by SE Jakes
Tom heard, John and no and not like this, and edged gingerly away. Because this was different—there was something dark and dangerous in Prophet’s tone, an edge that gave Tom a flutter of anxiety.
Even though he was strong, maybe inherently stronger than Prophet and usually angrier, but Prophet was still a savvier fighter. Tonight, Tom had a feeling he’d feel the brunt of that if he didn’t slide away from this living, breathing PTSD flashback. But as he started a slow roll, Prophet was on him, faster than Tom could’ve thought. Prophet had grabbed for him once during a flashback, but it’d been more of a reach-out-and-flail grab.
This had Prophet sitting on his goddamned chest, hands around Tom’s throat, pinning him to the bed and choking him out at the same time.
He stared up into Prophet’s eyes, dark with anger, and begged, “Prophet, please. It’s me.”
“I know who the fuck you are,” Prophet spat. “Always fucking known, John.”
Oh, fuck that. “Prophet—it’s Tom, not John. You’re dreaming. Wake the fuck up.” Tom tried to buck him off but Prophet was too angry, too filled with adrenaline. And Tom figured this might be it, he might fucking die at Prophet’s hands because Prophet thought he was John, and that’s what pissed Tom off.
Because no way in hell was he anything like John. He’d never betray Prophet or hurt him or leave him.
Motherfucker.
Because fuck that noise.
Tom reared up with all the anger he felt for John behind it and he smacked Prophet on the side of his head. He’d been trying not to hurt Prophet’s wrists, because he had enough strikes against him going into their next phase of battle . . . but John.
Prophet’s hand closed around Tom’s throat again—hard.
But then he got distracted by something else, a something to the right that only he could see, and Tom quickly took his opportunity—and the upper hand. He realized he was fighting with the man he loved, trying to kill his ghosts and Tom wishing nothing more than to let that happen. They rolled off the bed together, a loud bump on the wood floor echoing through the room. Prophet landed under him and finally he was able to pin Prophet down, straddle his hips and hold his wrists against the side of the bed . . . and only then did he see the fear in Prophet’s eyes.
Only then did he know for sure what John had done . . . or attempted to in whatever hellish flashback Prophet was reliving.
Immediately Tom pushed away and off him, and Prophet blinked. Tom saw his haze clear as Prophet realized where he was.
It was only then that he saw Mal in the door, watching, a look on his face that let Tom know that this episode had confirmed something horrible, something Mal had no doubt either long suspected or knew about for sure.
You needed to do that, Mal signed.
Tom figured that was Mal’s way of letting him know that he probably wouldn’t have let Tom die, if for no other reason than fear of the guilt Prophet would bear.
Prophet gasped, like he’d emerged from a deep dive, stared at Tom, horror and agony etched all over his face.
“Fuck.” He closed his eyes. Whether they blurred now was anyone’s guess, and he lay there, breathing hitched, ashamed and angry, with Tom wanting to go to him, comfort him, but unable to unfreeze himself. He’d made so many wrong moves this trip with Prophet, he refused to make another one.
Mal brushed past him, sat on the floor next to Prophet, put a hand on his shoulder. Prophet seemed to know the touch instinctively, opened his eyes so Mal could talk. And Mal did, fingers moving rapidly. Tom’s guilt at watching the intimacy happening here didn’t make him turn away though, and he wanted to get on the floor with them but fuck, the secrets kept building the walls higher and higher and Tom had lost his footing way back at Dean’s house.
But with Mal, the walls just fell—and fast—because Mal was helping Prophet up, holding him as he half collapsed in Mal’s arms. And sobbed.
The two men, brothers-in-arms, were in their own world, a place where Tom couldn’t go. His shoulders sagged with the weight of that truth and he walked away. He went into Mal’s room and lay his head on Mal’s C-4 pillow, understanding for the first time why Mal would find it comforting.
Prophet was never more grateful to climb out of a flashback than he’d been that night, even with Tom on top of him, holding him down. And just like that night back then, Mal stepped in to help. Mal, who’d seen the aftermath that night the events had really happened . . . only to then quickly lose Prophet to the desert for months.
