Chapter Text
White felt the aching lightheadedness of passing oxygen deprivation before he was fully aware of consciousness creeping back into him. Reflex kept his body still and his breathing from changing as his conscious mind slowly came around to accepting that he was, in fact, actually alive. With that realized, even still half-unconscious, White began a mental inventory of his body. His lungs burned in a familiar way, and his ears rang as if he had been concussed; symptoms he recognized as side effects of one of the more common Black Nation gaseous incapacitation agents. He would feel those side effects on and off for weeks after exposure, he knew from experience, along with – yes, there it was – the burning numbness at the base of his neck and down his spine where it pressed against a solid surface behind him. Beyond those symptoms, he didn't notice anything that indicated broken bones or deep trauma, and he counted himself lucky. Then his mind gained some real form of coherence, and memory flooded back. The first words that formed in his mind where a vehement, heartfelt "Oh, fuck".
He remembered being on surveillance in his hidden perch inside the pigeon coop that overlooked Black's apartment. He remembered how thrilled he had been, at first, at finding out, at last, what the Black Nation agent was up to those nights with the curtains drawn. And then he had seen the pictures and the videos, and that sick bastard. His brain stopped, rejecting the memories and refusing to consider any further thought on them. Training took over where those thoughts had been. Blank it out, White, he told himself, it doesn't matter right now; what matters is finding out what sort of situation you're in, and getting out of it with your life intact. And so he began slowly, carefully contracting various muscle groups throughout his body, moving as little as possible, to test his surroundings.
The first thing he found was that he was sitting upright in a high and narrow backed chair. The second was that his hands were bound together as very far down and as far back as they could be pulled without dislocating his shoulders; thus, he was simultaneously pinned against the chair back and was prevented virtually any movement of either arm. His fingertips told him the knot - no knots - were a complicated series tied with at least two ropes, interlaced around both wrists with his arms twisted inward so that the backs of his hands barely touched. There was a strong downward tension on the ropes, pulling his arms even tighter, and two leads led off downwards from the central knots to somewhere he could not locate with just his hands. His feet, bare he realized, were pulled back and up at an unnatural angle such that neither one could touch the ground, and seemed to be anchored to the back legs of the chair. And finally, a length of what felt to be the same type of rope was bound under his arms and across his chest, securing against any leverage he could have gained from the chair.
Two thoughts dawned on White simultaneously: first, that he was tied up in one of the most secure positions possible and it had been done by a pro, and secondly, that he was really rather pissed about losing the boots he had been wearing. They had been his favorite pair of shoes. His knives were gone from their sheath on his back, which was gone as well, and he didn't even have to think to realize his shoulder holster and gun were gone. There was no leverage he could gain against either the chair nor the knots, and no way he could untie them from his current position at the moment, not unless he seriously injured one of his hands in the process. He set the notion aside for later. His positives where that he was still dressed, minus his coat, hat, shoes and socks, and that, as best he could tell, he seemed uninjured beyond the aftereffects of the gas that had been used on him by Black.
At that thought, he gritted his teeth, groaned, and slowly opened his eyes.
* * *
Black had become, in his own way, a master of waiting. He sat on the unused, but well made and perfectly set-dressed, mattress on the opposite side of the room from where he had secured his prisoner. The pistol in his left hand was aimed, loosely, at White, who seemed at least to be still unconscious. He had been fooled by that before, though, the nutter could play possum like no one else. But he sat, waiting, gun in hand, aimed just below White's heart, eyes virtually unblinking.
It had been brutal leveraging White's unconscious body from the booby-trapped coop, down ten flights of stairs in the empty building across the street, then into the elevator and into his apartment. His rival seemed, as usual, to weigh far more than his thin, brittle frame would seem to suggest. Yet now, bound and out like a light, he looked by far more frail and breakable than he ever had in any of the photographs that Black had collected. Pale, silvery blond hair and eyebrows that were matted with sweat and badly ruffled, nearly translucent white skin stretched too thinly over a fine bone structure. Black's mind was a confusion of thoughts as he looked at his unconscious adversary. How many nights had he seen a similar expression on the sleeping face as he had watched it? It seemed too normal, too natural, to be the face of someone like himself who was a trained killer. Yet White was like him, too much like him, and really, he was the only agent in the world on par with him.
He had dressed, of course, before fetching his unconscious foe from his supposed hidden observation nest, and now he sat, dressed in his uniform black shirt and black pants, watching White. The very images was making him aroused again, but this, this was business, not personal. It could never be personal, could it? Or had he already made it personal, he wondered, by letting White see what he had seen? But then what else had it been after that night, he thought, when he had heard those words from White's lips and seen what he had seen? He shook his head, trying to clear it of thoughts. This was the dangerous part, the part where he needed to pay attention. White wasn't likely to take well to being captured, he rarely did, and every ounce of training would kick in as soon as he was conscious. Black wouldn't have much time.
