the cue, George presses against his side, close enough that he can smell the clean detergent off his clothes. Dream feels his heart pick up its pace, and not for the reason that they may or may not be watched.

“White button up, nine o clock. The one poorly hiding the fact he’s obviously staring by holding a newspaper,” he whispers lowly. He smiles through his words, looking like he’s just beaming at his husband. George’s eyes flit to the space over his shoulder, then back to him.

“SBI or homophobe?” George asks.

“Could be both.”

Following his lead, a small smile curls on his lips. He leans in closer and asks, “Do we leave?”

“No, too suspicious if he’s actually SBI.” Through the window’s glare, he sees the stranger still looking at them over his newspaper. He doesn’t seem to be carrying anything. If he’s SBI, he’s probably here for purely recon. Green eyes flit back to George tilting his head at him.

If this doesn’t work-

“Put your arms around my shoulders and look at me like you love me,” he says, “Maybe he’ll look away if he’s just an idiot.”

He searches the quartermaster’s face for discomfort but all he finds are soft eyes and an even softer smile.

‘If this is what George looks like when he’s in love,’ Dream thinks, flushing under the gaze, ’He looks really convincing.’

Tentatively, two hands come up to rest on his shoulders. They slowly trail up to his neck, the contact leaving goosebumps, until they reach his jaw. From there, fingers trace under his chin before threading themselves into the hair behind his head. Instinctually, Dream leans into the feeling of blunt nails across his scalp, momentarily losing himself in the sensation.

For a second, their eyes meet, hooded green fixing upon dark brown.

Despite the gloomy winter lighting and the grease staining the corner of his mouth, Dream thinks George looks ethereal.

“And if he’s SBI?” he asks, snapping Dream out of his thoughts.

“Then he’ll keep staring.”

George hums, leaning more to close the barely existent distance, “Brilliant, Double Oh Nine. And would you look at that — it worked.” Dream feels his breath ghost across his cheek as he cranes his head to peer behind him.

Tearing his eyes away, sure enough, the man quickly ducks behind his newspaper.

Yet, it takes the waiter coming to get their plates for George to let go.

Later, before they leave, the quartermaster excuses himself to use the restroom. As the dutiful bodyguard, Dream keeps an eye on him as he makes his way to the back of the restaurant.

And sees the same man following George with his gaze.

He makes no move to follow him, but Dream is acutely aware of how his eyes trail his quartermaster.

When George emerges, Dream grabs his hand without warning and drags him out of the bistro.

The last image on his mind that night before succumbing to a dreamless sleep is how the quartermaster looked under the Christmas lights scattered around Leicester Square.

Christmas night.

The night of the opera.

By 1900, they start getting ready.

Dream takes a quick shower and slips into his suit: an all-black three-piece suit with a matching silk tie and a button-down. He secures his holster under his jacket, ensuring the silencer and extra magazine are also attached. Patting himself down, he gives himself one final once over. Tickets, earpiece, knife tucked into his boot, all secured. Before leaving the bathroom, he grabs his gloves and scarf.

While waiting for George, he pulls back the curtains, looking out into the snow-capped streets. The snow comes down in slow flurries. Advertisements for tonight’s opera are in full view, gilded in yellow light, an omen for what’s to come.

La Traviata.

Sure. It’s pure coincidence that the plot revolves around Alfredo falling for Violetta because of her beauty and intelligence, but Dream can’t help but think the world has it out against him.

“Dream? Can you help me with something?”

He pushes his thoughts aside and raps his knuckles against the bathroom door.

Scratch that. The world definitely has it out against him.

Dream lets out a low, appreciative whistle at the sight before him. It’s a shame, he thinks, in a different universe, instead of the dank basement that is Branch 4, the quartermaster could have graced the covers of Vogue and the billboards of Times Square. But then again, in this universe, Dream has George all to himself in their hotel bathroom.

George is running his fingers through his hair, pushing back the brown waves, though some shorter strands still manage to escape, artfully framing his face instead. Dream wishes it were his own hands in his hair.

