Chapter Text
Russian Weapons Facility, November 6, 1957
At the end of the day, Mike loved his job.
Who wouldn’t? The thrill of a chase, the sneaking and snooping around, kept alert by the exhilaration bubbling just below the surface, getting glimpses of luxurious parties and lifestyles that he thoroughly savored in the few moments before his mission took over. The rush of triumph that washes over him when he snags files or places bugs in particularly good places, the glory that came with being one of the best in the business. He wouldn’t trade being a spy for the world.
No, he wouldn’t trade it for anything. That doesn’t mean he enjoyed it all, though.
Like, for example, the back of his head getting bashed in by the handle of a gun (okay, maybe a little extreme, but it knocked him out, so he’s allowed to be a little dramatic) and subsequently being woken up by cold water thrown at his face.
Yeah. He could do without that.
Mike spluttered, blinking furiously as he gasped for air. His hands jerked, but the cold metal of handcuffs kept them helpless behind his back. It took a few moments before he could keep his eyes open long enough to register his surroundings. Which was, sadly, just a bleak, boring cement wall. Quite a contrast to the busy, industrial type room littered with exposed wires and cracked wooden boards he’d gotten knocked out in. Which meant he was in an unfamiliar part of the already unknown facility he was exploring. Great.
A bit of movement on his right caught his attention. Turning slightly, he saw a tall, lanky man with a newsboy cap just a bit too big for him, holding an empty bucket. Mike glared at him. So he was reasonable for his soggy state. There were way better ways to wake someone up that didn't leave them sopping wet for an uncomfortably long time afterward. Seriously, did they have no respect?
“Good. Now we can start with the questions.” A strong, clipped, Russian voice from behind him spoke. It wasn’t from Bucket Boy, which meant there were two of them –at least– in the room with him. Assuming one of them was his assailant from before –and assuming based on Bucket Boy’s physique it wasn’t him– then maybe, the whole base hadn’t been alerted of his presence, and he could salvage it.
He strained against the handcuffs again. They were more difficult to break out of that rope –you had to pick it instead of brute forcing it– but they hadn’t tied him to the chair at all. With enough maneuvering, he could get up and fight the two of them, given he had a good spot to do it. If he was quick enough –and if he wasn’t out for that long– he could pretend like nothing happened, and maybe Hopper wouldn’t yell at him this time.
Yeah right. Mike thought to himself, grimacing slightly. Despite the fact that he was widely considered to be one of the best spies in the world, his boss seemed determined to find something to criticize on every mission.
Bucket Boy left his field view. A quiet clang, the bucket was placed on another surface, likely metal, still on his right side. There was always a table or cart or tray or something during interrogations, it seemed. These evil guys really needed to start spicing things up, they were getting boring.
Footsteps behind him. They were soft, barely there; unlike Bucket Boy’s. The other guy was definitely the one in charge, then. Mike forced himself to relax, falling into the air of casual confidence that he had practiced and knew all too well.
“Let’s start off simple. What are you doing here?” Lead guy asked. Mike bit back a smirk. This was the fun part.
“Looking for a good vacation spot, really.” He quipped. “I’m in the market for an old, dirty, falling apart warehouse, you know? I gotta say, this one’s top of the list so far.” He couldn’t see Lead Guy, no matter how he turned his head. Oh well, he’ll have to do without seeing his reactions.
Lead Guy was silent for a moment, then tsked. “I was hoping we could do this easily, Mr. Wheeler. Tell me, how does an American like yourself end up so far from home?”
Mike internally grimaced; they knew who he was, that was never good.
“Like I said, I need a vacation home. Hey, do you think I could talk with your boss? Ask him how much? I think I got a few ones in my pocket, that should cover it, right?”
Bucket boy returned to his field of view, just off to his right, leaning against the wall with arms crossed and a scowl. He knew his type: the henchman, who followed orders and tried to look tough, carrying out all the dirty work that the leader never wanted to do. Typically not the smartest in the bunch. The easiest the rile up.
“Hm. Oleg.”
Lead Guy snapped, and Bucket Boy –or, Oleg, apparently– sprang into action. He walked over with a gleeful gleam in his eyes. Mike watched him warily.
Yeah. He didn’t like this part either.
Oleg gazed down at Mike, who raised an eyebrow, taunting, still trying to seem carefree. He watched him take a deep breath, then punch him right in the face.
