[A few content warnings. This work contains one offhanded mention of mature content, and a _lot_ of swearing, as well as the typical violence that comes with action bits. Other than that, this is just a snapshot of a larger piece that I'm working on.]

It’s raining. Of course it's raining, heavy droplets tapping at the window, as if vying for Tyson to pay attention to them.

Maybe later.

Because you can't afford to be distracted when you've got a gun in your hand and another pointed at your face, Tyson finds. The nameless goon that currently has Tyson’s life in his hands is circling him, and Tys tries to twist and keep his eyes on him, but. Well.

“Hands up. Move and I’ll shoot,” The man barks.

“Oh, gimme a break,” Tys grouches. “What are you, a cop? I’m just an investigator,” he lies flatly, but puts his hands in the air anyway. The man doesn't move to take his gun; it speaks volumes about the amount of training the guy has. Which is probably none.

There's a reason the mob can hire so many of them.

The man laughs, loud and obnoxious. “I know who you are,” he hisses, stepping closer. Tyson hates how loud his heartbeat is in his ears. “Where's your bodyguard, huh?”

Sergei is not my bodyguard, Tys almost says, but he manages a noise of recognition before getting a lockdown on his words. Stuff like this is always just a waiting game. He could easily just snap around and shoot the guy, but he doesn't- because for some idiotic reason, Sergei always gets pissy about him killing people, which is his whole job.

Well, nobody’s shooting anyone for now. Tys can wait a little while.

“Should let me shoot always,” Sergei had said, two years ago. His accent had been more prominent back then.

“You look good,” He'd continued. “Don’t want to ruin. Again, I mean. I think first time maybe it fix your face,” and Tyson had laughed.

He laughs now, too, albeit it's riddled with nerves and it comes out needly.

-

Being shot, as Tyson has found out(again), is not a very good feeling. 

Especially since the bullet is still in him and he can slowly feel the burning heat of it fade away to match the temperature of his insides like it’s molding into his body. Yeah, it’s- it’s not that great.

He’d used up the remainder of his adrenaline high to scramble away from wherever he heard people yelling in Russian, his mind blaring _danger, danger_ at every unfamiliar word that pricked his ears. Now, after about twenty minutes of running and hurtling and ducking and also a little more praying than usual, Tyson comes down to find himself backed up against a brick wall. He hears a dog barking distantly and flinches, sliding down the wall to sit.

Well, at least he’s not really bleeding anymore; it’s more uncomfortable than anything else at this point. He doesn’t feel any signs of internal hemorrhage. Probably didn’t even hit anything vital. Tyson tries to slow his breathing, but his heartbeat is still roaring in his ears, because there is a foreign object in his body, and said body does not like that.

Tyson's phone buzzes in his pocket. Dizzily, he thinks, _Who the fuck is leaving voicemails at this hour, _but it’s quickly replaced with, _Why is _this_ moron leaving voicemails at this hour?_

_12 missed calls from NS._

“My god, Nathan, you better be dying,” Tyson grumbles, pressing on his side to feel how bad the wound is. He quickly retracts his hand, though- fuck, ouch- when it feels like he’s been shot all over again. He grits his teeth so Nate doesn’t hear the pathetic whine of pain he feels bubbling up in his throat. 

“Oh, hey Tys,” Nate starts, and he sounds a little out of breath. “And I mean, well, I kind of am? Dying? But only spiritually, physically I’m totally fine, but it’s-”


Tyson sighs, tucking his phone between his shoulder and his ear, and the exhale makes his ribs ache. “Is it about work?”

“Ye-es?” Nate draws out the word. “It’s about, uh. Miles.”

Tyson recognizes the name as Nate’s new handler. “Harbison? What about him?”

“Um. He, uh. He’s- you know!” Nate sputters, mumbling incoherently, and Tyson can visualize him waving his hands around. “He’s fuckin’- um.  Shit, you know what I’m saying-”

“I really don’t. Spit it out.”


 Good god, Tyson thinks, because how did he ever put up with this for a whole month? He’s on the verge of having to fight off a migraine along with the pain of the bullet in his stomach. Tyson pinches the bridge of his nose just for the sake of being exasperated, and he considers just hanging up on Nate during the few seconds of silence that follow, reaching up for his phone- until he hears him inhale sharply, and he realizes that those ten seconds were spent crafting a goddamn _thesis statement._

“Okay so when I got his file it didn’t have a photo for ‘em which is understandable because this is confidential government shit but then I had to go pick him up from the academy because he’s new and needed a ride to the airport and he’s- fuckin’- he’s really cute and kind of shy but I’m not gay I _think? _Am I gay?...” Nate barrels, trailing off. 

Tyson wants to snap his phone in half. Instead, he takes another deep breath, and goes, “So you’re calling because you’re having, what, boy problems?” He honestly should’ve expected this sooner. Nate makes a noise that sounds like _uh huh, _so Tyson replies, “I’m not your shrink, bud. Give it some time. You’ll live.” He pauses, because the pain has started to seep into his lower back and the _bam bam bam _of it hurts like hell- and then adds, “Are you sure you actually like him?”

Nate hesitates. “I. Um. Well, I just jacked off thinking ‘bout him, so,” he mumbles, and Tyson chokes on an inhale. Nate sighs again, like getting off to the thought of your handler is something spies just _do_ these days, and says, “I mean, you and Sergei have been dancing around each other for, what, sixteen years? I’m twenty-eight, Tys, I got no hope-”

“Nate,” Tyson interrupts, because somehow the other man had brought the topic back to his hopeless love life and he would very much rather not talk about it because he is literally on the verge of bleeding out in some dingy back alley behind a hotel. “Are you drunk?”

“Um. A little. Hungover?”

Tyson sighs through his nose, dragging a hand over his face. He feels a little woozy. “Aren’t you tired? Go to bed and figure it out in the morning.”

“‘S eleven fuckin’ A.M. in Sedona,” Nate complains, slurring his words slightly, and Tyson hears a faint _thump_ over the line.

“You’ve been comatose before, I’m sure you could pull it off again.” He shifts a little, jostling his hand, and another sting of pain jolts through his core and up his spine. “I- I gotta go, Nate. I’m, uh. Shot,” Tyson supplies, and hangs up. He faintly registers his phone clattering to the ground, but his ears are ringing and it feels like half his brains have been removed from his head with the remains being turned into dysfunctional sludge.

Tyson glances down at his hand, now lying slack against the right side of his abdomen. His vision is blurry around the edges, and his hands are both numb with cold, but he can feel the heat of his pulse throbbing beneath his palm. 

His hand comes away bloody. Hot_ _blood. _New _blood. _Fuck._

“Need to find Sergei,” Tyson mumbles, to nobody. It’s all his tired mind can muster up before he blanks out.