“Will you help me with this?” he asks, holding out a hand to deposit a small, gold lapel pin in the shape of a rose into his palm.

Dream steps forward, biting his gloves off to gently pull at George’s left lapel and slip in the pin. He runs a hand down his jacket to smooth it out. Green eyes flit up to find George already looking at him, gaze heavy.

“You look great,” Dream says into the almost nonexistent space between them.

It’s no exaggeration. A well fitted suit is attractive on anyone, but on George, it’s practically sinful. The two-piece suit, a teal double-breasted jacket with matching slacks and complimenting gold notions, is perfectly tailored. It accentuates his shoulders and emphasizes their ratio with his waist, creating a slope that Dream just wants to follow with his hands. The dark blue turtleneck underneath rounds the whole look together

“You look not so bad yourself, agent,” George says, reaching up to pick a stray piece of lint off his collar. Then Dream notices something missing.

“Your ring-” tearing his eyes away to search the counter. He finds it on the rim of the sink and grabs it. The cool metal easily slides onto George’s finger, resting above his knuckle. Dream traces its shape with his thumb, touch lingering for a second longer.

“I-Thanks. Uh-” Then, after a second, George says, “We should go.”

Wordlessly, Dream nods and reluctantly lets go to grab his coat.

They enter the opera house arm in arm. With the help of Four briefly disabling the metal detectors, they were able to sneak in their equipment. Leading them to the in-house restaurant for the scheduled pre-show dinner, Dream smiles pleasantly at anyone he catches looking their way. Their booth is by the second-floor balcony, keeping them out of earshot and providing an overlooking view of the room.

George waits for the waiter to leave before speaking up.

“Karl’s going to open comms once the bombs are armed, then he’ll be directing us to the nearest one,” he says into Dream’s ear. The agent nods. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees George glancing down at his tablet to have another look at the bomb schematics.

“I’ll hold our position once we’ve found it.”

He doesn’t want to have to kill directly in front of the quartermaster. But if it comes down to that or risking George’s life, there’s no doubt what he’d do in his mind.

Then if everything goes well, they return to their seats, finish the show, and act like they haven’t prevented the destruction of a historic site and the death of thousands of people.

Easy.

Dinner is quiet; Dream not wanting to bother George as he reviews his own game plan for tonight. He barely touches his food. The fact would concern the agent if not for George finally taking a few bites after Dream’s coaxing. But he just goes back to pushing food around his plate when he gets absorbed in the details.

Dream sighs and picks up his fork.

George looks at the steak speared on his fork with narrowed eyes.

“What-”

“Just eat.”

“I can feed myself, idiot.”

Dream looks at him with a deadpan expression. “Somehow, I can’t seem to believe you.”

“You know what I mean,” George hisses, flushing, but Dream doesn’t move the fork away. He just holds it closer to his lips.

“What kind of agent would I be if I let my charge die from starvation,” Dream says, now waving the fork under George’s nose. The quartermaster glares at him, the fork, and back at him. The end of the barrel of a gun was less threatening than what George looks like right now. Unlike the barrel of a gun, this one can actually send him to his knees.

“I hate you,” he mutters before parting his lips. Taking the steak between his teeth, he looks up at Dream with a challenging glare as if to ask 'are you happy now?' The blond watches as his throat bobs, swallowing the bite.

Satisfied, he grins at George, pretending that didn’t absolutely turn him on.

After that, Dream notes, amused, that nothing is left on the quartermaster’s plate.

Eventually, the ushers announce they can enter the auditorium. According to their tickets, they have a box seat, which the ushers direct them to. When they’re seated, the first thing Dream does is take note of the exits: one behind them leading into the hallway and another just below them if they drop down to the ground floor.

As the seats begin to fill up, Dream’s eyes are immediately drawn to where the Prime Minister is seated in the grand tier, perfectly in the middle with a full view of the stage. He’s next to his second wife and their four children. Around them, Dream counts six bodyguards, one for each member of the family, he thinks. By the looks of it, George is also acutely aware of their presence.