Immediately Oleg recoiled, stumbling away with a cry of pain, cradling his right hand close to himself. Mike had had to bite his lip to stop from laughing –which, honestly, hurt just as much. Not only was this guy living life as a mindless henchman, but he was bad at it. Like, seriously bad –his main job was to be strong and tough and he couldn’t even throw a punch. He’d gotten worse on a playground when he was fucking twelve.
“Hm, it seems you’re even stronger than your reputation suggests, Mr. Wheeler.” Lead Guy said. Something about his voice –the way he said his last name– rang in his mind. “Perhaps a more serious method of extraction is in order?”
Another snap, followed by quiet clanks. Tools, this time.
“Do your worst. I’m like a Russian nesting doll. You may break me down, but there’s four more of me waiting inside. Pretty soon you’ll be left with just a tiny little version of me.”
Mike glanced towards his left, and finally saw the second guy. He also wore a newsboy hat, but it was a better fit, and seemed higher quality. It, paired with a large, comical looking mustache, blocked most of his face from view. Seriously, it looked fake. Kind of impressive, if you ask him.
Lead Guy –or, Mustache Guy– stood there for a moment, confused.
“I… do not understand what that means,” Which, fair, he’s had much better lines than that. Lead Guy –it’s easier than Mustache Guy– leaned in close. “But I do understand the sound of a man in pain. Do you fancy nursery rhymes, Mr. Wheeler? Oleg.” He snapped again and stood back.
Like a dog, Bucket Boy –that punch lost him name privileges– responded. Mike wasn’t expecting much. Certainly not fucking pliers grabbing at his left pinky.
“Which piggy will it be, eh? This little piggy went to market.” The pliers squeezed around his finger and pulled. White hot pain flashed through his body. He winced. The pliers moved down to the second knuckle. “And this little piggy stayed home.” Another squeeze. More pain. “ This little piggy-”
Bucket Boy’s hand was close enough for Mike’s other hand to grab on his fingers and twist. Bucket Boy screamed. Mike smirked through the throbbing of his own hand.
“And that little piggy will have to nurse multiple fractures for three to five weeks. Oink, oink.” It probably wasn’t broken, not like his own hand, but he started speaking before he could think it through. Besides, he probably wouldn’t know.
Lead Guy walked up beside him again. “Well, there’s a version I’ve never heard before. You know,” He crouched. Now, with nothing blocking his face, Mike could see his eyes. Hazel, with a dust of green. There was something about them that was off, like they didn’t seem right for his face. “It would be so nice if you just told us about the blueprints you stole, and why your government wants them so badly.”
Mike ignored his eyes, and instead, spit at the man’s feet.
“Oleg, crush his testicles.” Lead guy responded, standing up and walking away.
Mike’s eyebrows raised. Interesting. Bucket Boy returned, this time with a baseball bat. He swung it from side to side, like he was trying to pick up speed or …something –Mike wasn’t really sure what his game plan was.
So he did what he did best: be annoying. “Swing, batter batter swing, come on, get up in there-”
Before he could finish –which was probably good, considering he didn’t know where that sentence was going– Bucket Boy managed to hit one of his own legs with the bat. He stumbled off, groaning. Mike couldn’t help the small snort that escaped.
“God, no, enough of this circus!” Lead Guy returned, leaning down close to him again. “How can you be so calm and collected when you are staring death right in the face? Where do you get off?”
“Bedroom.” Mike replied, instantly smiling as Lead Guy jerked back. “Shower, maybe the backseat of a limousine? But I don’t feel we’re there just yet. Maybe on our second date I’ll let you get to second base.”
”So that’s how you want to play this game, eh?” He said, after a moment. His accent almost changed somehow, just slightly. Mike was notably very bad with accents as a whole, but there was something he was missing here. Something was off about Lead Guy, and more than just his mustache. “Oleg, stand back.”
Bucket Boy lingered in the outskirts of Mike’s vision, while Lead Guy moved behind him. His skin prickled uncomfortably; Lead Guy seemed more competent than his counterpart. He didn't hear the clinking of any tools, which was concerning and confusing. Mike really didn't understand these guys. They were weird, and that's saying something, considering some of the shit he’s seen.
Case in point, the hands that appeared at his sides, tickling them.
Fucking. Tickling.
He let out a strangled gasp, only half out of surprise —because really, who the fuck tickles as an interrogation tactic what the fuck–
Fortunately for his captors —and unfortunately for Mike— it was one interrogation method he couldn't beat. His sides had always been sensitive –they were the frequent subjects of attacks by his sisters when he was a kid. It was one of his best kept secrets.