Black had stashed away his black leather bag, packed what few articles of clothing he wanted to take with him. After this, after all, he would be leaving in a hurry, when he was done of course. Yet, he had still not picked up the satphone and called HQ for an extraction, nor for a pick-up team. Black shook his head at himself. This was entirely counter to standard procedure, counter to all his training, and hell, counter to the grain of his instincts. He had White captured, unconscious, and secured. He should have called for a pick-up team to come get the prisoner, an extraction and cleanup team for himself, and been in another city in a day half way around the world with a pat on the back and another commendation in his file. Or, he could have put a bullet in White's head, set it up as an attempted assassination, and sent a corpse off to Control rather than a live prisoner. The outcome would have roughly been the same for him, either way, though there might have been a gold watch or a medal stored somewhere for him as a reward for killing one of White Nation's best. He'd never see it, any more than he'd know which hellhole prison they'd ship White to this time if he went that route.
But this time he needed to do things differently, he realized. He had questions he needed answers to; things he needed to know that weren't state secrets or related to their jobs. And after learning what went on in some of the interrogation rooms of his own nation, he had no interest in handing White over to them before he had his chances. Sometimes, just sometimes, this job needed a more hands on approach.
He had known White had been watching him, of course. And as such, he had rigged the pigeon coop with motion detectors and the gas canisters. It had been easy to set up, even easier to pull off. And even knowing that White was there with his damned little notebook and binoculars, Black had left the curtain open this time where every time before he had closed them. He didn't understand why he had done that, or really, even why he did any of it. Maybe now he could make sense out of it. But how?
He heard White groan and shift against his bonds. So he was finally ready to stop playing possum it seemed. Black remained where he was and watched the bleary, darkly circled eyes open in the pale face opposite him. White made a dry sound, half cough and half choking gag, and then tried to pull his head up to look at Black. His pale blue eyes were unfocused still, but blazed with distrust and anger even before they managed to lock onto first the end of the barrel of the pistol, then onto Black's face.
* * *
White recognized the pistol pointed at him, or at least, recognized it as one of the types favored by Black for short-range work. It took him a moment longer to focus on the gloved hand holding it, then the face beyond it. His vision blurred as he fought to keep both eyes focused on the same point for a moment, then felt the muscles obey and the face of his rival snapped into sharp detail. Passive and cold, seemingly unconcerned, Black was watching him from across the room, sitting on the unused bed. He was dressed in at least most of his usual uniform: long sleeved black dress shirt open at the collar and black flat fronted pants with a silver buckled belt. A pair of sunglasses was tucked into the shirt pocket almost casually, along with what looked to be a second loaded clip. And of course, the gloves. White's mind convulsed as memories hit him again, images of Black's gloved hands roaming over bare flesh and the horrible pictures and videos; the thought of Black watching him while he had been unconscious made him nearly retch.
He clenched his jaw and bit the inside of his cheek, trying to focus on the pain rather than swirl of images. He had to think, had to focus, else he would miss his means of escape, or worse, end up dead by this sick bastard's filthy hands. But only panic seemed to flood his mind still, and his vision tried to swim again as the pain in his lungs suddenly worsened. Think, damn it, he shouted at himself, if you don't think you'll be dead. Where there should have been fear, cold calmness tried to rise up instead, the product of training and experience. His pulse slowed, his eyes stayed focused, and his breathing calmed.
Good, White thought. Now, what does this sick fuck want and how long do I have before his retrieval team gets here? And where is here? His eyes stayed focused on Black's unnervingly impassive face as he tried to take in detail. Floor lamp behind Black, bed, unused, bare walls; this was the dummy bedroom that Black had set up in the room that should be the bedroom for the floor plan. Of course he didn't sleep here, he slept on that strange rolled up mat in the other room, where White had seen him earlier. At the trigger, the images flooded in again, and White fought for control of his thoughts.
This is bad, very bad. I haven't been this screwed up since after – yeah, after that last time Black Nation got me. Those memories didn't help, nor did their link to his current situation. His mind raced, and Black watched him with impassive, bourbon brown eyes. Fine, White thought, I can't play this cool, because I'm not. I'm too shit scared out of my mind to try to do this right. And this fucker's loving every moment of it, so fine, let's give him a show. Maybe he will slip up.
"You know I won't talk," White blurted. It sounded dumb, and worse, it came out thickly around the dryness in his mouth. But it broke the silence, and maybe it would buy him something. Black only shrugged, the motion not even wavering the seeming careless aim of the muzzle pointed in White's direction. How many times had they both been in this situation with one another or with other agents? Yet White could feel that there was something different this time, both in the way Black held himself and the blank expression on his face. It wasn't helping him to stay calm, or even close to calm.