He’d heard Tom leaving the room, and as much as he wanted to call to him, tell him to stay, or even go to him, he couldn’t. Instead, he held on to Mal as though they could go back in time, fix it, change it. Make it so it never happened.
But as he finally stopped shaking, he knew that going back had never been an option, not for any of them.
“Fuck, Mal,” he managed finally.
I know, Mal mouthed. Prophet touched Mal’s scar and Mal gave him a lopsided smile.
“Yeah, you do.” Prophet sighed. “Fuck. Fuck.”
He hurt you. Bad, Mal signed. Should’ve killed him that night.
Prophet couldn’t argue, but hell, they’d have been in the same trouble if John had already been recruited by the agency. Fucked by the CIA either way. An unstoppable destiny.
Want me to get Tom?
Prophet shook his head. Mal sat back against the headboard and pulled Prophet’s head into his lap. Prophet curled and let Mal comfort him, the wedge growing wider between him and Tom, with no way to stop it.
Fate.
Destiny.
John had hurt him beyond belief, more than anyone who loved another person should ever. And Prophet had figured he’d never open his heart again to anyone, especially not the way he had to Tom.
The ghosts of the past were impossible to ignore. “It’s too fucking hard.”
I know, Mal tapped against Prophet’s shoulder, a shorthand they often took on for times like this. Tom’s a good man.
Prophet murmured, “Maybe too good for me.”
He could say that to Mal and not be accused of being too dramatic because Mal understood—good things were for good people. For them? They didn’t get the families. They watched out for them instead.
Then again, Tom understood the hell out of it too. “I’m losing him.”
Mal shook his head. Not yet.
“We haven’t been connecting.”
TMI.
“Since when is anything TMI for you?”
True. So fuck him till he screams. I’ll bet that helps. Helps me.
“Now who’s TMI?”
Mal rubbed the tips of his fingers together, the way he always did when he was pondering something. Usually, it was when he was thinking about John and all the fucked-up ways he wanted to kill him. Finally, he signed, I wish I’d stopped it. Him. If that mission hadn’t happened . . .
“But it did. And you couldn’t have,” Prophet assured him, the way he had every time this topic came up. Mal made the shape of a gun with his hand. “And then you’d have been in jail.”
Mal shrugged. Would’ve escaped. Wouldn’t be all that much different than it is now.
Prophet snorted at the truth in that, and then they remained like that, in silence, until the sun rose.
Prophet went into the main room and the conversation stopped. Whether it was because of what they knew happened last night with Tom, or because of Rylan, he didn’t know or care. He needed to get—and keep—his head in the game, and these motherfuckers were going to start playing along.
“What’s the good word?” he asked, and Mal handed him a mug of coffee. He took a sip and surveyed the faces around him, only glancing at Tom for a quick moment because hell.
“You know we’re in,” King grumbled.
“But the CIA’s coming for you soon, right?” Ren asked.
Prophet nodded. “We don’t have a lot of time to get Tom and Cillian to the next safe house.”
“We’re ready,” King conf
irmed.
“Hold up here,” Ren reasoned. “Let’s say John’s intel can embarrass the CIA. They’ll just bury it, the way they do everyone and everything. It’s got to be something else he knows—besides what he’s got on our team.”
“Well, we don’t know what that is, so we’ve got no choice,” Prophet countered. “You have to let Agent Paul get me to John so you can disable the bombs.”
“Suppose he sets them off when he gets you, Proph?” King asked.
“He won’t,” Prophet said quietly. “He’ll want me to watch. To know what he’s done. If he thinks you’re all neutralized . . . he’ll play with his prey for a while.”
There was a heavy silence for a long moment. Finally, King spoke. “So your job is to stay alive until we dismantle the triggers. Then you do what you need to. And then we all go after the specialist.”
What you need to do . . . King’s unspoken and kill John hung in the air.
“So we keep this mission about the triggers,” Prophet said firmly. “Let John think I’m vulnerable.”
“You are,” King reminded him, without rancor, reaching out to touch his cheek.