(Not The Secret. No, that is one to never be shared, no matter how much it burns inside him.)
The torture to his sides was unyielding. Choked pleas mixed in with his barely contained laughter stumbled out of his mouth that begged for a release. Graciously, the hands were removed. But they remained hovering on each side, saying go on, spill.
“I’m working for the American Secret Service.” Mike relented, breathless. The hands returned for a moment, a warning to continue. He yelped. “We need blueprints of the weapons you’ve been developing-” They returned yet again, because Mike’s life was nothing but pain apparently. “Please stop Jesus Christ.”
The hands moved away from his sides and Lead Guy took a step back, finally giving him a break. God.
“No, not yet. Not until you’ve told us everything you know!” He could practically hear the smile in Lead Guy’s voice, that bastard.
“You’re fucking crazy, you know that?” He spat, still catching his breath. “How could you possibly even fucking known I was ticklish?”
Lead Guy laughed –chuckled, really– and Mike’s stomach flipped. He knew that laugh. It haunted his dreams. “Well, for the record, I think you’re just as crazy as me, Wheeler. We’ll go crazy together, right?”
The accent fully dropped from his voice, unmasking the familiar sound of none other than Will fucking Byers.
Will, who was the first person in his training class –or, really anyone in the American Secret Service– who cared for him, the first friend he ever really made. Will, who would follow him into danger again and again with nothing but a roll of his eyes and a smile, secretly just as enthralled with the adrenaline rush as he was. Will, who despite working in the No Morals job, where you swap out your sense of right and wrong for a case file and a gun, was somehow the kindest person he knew. Will, who went out of his way on missions to protect civilians or unlucky bystanders –and yet, on the field, never hesitated and was a force to be reckoned with.
Will, who, despite it all, hadn’t lost his smile.
Will, who made his heart beat faster than anyone else, who made his knees weak with a simple smile. Will, who brought a constant reminder of what Mike tried to hide deep within him.
Will, his fellow spy, his teammate, his partner.
Will, who he was hopelessly in love with.
All tension left Mike as two shots rang out, followed by Bucket Boy’s screams. Will –as expected –was a perfect shot, hitting both kneecaps straight on.
Serves him right. Mike thought.
“Sorry to cut you down like that, but I figured it would do your ego some good.” Will said, previous accent gone, taking off his hat and ridiculous looking mustache. “God knows it needs a good decrease.”
“Yeah, yeah.” Mike grumbled, barely biting back a smile as Will unlocked his handcuffs. “If anything it made it worse, that guy was bad.”
Will snorted. “Seriously. I almost broke a few times. I kept it going as long as I did only because it was funny.” Mike stood and stretched, grimacing at the dampness still on his clothes. Damn that water.
“I’m surprised he broke my pinky, didn’t think he had it in him.” He flexed it and winced. Yeah, definitely broken. “But you? Breaking character? I don’t believe it.”
“Maybe I should have, that way you’d have realized it was me.” Will knocked their shoulders together, humor in his eyes. Mike felt his face heat up.
“I knew it was you!” He protested. Based on Will’s raised eyebrow and amused look, he didn’t fall for it. Which, fair. Mike was never the best at acting. That was Will’s job.
“Sure you did. Because you can always tell when people are in disguise.” Will hand Mike his gun, which he gratefully took. “Never had any issues with it in the past that nearly killed us.”
Mike huffed. “It’s not my fault accents completely change people's voices. And for the record, I had figured it out by the time he started shooting.”
“Of course.” Will smiled and patted his shoulder twice. “You’ll get there some day.”
He squeezed his shoulder once before starting off towards the table nestled in the corner of the room. Mike stood there for a moment, feeling the lingering heat of his hand seep through his jacket. He took a deep breath; he needed to get this under control. He was on a mission, he needed to focus.
It was always there, bubbling right under the surface. But moments like this made the water rise right to the cusp, threatening to spill.
But Mike couldn't let his guard down, not now. Not ever. Not when he was 15 and got beat up during gym because his eyes lingered a little too long in the changing rooms. Not when ‘53 and Executive Order 10450 was released and the phrase sexual perversion echoed in his mind for weeks. Not since Jimmy Walton, a fellow ASS colleague that he can't say he really knew was fired on account of treason, all because of who he went to bed with.
Swallowing his feelings, he followed Will across the room. The table in the corner was, in fact, a metal tray littered with tools, because of course it was. He might be useless at seeing through disguises, but he sure could infer his surroundings.