Soon, the lights dim, and a hush falls about the audience, replaced by the opening notes to the first act. The red curtains rise, revealing a set that looks straight out of a Parisian chateau and an ensemble dressed in gilded ball gowns and sharp dinner jackets. In the middle of it all is Violetta in her characteristic white ball gown, singing about pleasure and its fleeting nature, grim foreshadowing for her death at the end of act 3.

To his left, it appears that George is raptly paying attention by the way he looks at the stage. But Dream can tell his eyes have glazed over.

At one point, when the music suddenly booms, his shoulders jerk in surprise.

George turns to him angrily as he hides his laugh behind a strategic cough.

“Sorry,” he whispers, not the least bit apologetic.

“How many more songs until the bathroom break?”

Dream makes a mock-offended sound, acting chastised. “I’ll pretend you did not just call it that,” he says snootily, “There should be an intermission in about five songs — if my research on Spotify is correct.”

Luckily, George’s groan is masked by Violetta’s impressive high note. Dream just wraps a sympathetic arm around his shoulder.

Around the midpoint of act 1, their earpieces chime, and George immediately perks up in his hold.

“Okay, lovebirds, the bombs have been armed. We’ve located their signal, and we’re ready to direct you,” Karl says.

Dream steals a glance at George and finds his gaze hardening. The quartermaster gives him a curt nod. “Alright. C’mon.” He helps him up, silently exiting their box, hand in hand.

“Make a right, then head up the grand staircase when you reach the main lobby.”

They take off into a jog. The lobby is empty save for the few receptionists who pay them no mind. Together, they race up the stairs, George a step behind him.

“Turn left then — wait-”

Dream stops George by holding a hand out, pushing him into the wall right before the corner.

“Three SBI coming your way.”

“George, stay here,” he mutters over his shoulder.

Loosening his tie, he breaks off into a sprint. The first one goes down by knocking out his leg in a slide kick. In a whirling motion, he stomps on the guy’s right hand, shedding his jacket on the way up. He throws it over the second guy and yanks downward, kneeing him in the face. In the corner of his eye, the third seizes up, not knowing where to shoot in the flurry of motion. Dream takes the opening and kicks the second guard into him, causing them to topple.

In their groaning heap, he grabs his jacket and is about to turn to grab his quartermaster but finds him already behind him. Before he can say anything, George is tugging on his arm and taking off down the hallway.

“I told you to stay there,” Dream huffs.

“As if you listen to me when I tell you to stay-”

“Take the first left. The bomb is behind that door-”

George makes the turn, followed by Dream and-

“Shit — get behind me!” the agent yells. He yanks George behind the corner before the first muffled shot rings out, leaving a bullet hole where he was just standing.

Drawing his gun, he chances a quick peek around the corner. Dream fires off three shots, but only one of them hits. Not a kill shot, though, he clicks his tongue.

“Are you hit?” he asks George, frantically looking at him over his shoulder. The quartermaster quickly shakes his head. Dream breathes a small sigh before muttering, “Actually, stay here. Please.” Brown eyes widen.

He doesn’t wait before dashing forward and firing twice more. One of his shots hits the guard already clutching his shoulder, downing him. A bullet whizzes past his face as he presses his back against the opposite wall.

“Dream-”

He just holds out a hand to silence him. Ducking down, he moves into the hallway and nails the last guard in the leg. When he drops his gun in pain, Dream grabs his waist and tackles him to the ground. With his knife, he slits the man’s throat.

“George!” he calls, swiping the keys from the guard’s pocket and tossing them to the quartermaster. Slightly dazed, he almost drops them as he’s opening the door. Dream is watching the hallway when he hears the door open. He enters after George and shuts the door behind them.

In his rush, he almost doesn’t notice the fact that not a single one of the guards he saw tonight were wearing the pin from the gala.

The room is a storage room filled with old props and sets, the bomb in the middle, timer reading 15 minutes and counting.

