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He's going to die, Connor thinks.
He's going to die here tonight, and he didn't even get the chance to apologize to Sophia for brushing off her attempts to set him up with her hot Italian carpenter friend.
His hands are shaking. His fingers are so clammy that the lock pick almost slips from his unsteady grip. The YouTube tutorial made it look so easy, and when he gave it a test run on his own desk drawer, it seemed simple enough, but it's a whole other story when he's crouching on a squeaky-clean office floor, fumbling with a lock that holds the secrets of some slick businessman's criminal wrongdoings. A lock that's decidedly more sophisticated than Connor's cheap old desk and vastly more resistant to his attempts at manipulating it. There's no way he'll be able to open the cabinet and get that flash drive he's looking for, if it's even there in the first place. And then the asshole it belongs to is probably going to return and find Connor snooping around his things, and Connor is going to die. Or at least he'll go to prison for breaking and entering.
"'Just find me some dirty on Donovan'," Connor quietly mutters under his breath, tone dropping to imitate the snap of Hamish's order. He huffs. "Yes, sure. Why not send me to break into the back office of a guy who probably has a dozen literal skeletons in his closet? What could possibly go wrong?"
He wouldn't be surprised if that was exactly what Hamish intended when he graciously gave Connor another chance. Hamish isn't exactly the forgiving kind of guy. He probably set Connor up for failure as punishment for costing him Babylon.
Right now, Connor can't remember why he ever thought going back to Reconnoiter was a good idea. Sure, he has bills to pay, and this is New York, so of course his rent is practically daylight robbery, but he doesn't need this job that badly. If all else fails, he can probably sleep on Sophia's couch until he's found something new. Or he'll take Lindy's room as long as she's off on a wild goose chase to find her sister.
Something clatters, and for a moment Connor thinks it was the lock finally surrendering— but no, the noise came from further away. Like, 'down the corridor' further.
Shit.
He pockets the lock pick as quietly as possible and tiptoes to the doorway, half-hiding behind the corner as he peeks down the long, narrow hallway between the offices. It's too dark, only the street lights falling in through the windows casting irregular shadows on the floor.
Another sound. Are those footsteps he hears?
Connor holds his breath, listening closely. Nothing. Just his heart beating louder than the bass drums of the music blasting through the speakers at IRL. Seconds pass, and there's only silence.
Connor relaxes, air leaving his lungs in a rush and his shoulders unclenching in relief.
A hand clamps over his mouth from behind, and the icy cold terror Connor feels is so complete that even if his mouth were free to scream, no sound would leave his body. He wants to struggle, but his body is frozen motionless, rooted to the spot.
"Connor?" His name is a hissed curse, hot breath brushing against Connor's ear. "What the hell do you think you're doing here?"
He's so caught up in mind-numbing panic that it feels like an eternity until the familiarity of the whispered voice registers. That's— not Donovan. Just Detective Calligan. Tommy. Lindy's Tommy. Who's a cop, which means getting caught breaking into an office by him isn't ideal, but he's also not going to kill Connor and drown him in the harbor, so it could objectively be worse.
Tommy's grip has loosened enough to let Connor pull away and turn around. Tommy is holding his finger against his lips in an unmistakable shushing gesture, as if Connor wouldn't be smart enough to keep his voice low unless prompted.
"I'm looking for evidence," he hisses back quietly, trying not to sound too defensive. Then something dawns on him: Even if someone has called the cops on him, it wouldn't be a CCU detective showing up to arrest him. So whatever Tommy is here for, it can't be him.
He gives Tommy a curious look. "What are you doing here?"
"Following a lead." Tommy gets that thin-lipped annoyed expression he usually has when Lindy is pulling some sketchy hacker trick, only this time Lindy isn't here and Connor finds himself at the receiving end of Tommy's disapproval. It's kind of hot. No wonder Lindy's never stopped antagonizing the guy just to bring out that glower.
"And what the hell do you mean, 'evidence'? Jesus. Breaking and entering to chase a story isn't 'looking for evidence'. And also illegal. I should be arresting you."
Connor huffs. He's tempted to say, "Please do," but bites back the words. While he may or may not have had a few fantasies involving Tommy and a pair of handcuffs, he doubts the reality of Tommy actually taking him into custody would be nearly as exciting.
He's about to point out that Tommy didn't care much about legalities when he convinced Connor to break into his boss's server room, but then he gets distracted by the other thing Tommy said, his reporter instincts lighting up like a neon sign.
"A lead on what, exactly?"
"A case we're working on. We think Donovan may—" It's just about to get interesting when Tommy abruptly stops himself. "No, wait. I'm not telling you this so you can use it for your fucking gossip blog."
The moral outrage is kind of insulting. Hamish is a creep, but the website isn't that bad. Connor is a reporter, not some kind of blogger, and the public has a right to know what corrupt assholes like Donovan are up to. Besides—
"Oh, come on, you owe me. It's your fault Hamish put me on this. Remember how you almost got me fired!"
Unfortunately, Tommy doesn't seem convinced by Connor's appeal to his guilt. "I didn't—"
Whatever argument he was going to make for why he's not to blame for using the violent death of Connor's date as emotional blackmail to make Connor get him information on the Babylon network gets cut short when the sound of a door echoes through the silence. Connor almost jumps out of his skin at the noise because this time he definitely didn't imagine it. And it definitely wasn't him, and it wasn't Tommy, so someone else must be in the building, and he—
Tommy grabs him and pulls him away like a caveman. Under different circumstances, Connor would protest against the rough handling but secretly find it hot; right now though, he's too terrified for either.