Mike leaned against one of the cement walls, wincing at the cold that seeped through his jacket – fuck being wet– and watched Will feel for something under the trays.
He flexed his pinky again. Lucas would complain once they got out of here, probably annoyed he had to mess up his perfectly packed medical supplies as he dug through them, even though healing people is literally his whole job, so of course he's gonna have to use his supplies. But a broken pinky is practically nothing compared to the shit he’s dealt with before; he’ll be fine.
About a year or so ago, Will and him were sent on a mission off the coast of Italy that ended up… less than ideal. On paper it was simple: infiltrate a rising gang’s main base of operations, gather any information they could, then report back and wait for more instructions.
And it was simple. At first.
Then Mike was spotted, captured, and ultimately tortured –and, okay, he might’ve made a big fuss of getting captured to give Will enough time to escape and that might’ve ticked them off and might’ve made them crueler than they would’ve been, but it turned out already in the end. So. Sue him.
Two days later, Will came barreling in for Mike’s rescue like a knight in shining armor. He bore a black eye, a broken left arm, and deep gashes in both his calves. Will had to practically carry him the whole way out.
But they escaped with minimal extra damage, at least. (Not including the fire they set in the hideout –that wasn’t more damage to either him or Will, so it didn't count).
Mike still vividly remembers how Will looked that night, with the fire below them as they collapsed on top of a nearby hill. How his hazel-green eyes were ablaze, his skin illuminated by the burning light. How he grinned from ear to ear and let out light, breathy laughs, matching Mike’s own strained laughs. He remembers when Will pushed himself up by one arm and gazed down at Mike, who was still flat on his back. The fire light gave him a halo, bathing him in divine light.
Mike wasn’t religious, hadn’t been since he was twelve. Not since God never cared enough to answer his prayers when bullying got too bad. Not since puberty hit, and all people he couldn’t get out of his head were of the wrong body. Not since he was handed a gun and a license to kill and was told where to aim. Not since he pulled the trigger for the first time and realized just how easy it was.
Let’s face it, there was no place for Mike in heaven anymore. It was easier to believe in nothing than that he was doomed to a never ending life of pain and destruction.
But in that moment, up on top of a hill, pulled free from his torments and surrounded by fire, he was.
In that moment Mike was only a lowly sinner who watched in awe as God gazed down at him, gracing him with his mere presence. He wanted to reach out and touch him, a being of pure light. He wanted to feel his sacredness, to reach out and pull him into a kiss and stain his holy lips with Mike’s immoral soul. But it was all too much, his earthly body couldn’t handle embracing a spirit.
Okay, he might’ve been a bit delirious from blood loss.
And he knows it was blood loss, because every single member of his team and Hopper yelled at him for approximately two hours and 26 minutes after the fact —not that he was counting, of course.
And look, Mike understood it to a certain extent. But he was fine, Will was fine, and they got the information they were after. Everything turned out okay in the end, what really was the issue?
“Does it hurt?” Mike snapped his head up and met Will’s gaze. He motioned to Mike’s finger with his hand —which now held onto the case file Mike had originally been sent to get.
“What?” He replied, still a little lost in his memory. There was an uncovered light bulb behind Will. If he tried hard enough, he could pretend the light circling around his head was a halo.
Will huffed, amused. “Your finger, dumbass. You keep staring at it.”
Mike blinked, then shrugged. “It’s fine, I've dealt with worse.”
“Still.” Will held out the file. Mike shrugged off his jacket —one of his favorites. It was fairly simple, a nice dark-blue-almost-black type color that sat well on his shoulders. What really made it good was all the secret pockets —like the one on the back, which he the case file fit snugly into. Hopefully it wouldn’t get too damp.
“You know, I wouldn't have gotten hurt if you tied me up with rope or something else. The handcuffs were unnecessary.” He jokingly argued, fixing his sleeves. Will rolled his eyes.
“Where’s the fun if you escape quickly? What if I like having you tied up?” He smirked. That fucker smirked.
Mike turned away, praying his face wasn't too red. He knew if he kept looking he’d do something stupid –like pushing him against the nearest wall and kissing that smirk right off his face.
He cleared his throat, now also trying to get rid of those images in his head. “Well,” Mike stuck out his hand, “You ready?”
Will gripped his arm, right below the junction of his elbow, Mike's hand gripped the same spot, their arms running parallel to each other.
