Work Text:
The empty dockyard went from silent, muffled bootsteps on concrete the only sound disturbing the eerie calm, to an explosion of noise without warning. Gunshots came from above. Bullets sheared through the air and impacted; wood splintered around them, exploded at their feet as metal ripped through metal, deafening. Instinct took over faster than Laurent could recognize what had happened. Gun steady in his hands, he dropped to a crouch behind the wheel well of a nearby abandoned forklift.
He peered around the rear bumper, searching among the staggered towers of cargo containers, attempting to get a visual on their assailants. Just a glimpse of his blonde hair appearing around the edge of the forklift was enough to send a flurry of bullets in his direction. Laurent fell back into place, back against the hard tire.
They’d been compromised.
To his left, Damen found cover behind an oversized wooden spool, links of solid metal chain larger than his fist secured around it. Their eyes met. With a gloved hand, Damen relayed a series of signals. Left of their position, two guns. Target stood exposed above their heads at eleven o’clock. Take the shot. Damen would provide cover fire. Laurent nodded.
He stood. It was something that went beyond thinking, awareness. It was reflex. Every round he fired was the result of years of experience, of the hardening of Laurent’s mind, body, senses. It didn’t take thought. He just acted.
Three shots. With a shout the man fell from his post, bleeding from the chest. Return fire came quickly, a blitz of bullets against the front of the forklift as Laurent slipped back into position. He watched as bullets ripped through the spot where he’d stood only moments before. The steel opened in on itself as if it were thin as paper.
In his periphery, he saw Damen take his stance and fire off a round of shots, slightly to the right of where the first man had stood. Another target dropped.
“Clear!” Damen yelled. “Go!”
Laurent sprinted to his next area of cover. His shoulder slammed into the side of the cargo container, bringing him to a halt. No gunfire trailed him. He sprinted to his next location. Fifty yards away, Damen followed the same maneuvers. Their suspects couldn’t have gone much further, but fighting from the ground up meant he and Damen were at a distinct disadvantage. It was like a game of cat and mouse, waiting for the next burst of offensive fire. This wasn’t how they worked.
“We need reinforcements!” Laurent called to Damen.
“Call for backup!”
Over his headset, Laurent radioed Nikandros, detailing the present situation and their coordinates. He heard a brief chirp of reply from Nikandros, but his response was drowned out by another hail of gunfire. Laurent ducked down. From his position, he watched as Damen sprinted away in the opposite direction.
Laurent swore. Chest heaving, he took off after him.
He turned mid-stride and fired once, twice, taking out another camouflaged figure that trailed them from above, darting across the cargo containers. He caught the briefest glimpse of Damen as he rounded another corner. Laurent followed. With a distant sense of concern, he realized they were now moving rapidly in the direction of the open yard. There would be no opportunity for cover there. It was likely they were being purposefully led in that direction. A trap.
They would need those reinforcements.
Laurent’s mind was separate from the fight, seemingly operating from a hundred miles away. This was his objective. His arms, his legs, his body worked on autopilot. His thoughts whirled, attempting to calculate three seconds ahead of every movement, every action, fighting to keep both Damen and himself safe.
Suddenly, a figure dropped in front of him. Laurent reacted without thinking. Having the advantage of momentum, he crashed into his assailant with the full weight of his body behind his fist. They both stumbled and fell to the ground. Laurent rolled with his shoulder, righted himself. Momentarily disoriented, he had no defense against the heavy punch that landed against his jaw in return. His head snapped to the side. He felt his lip split. He was not deterred.
Whirling, he smashed the weight of his gun against the side of the man’s head. Two steps forward. A fierce kick square to the chest, the man was thrown to the ground, sprawled at Laurent’s feet. Two shots to the thigh and lower abdomen. He did not retaliate further. Laurent sprinted ahead, back on course.
The brief interlude of hand to hand combat meant he was now separated from Damen, but Laurent was not concerned. They’d worked under similar circumstances before, and Damen certainly did not require his concern. He was good at what he did, the best - far better than Laurent himself would ever be.
Instead, Laurent followed his feet, kept his targets in sight, and followed the plan, determined to finish what had been started.
It went on for some time. Laurent didn’t see Damen again, but he could hear gunfire being exchanged a short distance away, a clear sign that he was still alive. Laurent ran. He dropped several more assailants in his path. He threw himself inside an open cargo container when a determined line of bullets began trailing at his six. The ballistic force of the bullets against the metal door swung it closed behind him. The scream of bullets, the reverberation inside the steel hold made Laurent’s ears ring.
