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Whoever stuck them together on this job has a sick sense of humor.
Cesare’s pretty sure he knows exactly which of the bigwigs it is. This kind of shit is right up her alley. It’s not like there’s much point trying to dodge the assignment. He can dig in his heels and balk all he wants, and he’ll still wind up having to work with the last person in the world he wants to be around right now. He’ll take a gamble that the feeling’s mutual.
Doctor’s in the passenger seat, angled away from him, bobby pin dangling out of his mouth like a cigarette while he pins his hair back out of his face with another. He does it on purpose whenever Cesare’s around. He can’t exactly blame him.
The sun scrapes the horizon outside, soft pink light creeping down the side street they’re parked on. It’s a simple stakeout mission, and that grinds Cesare’s gears more than anything. He wants to nab this sucker and be done with it already. The sooner he can get away from-
“I’m going to watch from the back.” Doctor’s sudden voice interrupts that particular train of thought. The perfect flatness of it makes Cesare’s skin crawl.
“Fine.” He keeps his own reply curt, staring out the window and tapping a thumb impatiently on the steering wheel. It’s brighter now, enough that he can make out their surroundings with relative ease. The street’s still devoid of life at this early hour, save for a cluster of pigeons milling on the corner. With any luck their target will poke their head out of their little hideyhole and he can get this job done and dusted. Cesare will personally drag them to hell by the ankles if he has to. Anything to not be here.
He fixes his gaze on a piece of trash blowing down the sidewalk, tracking its erratic path, just so he won’t be tempted to watch Doctor leave. He hears the door open and then shut again. The temperature in the cab feels like it shoots up a good handful of degrees now that there’s not two dead things in it.
Cesare slouches down in his seat, propping one boot up on the dashboard and smearing dirt across it in the process. This is going to be a long fucking wait. Restless energy creeps into his limbs, making his fingers twitch. He needs to move, do something. Sitting around just gives him time to think, and he sure as hell doesn’t need that. Cesare’s studiously ignoring every single emotion he has, the ones beating at the door in the back of his mind where he’d shoved them all this morning, threatening to break it down.
He’s on the clock. He can’t afford to get soft.
Look where that got him last time.
He cuts his eyes towards the dashboard, checking the time. It’s only been a quarter of a goddamn hour. He grinds his teeth in aggravation, the restlessness making his veins itch the same way magic does. Cesare never had a long fuse to begin with, and after all the bullshit upper management’s put him through, it’s even shorter.
Fuck it.
He gets to his feet, the abrupt motion rocking the truck. A little chitchat with Doc can’t hurt. It’s not like it’s going to kill either of them.
A grim smile worms its way onto his face at the morbid joke. Cesare shoves the cab door open, sauntering into the stripped-out back. He’d chucked all the kitchen stuff a long time ago. “Hey-”
The words stick in his throat when he sees Doctor, smile dropping so fast it’s practically a gate slamming shut. He’s standing in the middle of the truck, holding a knife up to his face. Cesare’s not sure if he’s inspecting it or just checking out his reflection. He doesn’t give a shit either way. He doesn’t know where the man keeps getting all of these things from. It’s like a fucking hydra situation with him. Get rid of one knife and three more pop up in its place.
“I called my mom last night.” Doctor says it casually, lowering the knife and turning it over. It glints in the weak light filtering through the open concessions window. “Told her I wasn’t going to be home for the holidays this year. She was pretty upset.”
Cesare’s not going to fall for the guilt-trip, not going to acknowledge the phantom pain in his chest. He ignores it, gesturing at the knife sharply. “Put that down.” It comes out more forceful than intended, an old, instinctive panic bubbling up.
Doctor finally glances over at him, expression neutral. “Scared?”
The taunt still stings, even with its placid delivery. Cesare clenches his jaw, hands squeezing into fists at his sides. He forces himself to relax, blowing a stale breath out from between his teeth like a kettle letting off steam. “I’ve tangled with way hairier things that a rookie with a pointy piece of metal. You don’t even rank in the top hundred, Doc. Actually, scratch that. Top thousand.” He jerks his head towards the weapon. “If you think you’re going to land a shot on the target with that, you’re wrong.”
“Right.” He nods. “Because you always know best.”
The restless that’s been rubbing his nerves raw erupts, coalescing into simmering anger. Cesare takes a step forward, jabbing a finger towards him. “You don’t get to cop an attitude with me, Doc. I did you a fucking favor and you know it.”
He doesn’t budge. Doesn’t even blink. His face stays as composed as ever, so perfectly blank it might as well be a mask. “I have a bullet in my brain because of you, Cesare. I think I’m allowed to have an attitude.”
Cesare lets out a growl, the sound of it ricocheting through the cramped interior of the truck like a - well. That particular metaphor’s a bit too on the nose. His eyes flicker up to the scar on Doctor’s forehead for a brief moment before he turns his head aside. He works his jaw, trying to piece together any kind of excuse that will absolve him.
“If it wasn’t me, it would’ve been someone else. And they wouldn’t have been as efficient.” He spits the word out like it’s a piece of rotten meat. It might as well be, with how it makes his stomach churn. “I know you like drama, but trust me on this when I say dying slowly sucks absolute ass.”
“I would’ve preferred that.”
Cesare whips back around, glaring at him. “Quit fucking with me already.”
“I’m not.” The corner of his mouth twitches. “Did you even stop to think about how much it’d hurt, coming from you?”