Immediately, George presses a button, opening a small panel. He pulls out a handful of wires. If Dream didn’t know any better, he’d be scared that the bomb would immediately detonate with the number of wires George is yanking out. A second later, he’s plugging his tablet in. Fingers flying over the keys, he begins simultaneously disarming four armed bombs.

Dream can’t do anything except keep watch. “Karl, warn me if anyone’s coming this way,” he says as quietly as he can. The acting quartermaster doesn’t say anything, but Dream knows he heard him. The comms are deathly silent on the other end but not closed, which the agent is grateful for.

The timer ticks silently. Faintly, he hears the sound of the orchestra.

Intermittently, Dream averts his gaze from the door crack to look back at George. He pushes his hair back with one hand while the other doesn’t stop typing. Hunched over, eyes hard, teeth digging into his lips. Nothing about him betrays any nerves as he keeps working through the increasingly complex systems Dream manages to glean off a glance at his tablet.

At 10 minutes, he glances out the door.

At 7 minutes, his palms start to sweat.

At 5 minutes, he looks at George more than the door.

At 3 minutes, he breaks the silence.

“George-”

“Dream, stop talking.”

Swallowing, he presses on. “George, we should go.”

“Just give me more time. I know I’m close.”

Dream glances at the timer. 2 minutes 47 seconds. George stays firmly rooted in place.

He can feel his heart start to race. “If we don’t leave now, we don’t have time to run. George-”

“Two minutes. That’s all I need.” The sound of tapping echoes throughout the room.

“George-” he’s begging now, voice rough. Slowly, he lowers himself in front of him.

“Please,” is all the quartermaster says. Brown eyes are frantically darting across the screen.

1 minute 4 seconds.

“I’m carrying you out.” He knows he can do it. Grabbing George’s arm, he doesn’t pull at him yet, but he doesn’t let go. “George, I swear to god-”

“DREAM!” George yells, sharply cutting him off, “If you don’t let me finish, I’m never going to forgive you.”

The fact of the matter is that he inexplicably trusts the man in front of him. He trusts him more than he has anyone in a long time. So Dream has no doubt that he will keep his word.

“My task was to protect you. If I had to choose between your death or you never talking to me again, I would always choose to save you. Always,” he rasps, grabbing his other arm and tugging firmly, “Let’s go.”

“DREAM! GO!” George jerks violently in his grasp, but Dream just holds on tighter. “STOP IT! LET GO OF ME AND LEAVE!”

38 seconds.

In his 25 years of life, he knows he’s accumulated many regrets. Too many to count.

But throwing himself in front of the love of his life to shield him from an explosion isn’t one of them.

Holding on tightly, he screws his eyes shut, bracing himself for blinding pain-

But it doesn’t come.

“George…?”

Arms wrap around him, grasping onto the back of his jacket. He feels a choked breath against his neck. Shoulders heave in his hold.

“I did it, Dream.”

George practically scrambles over himself to get closer to him. Knees knock against his own until they’re a tangle of limbs. He pulls him closer, chest to chest, feeling a hammering heart thud against his own. Dream feels like if he lets go now, an imprint of him will be left against his chest.

“Oh, George-” He could cry. He probably is crying.

The music swells, reaching the climax of the second act. Reverberating throughout the room, it keeps building and building.

Until it suddenly stops.

Then one singular bang.

“Karl, what’s going on?” George asks, tone hardening in an instant.

“The Prime Minister — he’s dead.”

It’s not possible, Dream thinks as they run back to the auditorium. George disabled the bombs.

On their way, they see people rush out, tripping over themselves in their haste. Among them, Dream recognizes the Prime Minister’s wife, holding onto one of the kids as their bodyguard clears a path for them.

It’s not possible.

Unless the bombs were a diversion.

Tightly gripping George’s hand, he shoulders their way opposite the direction of the panicked crowd. Eventually, they make it back to their box. Throwing the door open, they’re greeted with the sight of people running across the ground floor to the exits, crowding against the doors. Dream’s eyes immediately go to the grand tier.

To the Prime Minister’s dead body.

His eyes dart around, trying to find where the shot might have come from. Not low. Higher up, maybe. Behind him?