Black did something then that sent White off the deep end, and White bit his tongue this time, the little jolt of pain from the flesh pressed between top and bottom canines trying to fight the rising fear. He stood, gun still in hand, and began closing the distance to where White was seated and bound. White blinked and swallowed while his brain panicked, and at the same time tried to think how to get the weapon from out of Black's hand and into his own.
***
Black stood and closed the distance to White in a few short steps putting the muzzle of the pistol now less than a foot from White's face. He could see White's thoughts racing and the occasional panicked jerk against his bonds. White was off his game, badly, which puzzled Black in a distant sort of way. That emotion was visible, let alone obvious, in the way White moved was simply wrong. His appearance was even more of a giveaway.
White's pale skin was even more so than usual, and there were faint hints of perspiration forming at his hairline. His eyes were fighting to stay fixed on Black's face and something was writing the faintest hint of confusion and terror on the angular, slim lines of his rival agent's face in a way that Black had rarely seen. There was more here than White having seen what Black had in his possession, more even than could be explained by a single, sudden shock. He had expected rage, anger, all of the emotions that White usually directed when surprised. Instead, there was real fear on White's face, even below the training that kept emotions off his face, and Black could see it. This was so unlike White, and this close, it made him nervous to see. But it was too late to stop now, even if, in truth, he didn't really even know what he was doing.
With a flick of his right wrist, he had the long, slim knife that he kept under his shirtsleeve in his hand. He had put it and the many others of his hidden weapons, back in place as he had dressed. White knew about this one, had seen him use it many times in the field, so why was there the slight widening of his eyes, the attempt to pull back? But he had no leverage, not in that set of knots, and the movement was little more than a flinch as the blade flicked free of its hidden sheath and circled up into his preferred grip with that hand. It was a showy move, but one he was rather fond of having perfected.
Black leaned forward, pressing the muzzle of the pistol into the side of White's neck as he bent over the chair and down to where his face was at eye level with White's. He brought the knife up to where it was clearly in White's line of sight, and then gave a little jab with his gun hand, getting White's attention on both weapons.
"You struggle, you get hurt. I'd like to avoid having your blood on my carpet, so I'd like to avoid hurting you at the moment. " Words like that shouldn't make White flinch like that, let alone nod. Something was wrong, but Black couldn't put the pieces together in a shape that made sense.
Without taking his eyes off White's face, or changing the angle of his left hand, Black made a swift, upward cut with the blade. Its needle sharp point caught the silk of the white shirt covering the White agent's chest, and the fine, surgical edge on it sliced through the silk like air. Two more cuts and the shirt was cut away completely, its ruined remains pinned between White's body and the chair back by the tension on his arms. White's instincts were good though, at least still there when it came to not moving. He didn't jerk back or even cry out, even when the blade had been a hair's breadth from his skin. But his eyes, bloodshot but still vibrant blue, were so wide their pupils trembled.
Black stepped back, pulling the gun away from White's neck, placing himself outside of a double arm's reach from White's chair. Let him breath, let him calm down, Black thought, what good does he do you dead from fear. That thought nearly made Black laugh; his rival, dead from fear like some civilian. Yet he stood, waiting, and watching.
***
White realized he had forgotten what it was like to be truly afraid. He knew what fear was; he knew it as the edge that kept him fast enough and smart enough to survive. What he had forgotten was the real feeling of being afraid; he had done his best to push down any memories, especially those memories, that invoked that feeling in himself. And now, fighting to keep his breathing regular, looking up into light brown, nearly amber eyes, he knew again what it was to be truly afraid. And the worst part was, every instinct in his body knew he should not be afraid, rather that he should be calm and collected and trying to escape. Instead, he was trembling like a civilian, or worse, a desk agent, and barely able to control his thoughts let alone think about escape. He bit the inside of his cheek again, trying to clear his head with the sharp pain.
He could feel the cold metal of Black's pistol pressed against the side of his neck and the bottom of his jaw. A shot there would, unless he was very lucky, be an instant kill. But he knew Black, at least he had thought until tonight he understood him, and hoped that, as usual, it was more being used for control rather than as a direct threat. With Black as close to him as he was, White's nose was filled with the familiar blend of scents that he associated with his rival. The slick and metallic smells of gun oil, black powder, and well oiled leather, mixing with the harsh, earthy smell of the hand rolled cigarettes which Black compulsively smoked, both overlaying the faint, musky odor of Black's skin. That smell was etched in his mind, and being aware of it had saved his life more than once; worse, however, that smell even penetrated his dreams, and now dredged up more of the memories that he tried so hard to keep repressed.