A pause, as his pursuer took up a new position. Laurent immediately dropped to the floor, protecting his head with his arms as an entire clip was unloaded through the container. Shrapnel raining down upon him, Laurent forced himself to stay quiet. He held himself still, and he waited for his chance.
Silence rang through the cottony hum deafening Laurent’s ears once more - the man had run out of ammunition. On his belly, heart pounding, Laurent struggled to load another magazine into his own weapon in the few seconds he had. It snapped into place. He struggled onto his elbows. Through the countless holes in the container wall, he saw the shadow of the man lifting his gun. Laurent took aim, pulled the trigger, his gun jammed. Laurent gasped, eyes widening as -
A single shot from the left, and the man dropped. There was no return fire. Footsteps, from what sounded like a contingent of fifteen men shuffled by. Laurent let his forehead drop to the steel floor with a thunk. He released the breath he’d been holding tense in his lungs.
Nikandros, their reinforcements, had arrived.
Lying still, Laurent briefly took inventory of his body. He seemed fine. His quads were burning, twitching from the expense of energy. Breathing was painful - his lungs raw and overexerted but intact. His mouth was bleeding from the punch, but he couldn’t feel blood anywhere else on his body. He didn’t seem to have any grievous injuries - scrapes and contusions from throwing himself around the dockyard, but not a single gunshot wound. Laurent smiled to himself. He hadn’t been hit. Another conflict he’d made it out of unscathed that he could goad Damen with.
Rolling onto his back, Laurent found himself laughing. A touch hysterically, but with the delight of having found himself safely to the end of danger, unquestionably still alive.
He remained still and willed himself to even his breathing. The suspects were undoubtedly outnumbered at this point, and Laurent decided that fresh officers would be much more useful than himself at this particular moment. He listened as the distant gunfire outside slowed and then stopped altogether as the fight came to an end. Nikandros and his reinforcements had arrived just in time. Laurent smiled again.
Carefully, with every sore and overworked muscle protesting, Laurent hauled himself up, ensured his magazine was properly loaded this time, and stumbled out of the battered cargo container.
---
The yard was milling with Nikandros’s men in their black uniforms when he arrived, their guns lowered as they stood on guard, surrounding the bodies that littered the edge of the lot. Laurent silently reviewed their suspect list in his mind, counting each of them off as he spotted them. All were accounted for. No casualties on their side. The threat had been neutralized - they’d accomplished what they’d come here for.
“About time you crawled out of there.”
To his right, Nikandros’s voice drew Laurent’s attention away from the men. He strolled toward Laurent, gun holstered, the safety glasses atop his head pushing his hair away from his face. He was smiling.
“What, too much action for you here?” He gestured grandiosely around the dockyard. “Out in the open?”
The corner of Laurent’s mouth quirked up. “I thought it was a nice spot. Cozy.”
Nikandros’s eyes surveyed him, undoubtedly checking him over for injuries. Laurent was sweaty, smudged with dirt wherever there was skin to be found, his hair and black tactical gear coated in rust and debris from his time with the cargo container, but whole.
“I’m fine,” he said.
Nikandros nodded, clapped Laurent on the back. Searching through the men gathered in the yard once more, Laurent turned to Nikandros before he made his leave. “Where’s Damen?” he asked.
He hadn’t seen him anywhere yet. Knowing Damen, he was probably at the other end of the dockyard by now, assisting the medical and investigative teams as they arrived. Helping where he was needed, as he always did.
Nikandros frowned. “He hasn’t been through. I figured he was with you.”
Laurent felt his heart stumble over its next beat, a bolt of cold fear dropping low into his stomach - both of which he ignored. He hadn’t checked the front gates, he reminded himself. The front gates had to be checked before there would be any cause for concern. Damen was team lead, he went where he was needed.
Holding his earpiece, Laurent radioed in. “Vannes,” he said. “Is Damen with you?”
Her response was interrupted by bursts of static, feedback from the rush of activity no doubt taking place on the opposite end of the yard. “Haven’t seen him,” she said. “Pasch - Paschal! Paschal!” she shouted. Loudly, into Laurent’s ear. “Damianos with you? Damen! No?” At a normal volume, “He’s not up here, boss.”
Laurent tensed. “Thank you,” he replied, words clipped.
Still beside him, Nikandros gave him a quizzical look. “No one’s seen him,” Laurent explained. He breathed in slowly, released it slowly, swallowed the dread. Something wasn't right. Thumbing over his shoulder, he said, “I’m going back to search the cargo bay.”
Nikandros nodded. “Let me know.”