Then George lets out a strangled noise.

He’s seen him angry, sad, happy — but never scared.

Following his gaze to the box directly across them, among the red walls, he sees an all too familiar shock of brown hair with a white streak down the center and a face he’d never thought he’d see so soon. And in his hand is the still smoking M16 he used to kill the Prime Minister.

Wilbur Soot blows out a puff of smoke, gazing down at the empty seats below him. He’s about to turn back when he looks up. And spots them.

His gaze lingers. Despite the distance, Dream can feel its sharpness from across the auditorium.

But then his eyes travel to his side — to George. And an unnerving grin forms on his lips.

“Dream we have to go,” George says, frantically tugging at his arm.

Dream grabs him, turning to run out into the hallway when two SBI agents block their path.

The first one immediately rushes at them. He shoves George aside, causing the guy to barrel forward into the railing behind them. Grabbing his feet, Dream lifts him up and over the rails. As he’s moving to deal with the second guy, he hears a pained groan and sees him falling to the ground, clutching his groin.

Not waiting for more to arrive, he practically picks George up in his rush to the hallway. “Good job,” he praises as they run. In front of them are the remnants of the large crowd, shoving at each other to get out into Bow Street. Instead, Dream makes a hard right and leads them to the Covent Garden exit. Hot on their heels are more guards firing shots at their sides.

They run through the twisting hallways until Dream shoves them through a door leading to The Piazza. Behind them, he slams the door closed and holds it in place with a stray plank. It holds, but Dream knows it won’t last.

“Dream!” George calls, running toward a man getting off his motorcycle.

Eyes widening, he lets out a string of muttered curses as he watches George climb on, to the owner’s confusion. Dream picks up his pace and practically throws himself across the back. As soon as he’s on and grasping George’s waist, the motor revs, and they take off into King Street.

“Guys-” Karl’s voice chimes through, but George cuts him off.

“I got this, Karl. Just keep our lights green and the pedestrians off the road,” George instructs.

In the empty street, the only audible noise is them.

So when he hears car engines roar behind him, he whips his head around. Two black cars follow them down the one-way street. On the passenger side emerges a man holding a gun.

“Behind us!” he calls out.

“I see them,” George says, side mirror glinting. Then, “Hold on!”

The motorcycle jerks to the right, threading the needle between two cars. Now on the sidewalk, a row of parked vehicles separates them and the SBI car. Dream draws his gun. Approaching the intersection, the driver’s window opens, revealing the muzzle of an MK and its wielder. Instead of the shooter, he aims his gun at the driver.

The shot hits the driver in the neck, sending the car careening to the side just as George turns right into Garrick. He makes another sharp right into a narrow street. Pulling his arms in, he almost feels the brick scrape against his sleeves as George sends them through an even narrower walkway between a pub.

At the end of the walkway, he sees headlights coming from the opposite direction of traffic. Sure enough, when they emerge onto Floral, more SBI cars drive towards them from the right. Turning left, he fires off a few shots behind them for cover. He feels bullets whiz past them, a few getting too close.

“Fuck!” he curses when one gets too close to his arm.

“You okay?” George asks, giving him a look through the mirror.

“I’m fine. Just go!”

“Shit,” he hears George mutter a second later. Looking forward, more black cars drive towards them, closing in on them from both ends. The quartermaster looks over his shoulder at Dream.

Then he makes a sharp u-turn. The whiplash almost makes him fall off. Luckily, steadies himself by sticking his leg out for balance. Immediately, they turn down another narrow street, the cars too wide to follow. Despite that, George picks up speed.

They weave through the cars on Long Acre. There’s some distance between them now, but they still haven’t shaken them off.

“What do we do?” he asks. At this rate, they’re going to run out of gas before they lose them.

George briefly glances up, something catching his eye. He doesn’t get a verbal answer but gets another bout of whiplash as they swerve right. Suddenly, George stops.

In front of Covent Garden Station.

Revving the engine, Dream can see the gears turning in George’s head as he points the nose at the subway barriers.