He grinned. “Of course.”
Will took the lead, Mike following right behind him. Knowing Will, he probably had the layout of this place memorized. Mike- well, he was supposed to know it, but he might have skipped that part of the case file. Those parts were always so boring. He could just figure it out there, it worked well enough.
They walked quickly and in relative silence. Will had his gun drawn and lowered, while Mike rested his hand on the holster.
Mike itched to strike up a conversation, but he held his tongue. It had been a good couple weeks since they last saw each other: Mike’s been bouncing between solo missions throughout Europe, and Will’s been off doing his stuff. They never tell him anything about their separate missions –no matter how much he asks– for “security reasons”, even though they’re on the same team.
Whatever, it didn’t matter. They’re here, together, and that’s what’s important. The sooner they’re out of here, the sooner they can really talk, just them.
So, Mike walks in silence.
It’s here –now undistracted by fending off poor attempts at torture– that he feels his stomach clench, and he remembers his breakfast, left uneaten on his countertop. And, look, he’s notoriously bad at eating before missions, but he's trying, okay? It’s hard to remember when his mind’s focus is taken up on the details of the day ahead. Besides, he’s normally fine anyway, it’s not that big of a deal –despite what the rest of the party thinks.
How long had it been since he’d eaten, or when he got knocked out, anyways? He checked his watch for the time-
His watch was gone.
Mike stopped dead in his tracks. Now he feels it, the lack of the normal, comforting weight strapped to his wrist. How hadn’t he noticed before?
Will turned around, noticing that Mike had stopped.
“Did you take my watch?” Will’s eyebrows raised, his eyes flickering to Mike’s empty wrist.
“No, I wasn’t there when they got you, I only came after to get your gun and file. I didn’t see your watch, maybe I missed it?”
Mike cursed, running a hand through his hair. Hopper was actually going to kill him if he lost another watch. “How far away are we from there?”
Will hummed, his brow furrowing slightly like it normally did when he was thinking. “Not that far, but we’d have to backtrack.”
He sighed. “Let’s go back, I don’t need to give Hopper any more reason to hate me.”
“Hopper doesn’t hate you.” Will said, shaking his head in amusement. He turned and started walking in the opposite direction, playfully flicking at Mike’s head as he passed. “He’s like that with everyone.”
Mike scoffed and followed Will. “No he’s not! He likes you, and he doesn’t like me. He has it out for me, I swear. Every time I walk into his office it's like I'm walking into a death trap.”
“If it's so bad, then why do you still have a job?” Will glanced behind him, smirking in a I’m right and you know it kind of way.
Right at that moment, a –guard? Soldier? Random guy with clothes in the same depressing colors as fucking everything else in the building?– turned a corner in front of them. He froze, Mike used the moment to whip out his gun and shoot him.
Mike turned back to Will, raising his eyebrow. “Because I’m the best.”
“One of the best, Wheeler. Don't get ahead of yourself.” Will corrected, shoving his shoulder lightly. “You’d be nothing without me.”
“Yeah.” Mike replied, far too soft and far too honest. Will turned back and gave him a similarly soft smile. They were a team, the two of them. The party was all four of them, of course, but on the field, it was just him and Will. It was their thing, it felt special. And the way Will was looking at him, he felt it too.
Stop. Get a fucking grip. Don’t become stupid just because Will’s here.
The rest of their journey was made in comfortable silence as they traversed the same boring gray walls and brown doors. At some point, it morphed into the style he remembered, with wooden supports and random shelving. They came up on a cylindrical open area type place that went down multiple floors, with one staircase in the center that went the whole height of the space, branching off at each level.
Mike actually remembered this from his quick flip through of the layout. They were only about halfway up the length of the staircase –the top was near the loading dock at the back of the warehouse– so they must’ve been underground.
They walked along one wall of the open room, passing even more shelves and tables filled with random junk.
They really don’t care about their image, do they? Mike though, passing a discarded jacket that was thrown onto an unclean plate with food scraps still on it. Yikes.
For how open this spot was, they were the only ones moving, the only ones making noise. It was empty. It was eerie. Mike didn’t like it one bit. God, they needed to get out of here.
Ahead of him, Will snatched a banana lying on a table and tossed it back to Mike without saying a word. Mike stopped, startled, almost dropped the fruit, barely stopping it from falling to the ground. He blinked.
“What?”
Will turned back and shrugged. “You didn’t eat before the mission, no one else was claiming it, and it seemed edible enough.”