At a jog, Laurent left the yard in the same direction he had come. He drew his gun, switched the safety off, keeping it at the ready as he rounded each corner. He moved silently, as he had been trained to do. All he could hear was his own heartbeat, pounding in his chest, in his stomach, in his arms, dread spreading to every end of his body. It wasn’t like Damen to not report in after a firefight.
Something had gone wrong.
They shouldn’t have split up.
Laurent returned to where he had last seen Damen, then took the opposite direction where the path diverged. His footsteps quickened, his breathing heavy as he made his way through the maze of cargo containers.
His breath froze in his lungs.
At the far end of the path, standing out against the chipped yellow paint of a rusted-out cargo container, was a spatter of blood. High velocity impact, a gunshot wound from above. Another swipe of blood at the end of the container, a transfer pattern from a hand wiping across the steel, a figure stumbling. From his vantage point, Laurent could see the trail of blood continuing to the left.
Steadying himself, Laurent readied his gun, and rounded the corner.
He saw a pair of boots. Innocuously, the first thing he noticed was the foil of an old gum wrapper, molded into the tread at the bottom of the right boot. It was only a moment, a split second of an image, lost in time, but it was a moment Laurent would remember for the rest of his life.
“No, no. No, no, no, no, no...”
Laurent’s gun dropped from his fingers, fell to the ground. He stumbled. He landed on his knees next to Damen, laid out on his back in a pool of his own blood. Laurent clambered over to him, threw himself nearly on top of him. He held his face; Damen’s head lolled in his hands. He was paler than Laurent had ever seen him, exsanguinated. His eyes weren’t open. Laurent couldn’t see any sign of breathing. Frothy blood formed around the edges of his open lips. Shaking fingers moved to his neck, seeking a pulse. He couldn’t find it. Laurent wasn’t breathing, couldn’t breathe. He needed to -
There. Under his fingertips, Damen’s pulse beat softly, slowly, barely there at all.
Laurent heaved in a shuddering, gasping breath. He burst into action. His hands fumbled over Damen’s tactical gear, desperately searching for the impact site. His vision was tunneled. He felt removed, unthinking, clumsy; his hands, fingers, every part of his body suddenly six times larger, rendering him incapable.
He found the entry point. Blood poured from Damen’s upper abdomen, too close to his chest, his lungs. Too close to everything. Laurent searched around dazedly, desperately for something to apply pressure with, found nothing. All there was was him.
Laurent locked his fingers together and pressed his two hands directly to where Damen’s body had been torn apart. He used all the strength he could find, put the entire weight of his own body behind his shaking arms, his locked elbows.
Laurent needed to call for help. He needed to radio Paschal, Nikandros, anyone. He needed to use his hands. He couldn’t use his hands. He couldn’t move his hands - his hands were now part of Damen’s body. Damen’s body was supposed to keep Damen alive but now it couldn’t so Laurent had to keep him alive. He couldn’t move his hands.
“Help!” the sound ripped out of Laurent’s throat, ragged. He wouldn’t have been able to recognize his own voice. “Help! We need help! Help, help!”
He didn’t stop. Laurent didn’t know how long he screamed, yelled, pleaded. Warm, thick blood spilled into his hands. Laurent ignored it. His knees were soaked in blood. Laurent ignored it.
He felt everything, he felt nothing. He felt only the solidity of Damen’s body under his palms until, suddenly, it was no longer there at all.
Someone had dragged him away from Damen, dropped him a short distance away in the dust. A crowd of black figures set upon Damen. Laurent saw snatches of color - the silver of metal tools, white, sterile gauze, blue latex gloves, red blood, blood everywhere. He couldn’t look away. Voices shouted words Laurent couldn’t understand in that moment. He simply sat in the dust, unblinking, his legs splayed out before him, hands palm-up in the dirt between his legs, useless. His hands were red too.
He breathed in, out. In, out. Was Damen breathing?
A body board appeared out of nowhere, long, orange, obtrusive. A count of three, and Damen was hefted onto it. Straps snapped into place, the clips as loud as gunshots. Damen was braced into position. Then, as swiftly as they had descended upon the scene, those who had rushed in, rushed out, now with Damen in tow.
All that was left was a wide pool of blood, seeping into the ground, coagulating at its rounded edges.
Bloodied dressings had been left behind too, discarded sterile packaging and other medical supplies, dirtied, lost in the shuffle. Laurent watched a butterflied plastic envelope blow away in the wind. He felt numb. Cold. He was a frayed nerve ending. He was shaking.