“I didn’t know upper management was going to-”
“I kissed you.” Doctor cuts him off. His voice rises ever so slightly, the closest he can get to shouting. The air in the truck gets thick, stifling. Like the calm before the storm, the kind that can level cities in seconds. Cesare abruptly feels like he’s lost at sea, adrift in the eye of a hurricane. “I kissed you, and you killed me.”
Nausea crawls up his throat. He tries to swallow it down. It’s difficult without spit. Cesare hasn’t eaten since he died, so the only thing he has to throw up is bits of himself.
Maybe he should. Seems fitting, in a roundabout way. He’s not religious, wasn’t particularly so even before his murder, but it could serve as an atonement for his sin. A fucking shitty one, but at least it’s something.
“I know.” He can still feel the warmth of Doctor’s lips pressed against his own, can still remember how much he’d wanted to follow them when he’d pulled away.”
“I should hate you.” His monotone, emotionless voice makes the words hurt more. “I want to, sometimes.”
“Yeah. You should.” Cesare doesn’t know if it’s an agreement or an order. Maybe both.
The ghost of a smile lands on Doctor’s face, the outline of a dimple forming for a split second before disappearing. It doesn’t reach his eyes. They’re so much darker than Cesare remembers them being while he was alive, rimmed with red. “You’d like it if I did, wouldn’t you? It’d make it easier.”
“Yeah,” he says again, and wishes he would throw up. Then he wouldn’t have to choke out an apology. It sticks in his throat like a sandbur, refusing to budge. Cesare takes a breath instead, holding out his hand. “Allen. Give me the knife.”
Doctor tightens his grip on the handle, knuckles standing out. They’re almost as a white as his hair. He raises it, then hesitates, staring down at the gleaming surface of the blade.
Cesare finally manages to spit it out. Just one word. That’s all he can do. “Please.”
Muted surprise flickers across Doctor’s face. He doesn’t move for a moment. Just keeps staring. Then his shoulders slump and he holds it out.
Having a knife shoved towards him makes Cesare flinch instinctively. He bites down on his tongue, annoyed with himself. He carefully tugs the weapon from Doctor’s hand and then chucks it over his shoulder into the cab. It clatters loudly on the floor, metallic echo ringing in his ears.
He takes hold of Doctor’s wrist before he can pull it away, still gentle. Doctor’s not nearly as fragile as he used to be, but it’s old habit at this point.
Cesare knows he could break free if he wants. They’re more-or-less matched in strength now. Doctor goes very still, eyes widening slightly, but doesn’t try to shake him off. Cesare loosens his grip, sliding his thumb down to rest over the spot where his pulse should be. Nothing. Just like him.
“Would you at least believe me if I said I never wanted any of this to happen?” It’s the closest to an apology he can get, the most the sandburs in his throat will let him say.
Doctor meets his gaze. The intensity of it’s disquieting. Cesare has to fight the urge to look away. He’s never liked eye contact much. Turns out it’s even more uncomfortable when it’s coming from a man you killed. “Yes.”
Cesare exhales, yanking him in close. Doctor stiffens for an instant and then relaxes, burying his face in Cesare’s shoulder, hair tickling the underside of his jaw. “That doesn’t mean I can forgive you yet.” The words are muffled, so quiet Cesare can barely make them out. “Or ever.”
“I’m not asking you to, Doc.”
He snorts softly, the barebones sketch of a laugh. “I know. You’d rather chew your own leg off first.”
“Would not,” he mutters back. “I’d go for an arm.” He waits to see if it’ll coax another not-laugh out of Doctor, but zilch. Cesare can’t help the pang of disappointment that shoots through him. “Hey.” He lets go of his wrist, drawing back. “You wanna ditch work and play hooky instead? This guy’s not gonna show.”
Doctor blinks, confusion crinkling his brow ever so slightly. “I thought-”
“Don’t let the head honchos fool you into thinking they’re Big Brother.” Cesare snorts dismissively. “They don’t care enough about us to actually give a shit about what we do as long as we don’t fuck up. We can seal the deal tomorrow.”
He just looks at him, clearly uncertain, then glances at the open window. It’s bright outside by now, the sun desperately trying to crawl inside the truck and illuminate it. “Abandon the job and do what, exactly? It’s not like we can go out in public, Cesare.”
“We’re literally standing in a motor vehicle, Doc. Let’s take a drive.”
He turns back to him, dipping his chin into the barest of nods. “All right. But I get to choose the radio station.”
Cesare eyes him, uncertain if that’d been a joke or not. His face is as flat as his tone, which isn’t doing much in the hints department. “You have shit taste in music.”
“It’s impeccable, actually.”
He rolls his eyes, jerking a thumb over his shoulder towards the cab. “Get your ass in there, then. I want to get out of here before rush hour starts.”
Another phantom smile flits across Doctor’s lips, so minute Cesare nearly misses it. He nods again, stepping around him and going back to the passenger seat. Cesare hears a soft scrape, metal on metal. Probably him pocketing the knife again.
They’re not fixed, the two of them. Cesare doesn’t think they can be, not completely. But maybe they can patch something together, a worn-out garment sewn up thread by thread in the small hours of the night. Something rough around the edges, ugly but familiar. Something worn through to hell and back not out of necessity, but because it was wanted.
Sentimental. He’s getting sappy in his old age.
Music trickles into the back of the truck and Cesare grimaces. Yep. Dying hadn’t changed Doctor’s taste for the better at all. He can throw him a bone and put up with it for a few hours, at least. Doctor deserves that much.
He shuts the window and heads up front.