“I ate!” Mike protested, fully aware Will was right.
He looked at Mike, unimpressed, for a long moment. Sighing, Mike relented and started peeling the banana. Will smiled, full of teeth and satisfied, and started down the center staircase. Ignoring the warmth blooming in his stomach, Mike followed him, taking a few bites.
Mike paused at the ledger of the staircase –the old, rickety looking contraption of a staircase. Who let them build that? He walked to the edge and dropped the peel by his feet, ignoring the annoyed exhale from Will. They were about to leave this shithole of a building, who cares if a singular banana peel got left on the floor?
He leaned against the wood railing for barely a moment –barely even pressing his weight against it– and it instantly cracked, sending a piece tumbling off several stories below.
Mike backed up. “Jesus, how old is this place?” God, they really needed to get out of here.
Will snorted from a few steps down. “Yeah, this place is ancient. Stay away from the ledges, Wheeler.”
“What, you don’t trust me?” Mike asked with faux hurt as he caught up to Will.
“No, I don’t. A fall from this height would split your head open, and I’d rather not clean that up.” He playfully knocked their shoulders together.
Mike laughed. “Harsh, Byers. I’m hurt, really.”
“Oh you’ll get over it.” Will rolled his eyes, grabbing Mike’s hand, dragging him off the staircase and down a hallway. Mike let himself be pulled.
They stopped in a weapon storage room, the same one Mike had found himself with the but end of a gun an unknown amount of hours ago. Once again, Mike was very glad one of them knew the layout.
One quick scan of the room and an oh thank god later, and Mike was over at a wooden desk, putting his watch back on.
Will leaned against the doorway, watching him. “Now can we leave?” He joked.
“Gladly.”
Mike made it a grand total of about 3 steps before his watch started beeping. He sighed.
“Hello?”
“Wheeler! About time you’re moving, Jesus Christ! Lucas was just about to come in and get you.” Dustin’s agitated voice rattled through his watch.
Before Mike could defend himself, Will grabbed his wrist and brought it closer to his mouth. (Mike’s heart did not stutter at the motion. Nope. Definitely not. He’s so calm about it, actually.) “He lost his watch.”
Immediately, a garbled mess of sounds drenched in disappointment and exasperation exploded from the watch.
Mike yanked his wrist away from Will, who looked far too amused by the others reaction. “I did not! I got knocked out and the fucker took my watch. Big difference.”
“Of course he did.” Dustin sighed. In his mind, he could perfectly picture him pinching the bridge of his nose.
“Hey, at least he got it back this time. Kinda surprising if you ask me.”
Another voice from the watch, this one quieter. Lucas, probably next to Dustin, who had the headset that connected to the watch. The headsets were still an issue to make, something with the radio waves —Dustin had tried explaining to Mike once, but the technical theory behind all his gadgets went over Mike’s head, he was more concerned with how they worked— so they could only afford one per team.
Lucas, as their medic, would be stationed with Dustin a bit away from their mission site, and was always prepared to rush in an emergency, though he normally would wait until afterwards. Dustin, who worked with all the tech, couldn’t leave, and therefore got to claim the headset —something he gloated about way too often.
Will snorted at Lucas’ comment, and Mike huffed.
“Why do you guys act like this happens all the time? It's only been twice.” He grumbled.
“Yeah, twice. The average watch lost per agent is less than one, Mike. Actually, I can count on my hands the number of watches that I’ve had to replace, period.”
Mike raised his hands in defense. “Whatever, I got it back, it doesn't matter.”
“Did you get the files? Or did you lose that as well?” Lucas teased.
“Yes I got the files. I swear you all act like I’m incompetent or something.”
“You are though.” Will whispered in his ear. Mike elbowed him in the side.
“Good. Take a picture of them with your watch, it’ll broadcast them over to us outside.”
“Sounds boring.” Mike said, scanning the room. “Don't you have any cool gizmos I could use?”
Dustin protested that, because of course he did. “The watch is a ‘cool gizmo’! Why do you never want to use it?”
“It’s boring.” Mike whined, only half paying attention. He wandered over to a nearby dresser. “I use it all the time.”
Dustin groaned, annoyed. “Because it works, Wheeler.” Lucas made some intelligible comment, and Dustin sighed. “Are you wearing the brown shoes I gave you?”
“Uh, sure.” Mike peered into one of the big, unlabeled boxes that looked half heartedly shoved onto the shelf. With how uncoordinated the base was –and how bad its soldiers had been– it's a miracle they were able to develop anything worthwhile.