Slowly, he drew his knees to his chest, his heavy boots scraping paths in the dust. He rested his elbows on his knees, his head in his hands, unthinkingly. He couldn’t stop trembling. His face was wet - now with Damen’s blood smeared across his temples, into his hairline, but also with his own tears. They streaked down his face, smearing the dirt, the blood. They filled his eyes and blurred his vision. He hadn’t realized he was crying - didn’t know when he had started. He couldn’t stop. He couldn’t stop shaking.
Stop it. Laurent thought to himself. He needed to control himself, he had to find his control. He had to stop. Stop it, stop it all. Stop everything. Stop it, stop it, stop it, stop -
He didn’t realize he was repeating the words out loud, a litany, shaking his head, until Nikandros placed a hand on his shoulder, gripping him there, firm. Stilling him. Laurent choked off his words, and then there was silence.
---
They gave him an extra pair of scrubs at the hospital. They were an aggravating color of teal that would clash with his own coloring. It struck Laurent as an odd thought to be having. Kind hands escorted him to the staff restroom, keyed him into the secure area. Kind hands placed a towel in his hands. The towel wasn’t teal. Everyone treated him gently, kind palms against the small of his back, guiding him along as if he were helpless. He hated those touches. He didn’t want to be touched. Still, he endured them.
The ER staff had handed him off from nurse to nurse very quickly, hastening him out of view of worried eyes. Laurent didn’t need to see his reflection in the bathroom mirror now to know what he looked like. The startled glances, the staring families in the waiting room had been enough.
He was still in his dark uniform, strapped into his equipment, dirty from the mission. Filthy and disheveled, eyes blank. Covered entirely in blood.
At least it wasn’t his blood. That was something he might have thought one day, before. Not now.
When he stepped into the shower, the water was warm. Vacantly, he watched the red water pool at his feet and run down the drain, disappearing from his body, disappearing forever.
He washed his hair, more red water. He scrubbed his skin until the water ran clear. He didn’t feel refreshed, or clean. He toweled off, he changed into the teal scrubs. In addition to being ugly, they were also several sizes too big.
Damen was going to laugh at him, Laurent thought, before he could stop himself.
He did not allow himself to think any further than that. He didn’t allow himself to consider what the outcomes of this situation might be. He refused to let his thoughts run rampant, coursing through every scenario he could possibly imagine, each one worse than the next.
He was briefed. Damen was in surgery. Often, various staff members would bring him updates. He took in the information clinically, the names of the doctors, the surgeons. The types of injuries, the damage, the procedure taking place. Carefully filed it all away. Didn’t ruminate on it.
Laurent lost track of time. The hospital was bright, sterile, white. It had been early afternoon when he’d arrived but surely it was night by now. Hours had passed. He was exhausted, bone-deep, the kind that weighed heavy on your shoulders and left you sore, empty-headed. But he couldn’t sleep.
Paschal, Vannes, other members of their team trickled in and out with concerned faces. Nikandros stayed, stoic as Laurent in the hospital waiting room chair next to him. Laurent gave his statement when he was asked for it, about the mission, about what had happened before their reinforcements had arrived, how he had found Damen.
Mostly, he didn’t speak.
“Is there anyone else who needs to be informed?” he was asked by the surgical lead on Damen’s case during a particular update. It was hours after he’d first arrived. “A spouse, perhaps?”
“I will,” Laurent had responded, a bit nonsensically. He was already here.
It was Laurent who was Damen’s next of kin, in all but an official, legal sense. They’d talked about changing it once before. Damen had no family left that he’d like to be contacted, that was already listed in his file. Only one remained. Laurent briefly considered calling Kastor himself, but decided that was not his choice to make in the end.
Laurent just waited.
---
At 2:43 a.m., Damen was released from surgery and taken to the ICU.
In an unlucky stroke of bad timing, Nicaise arrived four minutes later, having returned on an emergency red eye from a conference in Boston. It was Nicaise who Laurent would see first.
The kid was new, green. Fresh out of his degree program, he had replaced their retiring psychologist two months ago after serving as an intern for the summer. In-house counselor, they called him. Dr. Nicaise, crisis intervention. Laurent didn’t think he had a doctorate.
Laurent liked Nicaise, more than he had expected to. They had a lot in common. They chatted at HQ sometimes, grabbed dinner together now and then. Tonight, they talked for two hours. It was probably Nicaise’s first official assignment in his new position with their team, but he didn’t show it.
Laurent liked talking to therapists. It was something he knew he needed; he’d talked to a lot of them for different reasons throughout his life. He liked having that objective voice, separate from his own mind, to trade his thoughts with.