“You trust me, right?” George asks over his shoulder.

“With my life.”

Then George is grinning at him manically. They drive forward at full speed, knocking the barrier off its hinges. Seeing them approach, civilians dive out of their way. Among them, Dream sees SBI chasing them on foot and yelling into radios.

They drive until they reach the stopped train. Before Dream can yell out, George turns and drives into the space between the train and the tunnel. He hears people screaming and alarms blaring to stop the train, but George just picks up speed. Dream can't do anything but hold onto him for dear life.

“Karl!” George yells, voice echoing off the tunnel, “Have a car ready for us near Leicester Station!”

They keep going, racing through the train tunnel, until Dream can see the light of the next station in the distance. The abrupt stop sends Dream knocking into George’s back. He doesn’t even have time to be disoriented when he’s dragged off and climbing up the platform. No SBI behind them as they make their way out of the station.

“Karl, where’s that car?” George asks frantically as soon as they step out onto the street.

“Blue Prius-”

Dream points to the car parked on the street across.

“Got it!”

Dream follows George’s lead, running through pedestrians to get to the car.

As soon as Dream slams the driver’s door closed, an SBI car drives past them, horn blaring.

They both let out a relieved sigh.

Dream’s heart doesn’t stop pounding as they drive back to the hotel. Every time a black car that looks too similar to an SBI car stops beside them, he reaches for his gun. But when they drive off, he can’t help his hands from tightening around the steering wheel.

The ride back is short. But it feels like it lasts forever.

The same receptionist greets them with a pleasant smile, but Dream can’t find it in himself to return it. George is leaning most of his weight into his side as they enter the elevator, hand balled up into a fist at the small of Dream’s back. He’s breathing heavily like he’s about to vibrate out his skin. Dizziness and anxiousness are not a fun combo, he soon discovers.

As soon as the door shuts behind them, he’s sliding every possible lock into place. To make sure, he grabs a chair and shoves it under the doorknob to make sure. George just watches him.

Dream’s facing him to ask if he’s okay when hands come up to grab his lapels.

Then a mouth is pressed against his.

Before he can think about it, he’s closing his eyes and sighing into the kiss. George’s mouth is soft and hesitant against his, but Dream chases the feeling. Taking the hint, George’s lips part and Dream slides his tongue in.

It’s not like any other kiss he’s had before. It feels good. It feels real.

But then George jerks back like he’s been burned. Spit-soaked, pink lips opening and closing like he’s unsure.

“Fuck — I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to-,” he says, avoiding his gaze, but Dream doesn’t hear the rest because he’s grasping his chin and directing his mouth back to his.

He rests his hands around his waist, effectively holding him in place. And George is leaning into the touch, resting a hand on his own to keep it there.

“Do you know how long I’ve wanted to do that?” Dream asks when they part for air, hooded eyes tracing over his face. His quartermaster hums lowly in question. Now that he’s going, he’s unable to stop himself as he kisses each part of George’s face within his reach. Warm cheeks, lightly stubbled jaw, slit in his left eyebrow, he learns how each of them feel against his mouth.

“How about you show me instead?” George asks, lightly pulling on his hair to get him to press his lips against his.

Suddenly, he pulls away. Dream lets out a groan as his tie is yanked in a pale fist, the sensation making his pants feel tight. George just smirks at him over his shoulder as he leads them to their bed. Once the back of his legs hits the edge of the bed, he’s pushed into a sitting positions and George throws a leg over his lap like he’s mounting his Hookie Co. Wolf.

The soft kisses turn bruising, borderline painful, and Dream loves every second of it. George is running a hand up his arms when-

“Fuck!” Dream groans into his mouth, left shoulder burning.

George immediately pulls away and looks down at his hand. Bright red coats his palm. Dream quickly sobers up at the sight. All of a sudden, dizziness hits him like a wave. Trying to steady himself as he’s clutching his injured shoulder causes a jolt of pain to shoot up his arm.

“Ow-fuck. Ow. Ow.”