“The left one is equipped with a rocket blaster!”
“Yes!”
“Your shoes are black, dumbass.” Will interjected, coming up next to him. He followed Mike’s gaze into the box.
“Oh shit, no-go on the shoes, Dustin. Anything else?” Inside the box were long, thinner black boxes stacked neatly. He took one and opened it.
“Yes, the fucking watch!”
There was a bag full of a familiar looking gray putty with a singular wire sticking out of it. He turned to Will, whose eyes glittered with the same excitement.
He whispered. “Explosives.”
“Huh?”
Will grinned. Mike grabbed the box –without his pinky– and slid it to the floor as he replied. “New plan Dustin, we just found some C4. We’re gonna blow this whole facility!”
“Oh my god Mike, just use the stupid watch!” Dustin and Lucas never liked when they blew stuff up –Dustin more so, always worried about the blast and his electronics. They were never in the field, not like him and Will, they didn’t understand. The rush, the excitement, the thrill. It was intoxicating.
“Send us your coordinates, we’ll rendezvous in thirty.” Will chimed in as Mike knelt down and started taking out the putty from the boxes.
Dustin groaned, almost coving up Lucas laughing in the background.
“Fine! Have it your way. Explosives, it's always the goddamn explosives!” Dustin grumbled.
“Be safe guys, Will keep him in check.” Lucas added on right before Mike ended the call. He purposefully didn’t comment on the last part. Will didn’t either, but was trying to cover a smile.
“So. What do we have?” Will asked, bending down next to him. He rested one hand on Mike’s shoulder as the other reached out for a bag. Will kept it there.
He swallowed before responding. “Looks like just regular C4. There’s a timer on this detonator, which is nice.”
Will hummed. “Surprising. Guess all their funds are going into weapons and not their base.”
Mike snorted in agreement. He grabbed a few bags and stood back up, stretching.
“Let’s go back to that open spot, we can line the wall from there.” Will said, standing back up with his own hands full. Mike grinned and agreed, making sure he grabbed the detonator.
Once they retraced their steps, they got to work lining the walls with C4. Mike was rushing a bit; the open area meant their backs were vulnerable, and it made his skin prickle. He finished with his as quickly as he could and went over to where Will was.
“What’s our record?”
Will turned to him, halfway through setting a charge. “Hm?”
“Berlin, last spring.” Mike said, leaning against the wall next to him. “We made it out of there in what, six minutes?” Will raised an eyebrow.
“I don’t like that look in your eyes. Yes, six minutes.”
Mike grinned even wider. “Think we can do it in five?”
Will looked at him for a moment, before a small chuckle and smile escaped past his lips. “Can never do things easily, can you. Make it four.”
“Nope.” Mike winked. “It’s in my blood.” Will rolled his eyes and turned back to his charge.
And, because of fucking course it did, his watch started beeping. Again.
Mike answered with a sign. What was it now?
“Wheeler! Where the hell are you? I expected those files a half hour ago.” Hopper’s grumbling voice tumbled out of the intercom. “Quit your tomfuckery and hurry up.”
“Consider it done, Hopper.” Will replied, walking over next to Mike.
“Is that Will? Thank god. Someone there needs to know what the hell they’re doing. I thought you were assigned elsewhere?”
Will huffed out a small laugh. They were so close the sound almost reverberated in Mike’s chest. Mike looked over and raised an eyebrow —if he was the one hoping on a random mission unassigned he’d be doing paperwork til he was seventy. Will just shook his head with a smile.
“I was nearby; right place, right time. Heard Mike got captured and came to save his ass.”
“Hey!”
A garbled sound, like Hopper had actually laughed at Will’s joke. And the man still had the nerve to deny the favoritism. Unbelievable. “Always doing more, I appreciate that. But stick to missions you actually have clearance for next time."
At least Will looked a little sheepish as he apologized.
A creak from above. Mike’s head shot up and scanned the visible hallways for the source. There, one level up and to the right some, was some henchman staring right at them. Shit. The henchman scrambled, and –more on instinct than anything– Mike drew his gun and shot him, the bang echoing in the open room.
As the guy fell, he managed to hit some sort of alarm, considering how the overhead lights switched to a flashing blood red and a warning siren screamed around them. Mike and Will shared a look.
A sigh from his watch. "Wheeler. What the fuck was that?"
"There was some guy that saw us!" He replied, running a hand through his hair. “What else was I supposed to do?”