Nicaise didn’t tell him it was going to be fine. He didn’t say Laurent was going to be fine, he didn’t say Damen was going to be fine. But Laurent left the stale hospital conference room they’d shared without the emptiness he’d entered with.
Trauma, as Laurent had experienced it, was often a funny thing.
After, he went and found the small kitchenette at the far end of the waiting room. He filled one styrofoam cup with ice water, another with hot water and steeped the first tea bag he made eye contact with. Back at the nurse’s station, kind hands directed him to Damen’s room, a different nurse than he’d seen before. He’d been at the hospital for several rotations now, shifts passing, people leaving, but Laurent, fixed, remaining.
The lights were dim inside the room. It took a moment for Laurent to know where to put his feet forward, to adjust to the dark after the overbearing fluorescence of the hallway. His eyes found Nikandros first, who was seated at Damen’s bedside, hunched over like a man lost in prayer. He turned when Laurent knocked lightly on the door, announcing himself. Their gaze held for a long moment, a silent understanding passing between them. Then Nikandros simply nodded and stood to leave. As he passed Laurent, he grasped his shoulder once more, squeezing it gently.
The door creaked quietly shut behind him, and then there was only Damen.
Laurent couldn’t stop staring. He eased himself into the chair, breathing out slowly through his mouth as he sat, determinedly releasing the unwelcome tension that had built up in his shoulders. He gingerly set his two cups on the ground at his feet. His eyes didn’t leave Damen.
Asleep in the bed, he looked more like himself again. Not like a...body, as he had seemed at the dockyard. Not anymore. He looked even better than Laurent had anticipated. There were no machines there helping him breathe. In fact, there was no heavy equipment at all. There were tubes and wires, an IV with two banana bags hanging, an oximeter on his finger and a cannula in his nose, the electrode wires of the EKG winding their way out of his loose hospital gown. Just standard hospital fare.
And on the screen, his heartbeat was strong and steady.
Damen was alive.
Reaching forward, Laurent carefully took Damen’s hand in his own. His palm was warm and alive. His fingers were loose in Laurent’s, but alive. Laurent stroked his thumb across the back of Damen’s hand, feeling the softness of his skin, the give of it. He couldn’t take his eyes away from the brown of his forearms, the ruddiness of Damen cheeks, as if Laurent had forgotten the simple color of him, his mental image of Damen replaced instead by the ashen figure he’d found lying on the ground in a pool of blood.
Laurent would allow neither that ghost nor his fear to haunt his mind any longer. Tracing his eyes over each of Damen’s features, he took his time with every integral part of him, carefully committing Damen, alive and whole, to memory once more. The dark curls of his hair, the safety and strength evident in his body, even now while he slept, the looseness of his sleeping face that still betrayed his dimpled smile, ever-present.
This was the Damen Laurent knew, would always know, exuding warmth, life, and strength.
Laurent squeezed Damen’s hand tightly in his own, bowed his head to rest against the shape their entwined hands made, closed his eyes, and simply felt.
---
The sedatives were starting to wear off, the doctors said. Damen was expected to be waking up soon.
The news was delivered to a bleary Laurent. He didn’t know how much time had passed since the last nurse had stepped in. He might’ve slept on and off, it was difficult for Laurent to say. He certainly didn’t feel any more rested. A hospital was never quiet enough for that.
Unfolding himself in the chair, sitting up straight, Laurent’s achy muscles let him know just how long he’d laid slumped forward on the hospital bed. He stretched, a deep yawn forcing its way out. He rolled his shoulders and thumbed gently at the bruise on his jaw, finding a new tenderness there. He took Damen’s hand back in his.
As he settled in again, Laurent found himself instinctively searching around the room. Cataloguing his surroundings, spotting his exits, noting what he could pick up in a fight.
By the light of morning, it all felt too familiar.
The irony of the position he’d once again found himself in was not lost on Laurent. The long wait, the colorless room, the antiseptic hospital smell, his tired body, the hand in his. The details aligned perfectly, practically a mirror image. Six years ago, however, it had been Auguste, not Damen, in the hospital bed.
Laurent had known Damen’s name long before before he knew his face. Before he was Damen he was Damianos, and he was the man who was responsible for the bullet in Auguste’s spine and the career he’d lost because of it. For the agonizing recovery process Auguste had endured and overcome.
A new recruit, assigned to a case Auguste had been working, too green to handle the shootout that had followed. It was Damianos’s inexperience that had altered the course of Auguste’s life forever.
Laurent adjusted Damen’s palm against his, switched to use his left hand instead.
He remembered the first time they’d met face-to-face, back when Laurent was newly assigned to their unit. Set to meet his new partner, Laurent had instead been met with the man he blamed entirely for the tragedy that had befallen his family.