It was the first show of softness Prophet had seen King render this trip, and it made him ache . . . for all of them.
But they had a damned job to do, and sentimentality had no place in it. “Remember that time we were in Yemen?” Prophet started, and everyone, save for Tom and Cillian, groaned.
“Do we get to know about this?” Cillian asked and Mal signed, Never.
“Great. What now?” Tom crossed his arms.
“We move out tomorrow. At first light.” Prophet looked calmer than he had earlier.
“I have one more question,” Cillian said quietly. “You told me that the man you knew would never have turned.”
Prophet gave a wan smile. “That’s true. But John stopped being the man I knew a long time ago, Cillian. Once he left Mal for dead, I knew it was too late. It’s why I tried to save him right away. Because I fucking knew what would happen if this was all part of a mission. But you’ve got to give me a little credit for feeding you what you wanted to hear. You’re not the only one good at planting seeds, you know.”
“Asshole,” Cillian muttered.
“And on that note, let’s go get some food,” Ren suggested, with a not-so-subtle nod in Prophet’s and then Tom’s direction. King nodded, and he and Mal followed out the door. Cillian sighed and muttered something about “drama” but he, too, went the way of the others.
“Where are they going?” Tom’s voice was a rasp in the suddenly too-quiet room.
“We have the house next door too. Seemed safer that way,” Prophet explained.
“Does Rylan know?”
“About the houses? Yes.”
“I meant . . .” Tom looked around to make sure they were alone. “About us.”
“You think I fuck for intel?”
“I know you do.”
“Fuck you, T. Just . . .” Prophet moved to brush past him but Tom stopped him with a flat palm against his chest.
“That’s not an answer.”
“If you have to ask me that—”
“I do.”
Prophet yanked Tom’s wrist to move the outstretched palm over his heart. “No, Tom. I haven’t been with anyone else, on or off the job, since you.”
“But if you needed to . . .”
“To save Mal’s life? Or King’s, Ren’s, Hook’s? Remy’s or Doc’s? Yours? You’d better bet your life I would. I’d do anything to protect all of you. I hope you would too.”
Tom narrowed his eyes, his tone dripping sarcasm. “So Rylan giving you intel wasn’t about helping to save our lives?”
Prophet shook his head. “If you don’t trust me on this, T . . . I don’t know what we’ve got.”
“Yeah, me neither.”
“You’re going to take this Hal/Ollie shit out on me forever, right? Unforgivable?”
“That’s not—”
“Of course it is. Doesn’t take a genius.” He avoided the I’m not blind analogy because he’d have to say I’m not (that) blind yet and he didn’t think Tom was in the mood to appreciate the varying degrees of thought and subtlety that went into the statement.
“Good thing, because you’re definitely not.”
“You’re looking for a way out. Told me you could handle this and—”
“I can handle—”
“Nothing!” Prophet yelled. “Classified secrets aren’t spilled just because we’re fucking.” Tom’s fists clenched. “Getting pissed at me again? Just like the old days, right?”
“Fuck you.”
Prophet grunted as Tom’s fist slammed him hard in the solar plexus and knocked him to the floor. “Makes you feel better, T?”
Prophet fought to his feet and slammed his body into Tom’s, since he couldn’t do other important things, like breathe, for several moments. The momentum was enough to send them both sprawling to the ground, hard.
Tom spat blood and went for Prophet’s throat, his palm closing hard around it. “How’s this feel, Proph?”
Prophet elbowed him in the jaw, forcing Tom to release him. Tom made another grab for him, trying for a headlock that Prophet squirmed and evaded by throwing himself against Tom again, causing them to crash and roll into a wall. Tom’s forehead slammed against it and Prophet laughed. “How’re you doing, special agent?”
“Swear to fuck,” Tom muttered, reaching out to grab for him.