"Wheeler I swear to-"
“Gotta go, bye.” Will cut in, grabbing Mike’s wrist and ending the call before Hopper could. “Set the detonation, I’ll guard.”
Mike nodded and started setting up the timed detonator.
Now. Look. Here’s the thing:
One, they’re Mike Wheeler and Will Byers. Two of the greatest spies in their generation. There’s a reason they were a team, they were a force of nature together. Two, very few bad guys had ever stopped them, and even then it was only temporary. And these guys were not up to par. Three, they had a straight shot at the exit, just right back up the staircase.
They’ve done six minutes. They could do four easy, even with the alarms. Three? Now that was a challenge. And, well, who of them would ever back down from a challenge?
Shots to his left, where Will stood. “Could you be any slower?” He shouted.
“Working on it.” He yelled back, shutting the latch on the detonator and bounding over to Will.
“Finally.”
Somewhere behind them, a door slammed open, followed by shouts in Russian that Mike didn’t have time to translate. Will grabbed his arm and pulled him down the side hallway to their left. He regained his balance just in time to not trip over the fallen bodies down the hall, clearly Will’s work.
Mike turned around and fired, catching two of the guards trailing them.
“We need to loop back to the stairs.” Mike said as they turned a corner. “That’s our exit.”
This was what Mike lived for: the thrill of the chase, the threat of danger nipping right at his heels, the air clouded with the smell of gunpowder, living in the moment, because who knows if the next will come? It was everything.
He felt alive as they raced through the hallways that blurred together in a mix of beige and gray, his ears buzzing from the gunshots that echoed around him. Will was leading, just a few steps ahead of him, so Mike focused on the people following them. No matter how many he shot down, another would come fill the gap.
Even as they looped back into the open space, the staircase in sight, a few guards still trailed them. Mike turned and fired at them once, and almost ran into Will as he turned back.
Four guards rushed down the staircase, another three came from their front, and with three still behind them. He grimaced, there were too many to shoot down before they fired. A quick glance at Will showed he knew it as well. Mike scanned the room for something that could be a distraction, needing to find something –or have some type of plan– quickly.
“Hands up!” One of them yelled, rough and gritty. They circled like sharks ready to strike. Mike’s search came up fruitless.
In the corner of his eye he saw Will slowly raise his hands. Mike followed suit –keeping his finger still on the trigger. He cursed inwardly; they had no good way out of this. They needed a miracle.
They stood back to back, guns raised above their heads, when the miracle happened.
The ground started to shake.
Will and Mike, leaning on each other for stabilization, managed to keep upright while most of the other guards fell down, or stumbled off step.
“Mike?” Will asked. Mike looked back at his partner and winced. “I lied, I set the charges for three minutes.” Will groaned. “Cmon, it’s a straight shot up!”
Mike pushed Will in the direction of the now empty staircase. He saw one of them notice their movement and stand back up, only to fall back down as another rumble rippled through.
They needed to go, now.
“I swear, Michael Wheeler, you're going to be the death of me!” Will yelled, scrambling up the stairs.
“Nah, I’d never let you down.” Mike grinned, feeling the rush of air and relief as he bounded up flight by flight, coming closer and closer to the exit. Adrenaline was coursing through his veins; they were so close to another mission well done, to their post mission freedom.
It’s funny, really. They always do say pride comes before the fall.
Mike noticed it too late: the banana peel he’d dropped earlier –just a few minutes really, but it already felt like a lifetime ago, he’d forgotten all about it.
He opened his mouth to warn Will –Will, who was just barely out of reach– was about to step close, to say something.
His mouth wasn’t quick enough. The rest happened too quickly.
Will stepped on the banana peel. His foot slipped out from underneath him. He lost his footing for a moment, stumbled only a little bit. But he was too close to the edge. The edge where the railing should have been. Mike reached out to steady him, but he was too far away.
Will fell.
And Mike wasn’t quick enough to catch him.
He watched as he fell off the staircase and down dozens of feet below. Mike stopped at the landing, staring down at Will’s body –Will’s unmoving body– limbs bent at angles they shouldn’t have been. He felt bile clog his throat –Will wasn’t moving. The charges were about to explode, there wasn’t enough time to run back and drag him back up the staircase. The guards were gaining ground. The exit was still a flight above him. Mike could barely think; there wasn’t enough time.
He did the only thing he could:
He turned away from the ledge –from Will– and he ran up the staircase.
Mike ran.