“Damianos?” he’d said.
Damen, cheerfully unsuspecting, only nodded, which had earned him Laurent’s fist directly in his face in return.
“That’s for my brother,” Laurent had spat, knuckles bloodied, looming above Damen where he’d stumbled and fallen.
Laurent had felt vindicated by the blood that spilled from Damen’s nose that day, but he’d been naive. A less patient woman than their director might have separated them immediately, assigned them elsewhere. Instead, they were required to continue working together, despite Auguste’s injury, despite Damen’s broken nose.
Laurent remembered the deep distrust he’d had for Damen, the sheer anger he’d felt. The resentment that simmered constantly, hidden below a thin veneer of integrity and begrudging compliance - the respect Laurent had for his job. It went on for so long.
Damen apologized. He never even asked for forgiveness. He took responsibility for the mistakes he’d made, knowing there was nothing he could do to rectify what had happened. It wasn’t enough.
Laurent watched how hard he worked. It was obvious Damen felt the weight of Auguste just as Laurent did, and that he strived to make himself better because of it. He was unquestionably the best man on their team: reliable, honorable, unstoppable. It still wasn’t enough.
Laurent didn’t know what he wanted from him. It gnawed at him, the overwhelming evidence that Damen was inherently a good man who’d simply faltered as any man did, who did not deserve Laurent’s contempt, paired with the unwavering, irrepressible need for Laurent to lay the blame entirely at Damen’s feet.
Laurent hated him.
Laurent admired him. Laurent respected him. And always, he was learning from him.
Damen made Laurent better at what he did. He was patient with him, he could challenge him. Damen’s passion for their work was obvious every day. And slowly, they learned to work together. It came naturally once Laurent stopped resisting every opportunity for progress they were offered.
Together, Damen and Laurent were unmatched. They were a perfect fit, an equal and balanced team, unrivaled in the field.
They worked instinctively as a single unit. The trust built between them slowly, as their partnership had as well. Damen proved himself where Laurent hadn’t even known he’d been searching for proof. He was there when Laurent needed him, watching Laurent’s back, protecting Laurent when Laurent couldn’t do it himself. Again and again, Damen saved his life. It was infuriating. And every time Laurent saved Damen’s life in return, he asked himself why he did it. Pretended it went against his better judgement to do so.
Even then, Laurent had known he was lying to himself.
Laurent remembered the moment it changed between them. For years the attraction had gone unnamed, Laurent refusing to acknowledge their relationship as anything other than professional; how it was slowly evolving into something more. It was already enough.
Then there was Marseille. The undercover mission. Laurent, held hostage. The cell. The knife in his shoulder, at his throat.
The kiss.
In Marseille, Laurent had been prepared to die. He had weighed the potential outcomes, measured the likelihood of his successful rescue, and came up short. He had been ready. He’d waited for it. But it never came. He made it out alive. And suddenly, it wasn’t enough anymore.
Laurent found himself immersed in the memories. Damen’s mouth on his, the sheets against his back, his hands on Laurent’s body, the feel of Damen inside him for the first time. It had been heady, knowing firsthand the power of Damen’s body, the deadly force of him, and feeling it held in check beneath Laurent’s hands; having his body treated instead with tenderness, a gentle caution Laurent had not known to expect. It was delicate in a way he wasn’t aware Damen could be, and he felt starved of it.
Here was this man Laurent had nearly given his life to protect, who again and again, Laurent had put himself in harm’s way to save. Who had done that and more in return. For years they’d been devoting themselves to each other, effortlessly entwining their lives - Damen in Laurent’s kitchen on a Saturday morning, picking up his niece from school when Laurent couldn’t get away from the office; Laurent opening himself to a personal intimacy he’d refused from everyone for years, trusting Damen with his vulnerability. Their arguments and apologies, the space they readily shared only with one another, the emotion that ran deeper than friendship or partnership, inevitably finding its conclusion in a French hotel room, where it could no longer be denied.
Then the mission had ended. They were called back to the States. They were assigned to another case. Damen was the same, Laurent was mostly the same. Privately, he struggled with the feelings for Damen he was experiencing, when it seemed as if nothing between them had changed apart from the sex they were now having. Laurent began to fear that the physicality was just a result of the mission, a means of release after their time undercover, where the line had so easily blurred between what was real and what was the job.