Snapping out of his daze, George reaches to steady him, pulling him into his chest. Dream leans in, just letting himself be held for a second.

“— hospital? Should I contact Branch Three-”

“N-No. I’m pretty sure it’s just a scratch. Nothing major,” he murmurs into George’s chest. It really is soft, he thinks wistfully, a good place to rest his eyes really quickly-

“You idiot. You’re bleeding. What’s not major about that?”

“Eh, m’not gonna die from a graze.” Dream shrugs with his right. “Plus, I like where I am now.”

A second passes before George gives him an ultimatum that he can’t possibly refuse.

“Okay. If you don’t let me help you, no more kisses.”

A fatal blow.

“George…” he whines. In response, the quartermaster just threads his fingers at the base of his head.

“I’m serious, Double Oh Nine.”

“Oh, please, call me that again-”

“Dream.” By the sound of his tone, the agent knows he can’t keep stalling any longer, no matter how much he wants George to just keep holding him.

“First aid kit’s in my suitcase.” He feels George smile into the kiss he presses at the crown of his head.

“I’ll be right back.” Before he leaves, George directs Dream to move up the bed and rest on the pillows. He shuts his eyes for a second, focussing on keeping his breathing even. George returns not even a minute later.

“You’re gonna have to tell me what to do,” he says, “I don’t want to accidentally kill you.”

Dream rolls his eyes fondly. “Normally, I wait until after the first date, but you have to help me out of my clothes.” Technically, he can do it himself. But he’ll never pass up the opportunity to tease his quartermaster.

“You’re so talkative for a man bleeding from a bullet wound.” Carefully, George helps him out of his jacket, one sleeve at a time. He winces at the gash in the fabric. It was a good jacket, he thinks mournfully. Next is his waistcoat, followed by the tie. The last layer, his shirt, is the hardest one to get off as it’s stuck to his skin.

“Ow. Ow. Ow-” he hisses, clutching at the sheets.

“Stop being a baby. I thought you said you weren’t gonna die from a gash.” Finally, the shirt is off and tossed to the end of the bed. He hears George breathe in sharply at the sight of his wound.

“Like what you see?” he winks.

“No! Tell me what to do next,” George demands.

“Grab my tie and tie it above — yeah, like that, then gimme your hand for a sec?” He bites one end of the tie then grabs George’s hand. “Pull as hard as you can in three, two, one-” Dream jerks his head to the side at the same time George’s other hand yanks the tourniquet towards him, causing him to let out a muffled cry in pain. But his quartermaster squeezes his hand, so everything’s alright again.

“There’s some wipes to clean the wound,” Dream instructs next. His quartermaster, his beautiful, kind, gentle quartermaster, applies the least amount of pressure as he dabs at the wound and soaks up the blood. “Wow, doctor, I’m feeling so much better already,” he praises weakly. George just glares at him.

“Lucky for the both of us, it’s shallow enough that I don’t need stitches. Gauze should be enough.”

Dream watches raptly as George frowns in concentration, carefully dressing the wound as per his instructions. He wishes he could kiss the pout of his lips. Maybe later, he thinks. For now, he’ll settle with flirting.

“You looked very handsome tonight,” he smiles. A pretty flush dusts his cheeks as he grins back up at him.

“You did too. Well, except after the — y’know,” he says, looking pointedly at the now neatly wrapped wound. Before he can move to clean up, Dream grasps his wrist.

“Ah. I think you’re forgetting something, doc.”

“Oh? What’s that?” he asks innocently, allowing himself to be pulled down.

“A kiss. I can guarantee it’ll make me feel better instantly.”

Then George is leaning into him, bracketing him with his arm, and giving him a long kiss.

“Thank you for being a good patient,” he whispers into the corner of his mouth, “Now, will you please rest?” He pulls away to head to the bathroom, sparing Dream one glance over his shoulder.

“You’re leaving me alone? What kind of honeymoon is this supposed to be?” Dream calls, yawning, “I want a divorce.”

And George’s indulgent laugh is the last thing that follows him to sleep.