In a few swift moves, Prophet ended the fight, leaving Tom flat on his back, Prophet’s knees pressing the insides of his elbows, and his palm on Tom’s throat—not hard, but enough to keep him in place and force Tom to look at him. “Tell me how an FBI agent deals with classified missions, Tom? Got anything you’d like to share with the class?” Prophet goaded. Tom’s jaw remained stubbornly clenched. “So it’s okay for you to keep classified job secrets, but not me. Got it. Makes perfect sense.” Prophet felt himself winding up, which meant he was probably (read: most definitely) going to fuck this all up. Probably part purposeful sabotage and part temper getting the best of him, mainly mixed with guilt and anger at himself for even feeling guilt and anger over a situation he couldn’t have controlled or anticipated.
“You’re telling me you don’t already know what I did for the FBI?” Tom asked slowly, his voice half-strangled.
“I’m not one to play games with people. I love you, you dumb-fuck. So no, I don’t have your file. Never did.”
Tom looked completely surprised and started hesitantly with, “You know Ollie taught me.”
“Interrogation tricks, yes.”
“My temper was unpredictable, to say the least. Especially back then.” Tom rolled his eyes. “So you’d figure . . .”
“You were the muscle. The hitter. Yes, you’d be useful in that capacity. But having you only do that would be a complete waste of your talents,” Prophet started and Tom’s cheeks reddened slightly. “Your gut instincts were great. Tracking too. Also, your ability to get a confession without beating the fuck out of someone was probably impressive as hell to your sups. But did the FBI utilize you in that way? Or were you too busy worrying about your curse to be effective?”
“Fuck you, Prophet.” Tom’s voice was hoarse, eyes bright with anger.
“Truth hurts.”
Tom glared at him. “Guess you’d know all about that. I caught a lot of cases—good cases. I made a goddamned difference. If they’d let me work alone, I’d be fine. I’d be a better agent.”
Prophet’s eyes narrowed. “You’re using present tense,” he noted.
Things were fucked already, so Prophet figured, might as well keep going.
Tom’s heart hammered, and his mind told him to stop, to not say what his temper pushed him to say . . . but that latter urge was too strong and definitely in charge at the moment. “Yes. Present tense. Present company included.”
Prophet’s face blanched slightly, but then he nodded. “If you were alone—or
stayed with Cope—you’d do a lot of good for Phil. I’m guessing that’s why you stayed. Being with me . . . well, fuck, nothing but trouble, right?”
Tom’s hand shot out and caught Prophet by the throat, holding him in the same way that Prophet held him.
Prophet didn’t struggle, but rather, waited calmly.
Tom wanted to break him. “You’ve known from the first time I mentioned Ollie that you were supposed to kill me.”
A clearing of the throat behind them made them pause.
“Yes, Ren?” Prophet asked.
“I’m sure this is a sweet moment you’ll all remember forever, but we need more of a plan than just killing Tom.”
“Thanks, Ren,” Tom said sarcastically.
“Welcome,” Ren said, then added, almost as an afterthought, “Because Mal’s trying to drive off alone and King’s body on the windshield won’t be a deterrent for much longer.”
“Dammit, Ren—why do you always save the important part for last?”
“Because it’s the only way I can truly annoy all of you,” Ren deadpanned as Prophet ran past him, and Tom heard King’s cursing as he reached the front door.
Mal was driving in circles, trying to buck King off. Lots of shouting ensued.
“Way to stay covert,” Prophet muttered.
“It’s a wonder we haven’t gotten killed before this, right?” Hook asked, arms crossed as he leaned a hip on the porch. “How much longer before King tires himself out?”
“Too long,” Prophet said.
“Shoot the tires?” Hook suggested.
“Then I’d have to change them.” Prophet walked to the truck instead, got into the circle, and tried to punch Mal and take the wheel and hold on at the same time.
“Dumbest thing I’ve ever seen.” Tom stood next to Hook.
“Stir-crazy,” Hook said. “’S’why I used to pray for missions. Sitting around for too long is never a good thing for any of them.”
“They’ll tire out eventually,” Ren assured them.
“Or I could just start shooting rubber rounds.” Hook already appeared to be locked and loaded. He raised the rifle and fired, hitting a glancing blow off King’s ass. “Don’t want to piss him off completely.”