But it didn’t end after Marseille. It didn’t end at all. Damen didn’t stop kissing him, making love to him. He returned his devotion. They shared a bed, soon they shared a home. Laurent gave his heart away as he never thought he would, to the one man he never thought he’d be able to trust. And in turn, Damen never treated his heart as anything less than something to be cherished. Damen became a constant, an unquestionably permanent part of Laurent’s life.
Until yesterday, when Laurent had found his body lying motionless in the dirt.
Laurent closed his eyes, let the memories fade away. He dragged his hands down his face. It was over now, he reminded himself. There was nothing he could do to change what had already happened. Laurent took a breath in through his nose and released it through his mouth, reflecting on what he and Nicaise had discussed.
He reached for his water, half-empty at his feet, and took a drink. It had long since grown warm and left a stale taste in his mouth. He put it down again.
When he sat back up, Laurent was met with bleary brown eyes, blinking dazedly across the room.
Laurent nearly started out in his chair in his surprise. Inexplicably, he felt himself flush.
“You’re awake,” he said, struck dumb. He grasped Damen’s hand tightly in both of his own.
Damen only offered a low, pained sound in reply. Using the hand that was not being held, he clumsily pressed his palm flat against his forehead. “Ow,” he groaned, squeezing his eyes shut again. He let his arm flop loosely back onto the bed.
A choked laugh escaped from Laurent’s throat. He felt tears well in his eyes and did not deny them. “That would be the oxy,” he said. The drugs always gave Damen a headache.
Reacting to the sound of Laurent’s voice, Damen’s head rolled against the pillow, finally turning in his direction. It seemed to take him a moment to adjust, for his eyes to focus.
“Laurent…” Damen whispered, reverent, as if only just realizing he was there.
“Yeah,” Laurent murmured. A warm tear slipped down the side of his nose. “I’m here.”
A pause. Then, “You’re hurt,” Damen frowned.
Lifting the hand Laurent still held, Damen pressed his palm to Laurent’s cheek. Laurent felt his breath shudder out, his eyes slipping closed. He turned his face further into Damen’s fingers, held Damen’s hand even closer to his cheek, reveling in the feeling of it. Damen’s thumb stroked gently below his lip, where Laurent could still feel the split.
“You got hurt…”
A watery chuckle. “Shut up,” Laurent choked out. “You got shot.”
Damen made a dismissive gesture, dropping his hand along with Laurent’s. Even in injury, he was unflappable. He would probably find the whole situation to be terribly annoying. The restrictive bandages, the nuisance of bedrest, his post-op diet, the broth he would be forced to drink. He would always be Damen. Laurent took comfort in that.
“I was mostly fine,” Damen said. “I was handling it.”
“You were unconscious,” Laurent corrected, with a laugh. A long pause followed. Then, much quieter, “I’m the one who found you, Damen. You don’t know what you looked like.”
Damen turned and met Laurent’s eyes. His eyes were becoming clearer now, the fog of sedatives fading away. His gaze was steady, every emotion painfully obvious on his face. “I’m sorry,” Damen whispered.
Laurent scrubbed a tear away. “It wasn’t your fault,” he said. “You know I don’t blame you. It’s just -”
Damen took Laurent’s hand, and Laurent couldn’t help but stare at it. Where Damen’s fingers had been slack throughout the night, they now held him firm.
Laurent looked up. “I’m the one who found you,” he said again. “I tried to stop the bleeding. I wasn’t sure if I was quick enough. I didn’t know if -” he cut himself off. “They didn’t know if you would make it,” Laurent admitted, and the honesty was rough in his voice.
They gazed at one another. The moment stretched out between them.
Words weren’t needed. Laurent knew they would talk about it when the time came, when Damen was ready. Damen didn’t need to be pressured into a serious conversation now, he needed time to recover. It wasn’t Laurent who had nearly lost his life, after all. Just his love.
Laurent would wait for as long as Damen needed. And when they were both ready, they would heal together.
“Come here,” Damen murmured, breaking the silence. Gingerly, he shifted on the bed, attempting to make room for Laurent.
“No, don’t move, you idiot,” Laurent said. He clutched at his arm, stilling him. “You’ll rip out your stitches. Here, let me help.”
An interval of delicate maneuvering and adjusting pillows, then Laurent was lifting himself onto the bed, carefully kneeing across the covers. Avoiding tubes and wires as he went, he paused briefly when he caught Damen staring at him, seemingly holding back laughter.
“What?” said Laurent.
“Are you -” Damen glanced furtively around the room. Lowering his voice, he said, “Are you freeballing in those scrubs?”
Laurent froze entirely. Damen burst out laughing.