He could feel Black's eyes looking at his exposed torso, and he hated the feeling. He hated anyone seeing him exposed in any way, something which had gained him a reputation as a difficult patient with the medical staff his country employed. Since the events a few years ago with the other Black nation agent what had been a mild dislike of being exposed before others had bloomed into a full-blown loathing of the experience. Black's eyes on him repulsed him, doubly so knowing that this pervert had been photographing him for years now as he slept. He could feel those eyes on him, crawling over his exposed chest and arms like insects with too many legs. White wanted nothing more than to cover himself and hide from his rival's probing eyes.
"Stop staring at me like that, you sick bastard," White managed to hiss. Black's eyes showed a moment of emotion, gone too quickly for White to identify. White suddenly flinched as Black's gloved fingers traced a line along his left collarbone and shoulder. "What are you doing," he gasped, trying to yank away from the touch, "Get your hands off me!"
Black regarded him with a curious expression. "Simple. I'm checking over my handiwork from all these years. Making sure it's really you. " Black smiled an oily smile, "Only paying back in kind what you have done to me so many times. " White mentally flinched from the accusatory tone in his rival's voice.
Black touched White's skin along his collarbone again, tracing fingers across where White knew there was a long, pale surgical scar. It stretched from his neck down to his upper arm, cleanly healed and barely visible. "This was where you broke your collarbone and dislocated your shoulder trying to get those submarine plans, isn't it?" Black asked.
White nearly snarled. "Yes, and it was your doing too!"
Black only grinned, then used the barrel of his pistol to push White's chin up, revealing two slightly raised crescent moon scars that arced across the pale flesh of his throat. White could barely see Black's frown with his head tilted up, but he could hear the disapproval in his voice as he spoke. "Those aren't my doing. "
White felt his face flush. The agent who had tortured and raped him the last time he had been captured by the Black nation had given him those scars with a long, curved blade that had been held to his throat. White tried to pull his head down to hide the scars from Black's gaze, but his movement was blocked by the press of cold steel against the corner of his jaw. Black touched the soft flesh of White's neck with his free, gloved hand and White wanted to scream. But then Black relaxed the pressure against his jaw, and White looked up into Black's face again, its expression much darker than before.
***
Black frowned. This wasn't getting him anywhere. White was too terrified, even if he was struggling hard not to show it. But White should have no reason to be this terrified of him, Black thought, so surely this had something to do with what had happened to him at the hands of that other Black Nation agent. Yet White was too much of a professional to project such fear into dealing with Black in what should have been for White a normal capture situation. So why was it tied to him so strongly in White's mind?
Black stepped back and sighed, sliding his gun in a hidden holster inside his left pants pocket. White's eyes were watching him, confusion and fear still moving clearly through them. Black sat on the floor in front of the chair to which he had bound White, looking up at him.
"Just tell me White. Just tell me and I'll let you go. " Confusion played over White's face. "Tell me why you call my name in your sleep, White. Tell me why you are so afraid of me?"
Black saw the anger flash in White's eyes. "I'm not going to tell you anything, you fucking pervert. " Black stayed calm, watching, "What the fuck is wrong with you, Black? Have you finally gone crazy? I saw what you …" White's face seethed with revulsion at the thought.
"And who was the one sitting in a pigeon coop looking into my bedroom window, when he wasn't even on assignment? Keeping notes?"
White looked like had been slapped, then his eyes narrowed in fury. "And you were sneaking into my bedroom to take pictures of me while I slept. "
"Would you have rather I been sneaking in to kill you?" White's nostrils flared. "Because I could have. " The rest of that statement went unsaid between them. Of course he hadn't even when he'd been on a mission, he wouldn't do that: it wasn't a part of the rules they played by. Other agents did things like that, but they didn't. Not to each other at least. And, Black thought to himself, I'd never have done what that cruel son of a bitch did, whatever it was, to leave that list of injuries so long they needed two pages to detail them, to you. That's part of the rules too.
White's rage had drained out of him again. His head slumped against his chest, and Black could see that the other agent's eyes were closed. He was still pulling at the restraints with no real purpose or pattern, but the movements were growing slower. White was starting to tire.
"Just tell me why, please?" Black hated himself for the note of need that seemed to slip into that question.
White said something in answer, his voice little more than low growl. Black tilted his head, watching. "I'll never tell you, or anyone else," he said slightly more loudly, "and I'm not – not fucking afraid of you!"
White managed to raise his head at this last and tried to spit at Black, but his mouth must have been far too dry to manage it. Black still recoiled, nearly falling backwards while sitting, converting the motion into jumping to his feet. White's eyes still glared at him, burning with rage again. But there was real fear there still, and worse, a mind numbing terror that Black had seen too many times in others eyes. This wasn't working – there was only one thing for it.
Black stepped forward, putting the momentum of his step into the swing of his right arm. His fist caught White across the jaw with practiced accuracy, aiming for the one spot where, Black knew, if he hit White just right, he would drop unconscious like a stone. The impact left his knuckles bruised inside the glove, but it had the effect he wanted.
/End Tape One