“Stop it,” Laurent said darkly. He pointed a finger at Damen in warning, which didn’t seem to discourage him. “The nurses didn’t offer me underwear with the change of clothes,” he said. Defensively, but with a twinge of amusement at the corner of his mouth betraying him.
Damen’s laughter subsided into a warm, beaming grin, his eyes never straying from Laurent’s face. Laurent smiled too. They were close enough to touch now, Laurent kneeling on the bed at Damen’s side, Damen simply watching him. Reaching forward, Laurent gently pushed a wandering curl back behind Damen’s ear. Tracing his fingers across his skin, he followed the curve of Damen’s brow down to hold his cheek in his palm.
Taking care to not put any of his weight on the tenderest parts of Damen’s body, Laurent slowly closed the space between them and brought their lips together.
With his eyes closed, his thumb brushing back and forth across Damen’s cheek, Laurent let himself savor the feeling of Damen’s arms winding around him once more, his hands coming to rest between Laurent’s shoulders, at his waist, holding him easily, holding him close. The kiss moved without intention, a slow, tender press of their lips, simple and chaste.
A reassurance.
Even in its simplicity, Laurent felt overcome by it in a way that he hadn’t since the very beginning. It was as if the feeling between them had been renewed, and Laurent felt weak, overexposed to the strength of it. His breath caught in his lungs. His fingers trembled, slipping to Damen’s shoulders and holding him there. Damen, ever attentive to even his smallest reactions, could undoubtedly feel how much it was affecting him - in his shortened breath, in the clutch of his hands. He was the first to pull back, gently separating their lips.
Both were unwilling to pull away completely, however. Bowing his head, Laurent brought their foreheads together to touch, indulging in their closeness. Damen placed soft, purposeful kisses to Laurent’s cheek, his jaw, lowering to his neck as he gradually drew Laurent forward. When his chin dropped to Damen’s shoulder, their cheeks pressed together, Laurent wrapped his arms fully around Damen in return, holding him tightly, completely. Laurent sighed in relief, his entire body yielding to their hug.
A stillness settled between them, the warmth of their bodies mingling.
Laurent turned his face into Damen’s neck, feeling his heart beat against his chest. He took a steadying breath. “I missed you,” he said.
Damen’s hand held the back of Laurent’s head, his fingers winding gently through his hair. He clutched him impossibly closer. “Thank you,” was all he whispered in return.
No more needed to be said than that. To Laurent, his meaning was perfectly clear: Thank you for saving my life. For your love. For everything. They were the same feelings Laurent experienced too, every day he spent at Damen’s side.
For a long, seemingly endless moment, they simply held each other, unmoving, fingers pressed to each other’s skin. Their embrace was uninterrupted, a steadying closeness that slowly melted away the remaining tension at the base of Laurent’s spine, the stress that had kept him going since that first shot had been fired at the dockyard. Closing his eyes, Laurent turned his head to rest on Damen’s shoulder, breathed in deeply, and let his guard finally fall. It was over.
The room was quiet, only the low beeping of the machines and the distant sounds of the hospital waking up filling the space around them. “Maybe we should just retire,” Laurent mumbled against Damen’s shoulder.
Damen laughed, a low rumble in his chest that Laurent could feel in his own body. Damen squeezed his arms around Laurent’s middle. “We’d get bored.”
Laurent smiled. “You’re right.”
With a sigh, Laurent finally pulled away then. Releasing Damen, he sat back on his heels, pushing his hair away from his face and back behind his ears. Composing himself. “I should text Auguste,” he said, watching Damen watch him. “He told me to let him know when you were back among the living.”
Damen chuckled. “Here I am,” he said, raising his hands.
Laurent smiled again. Bending over the guardrail, he reached for his phone where he’d left it on the armrest of the chair. He settled in again with it, stretching his legs out alongside Damen’s, reclining beside him on the bed. He opened up his message thread with Auguste, letting him know Damen’s room number and when visiting hours started.
Damen rested his head back on their shared pillow, looking on as he typed. “See if he can bring Tess along too when she’s out of school,” he suggested.
Laurent nodded. “Okay.” Tess hadn’t seen her Uncle Damen since early last week - too long for both of them.
Messages successfully delivered, Laurent dropped his phone back onto the seat of the chair. He made himself comfortable again, settling into the space under Damen’s arm.
“You know,” he said conversationally, “Nurse Lucia won’t be very happy to see me up here. Hindering your recovery.”
Damen hummed happily. “I don’t care,” he smiled, letting his eyes fall shut once more. He curled his arm around Laurent’s shoulders, holding him close.
Laurent gazed up at him. “Yeah.” He wrapped an arm loosely around Damen’s waist in return. “Me neither."