"Come on," Tommy hisses and gives Connor's arm an entirely unnecessarily sharp tug. He's acting like Connor is dragging his heels – which really isn't fair, when Connor is perfectly pliant and quiet as he lets himself be manhandled along the corridor.
He doesn't even ask where they're going, keeping his opinions and his panic to himself and trusting Tommy to steer them to safety until he's hauled through an open door to their left.
It's dark inside. It only gets darker when Tommy carefully shuts the door, the sliver of dim light falling through the crack getting smaller and smaller until the door closes with a click that echoes through the quiet like a gunshot.
Connor looks around, for all the good it does him when he can't see a thing. But he doesn't need to see anything to feel how narrow it is: no windows, barely enough space to move for a single person, much less for two grown men, shelves all around him. What a cliché.
"It's been a while since I've been in any sort of closet," he says before he can stop himself.
It's a terrible pun and the writer in him cringes at it, but he's always defaulted to sarcasm in tense situations, and hiding in a tiny supply closet with a hot cop while a criminal mastermind is on his way to murder them both is definitely a tense kind of situation.
Tommy's amused huff is even closer than Connor expected it to be, coming from right in front of him. "If you weren't snooping around, you wouldn't be in this one."
Fair. Kind of hypocritical, though, given the fact that Tommy is right there with him.
"Whereas I'm sure you're here on official business," Connor whispers, all saccharine viciousness. He turns his head towards where he can feel Tommy's breath brush against the side of his neck. "Tell me, Detective, did you bring a warrant? Is it common practice for NYPD's finest to search premises in the middle of the night now? Maybe that's what I should write an article about."
The noise Tommy makes is some kind of cross between laughter and a snort, like he wants to be annoyed but is too entertained despite himself. "God, do you ever shut up?"
The leather of his jacket creaks as he moves, the motion making the length of his body press solidly against Connor's side. It should be reassuring, maybe, but it only makes Connor's heart beat faster.
He's still riding the adrenaline high, a little like that night he and Oliver were locked into IRL with an increasingly unstable crowd around them, the same kind of fear and relief pumping through him and making everything feel sharper, shifted into focus.
The gaping darkness around him doesn't help make him less reckless.
"Only if someone makes me."
He doesn't mean it.
Or maybe he does.
He kind of meant it even back at the CCU office when Tommy caught him looking at the crime scene photos and Connor's first line of defense was flirtation, because at best Tommy would flirt back and at worst he'd turn out to be painstakingly straight and have a fit about being hit on by another guy that would distract him from the fact that he'd caught Connor somewhere he shouldn't have been. Win-win, right? Tommy's reaction had landed somewhere in the middle then, and that's what Connor expects this time as well: A casual brush-off with a snarky little quip, more amused than pissed off.
What he doesn't expect is Tommy crowding further into his space.
Connor instinctively wants to take a step back to give Tommy room to move, but there's nowhere to go, a shelf behind him and Tommy's body caging him in at his front.
His breath catches. He's almost successful in telling himself that it's because it's crammed and stuffy in there, that it has nothing to do with the way his body reacts to the proximity. It works until Tommy's hand finds his cheek, his palm curving along Connor's jawline.
He swallows. "What are you doing?"
It feels like a stupid question. Connor is usually good at drawing conclusions. It comes with the job. If he didn't have good instincts and wasn't used to thinking quick on his feet, Hamish would have kicked his ass to the curb ages ago. But Tommy isn't acting like Connor expected at all, and it makes him question where all those well-cultivated instincts of his are pointing. It's like he's trying to add two plus two and ends up with three, or maybe five, because four seems entirely unlikely.
"Shutting you up," Tommy says.
Connor can hear the smile in his voice, and there's a moment when he thinks he's being mocked. He already has a sharp retort on his tongue – except it never makes it out, because Tommy's lips are suddenly on his, quite literally doing what he said he was going to do and effectively shutting Connor up.
It's a nice kiss, Connor thinks once his brain has rebooted. It's— more than nice, actually.
Tommy's thumb has slipped underneath Connor's chin, dipping his head back and angling his face up towards Tommy as he explores Connor's mouth like he's doing a very thorough cavity search. Which is a terrible comparison, but it brings along all kinds of interesting fantasies Connor may or may not have been harboring about Tommy for a while.
He makes a little sound, half-confused and half-aroused, fists clenching around the lapels of Tommy's jacket. He's used to being the one to take the lead, but there's something about the loss of control that's... exhilarating. The metal beams of the shelf creak when Connor lets Tommy push him harder against it. Tommy's leg slips between Connor's thighs, and through the layers of denim, Connor feels the delicious shift of hard muscle against his stirring cock. He groans into Tommy's mouth and wishes they were somewhere with more room and a flat surface Tommy could bend him over. Somewhere, preferably, that wasn't a narrow closet where they're hiding from some creepy businessman-slash-criminal.
The thought is an unfortunate reminder of where they are and why, and it has an effect similar to a cold shower. Connor's heard of fear boners, but if anything the anxiety of their current predicament achieves the exact opposite and effectively smothers his arousal.
Which is a shame, because it was a nice distraction while it lasted.
Still, he's a little breathless and lightheaded when he breaks the kiss, his tongue and lips still tingling in a pleasant way that makes it harder to muster up the sharpness he's aiming for when he says, "I thought you were only into blondes."
It's not like he doesn't know Tommy was bullshitting him. Connor isn't blind. He's seen the way Tommy used to look at Lindy, and Lindy is about as far from blonde as it gets.
Tommy snorts. "I'm actually more of an equal opportunity kind of guy."
Now that's interesting. Connor figured as much, what with the enthusiastic making out just now and the way Tommy doesn't seem in a rush to drop his hands from Connor's face and put any amount of distance between them, but it's nice to have verbal confirmation.
It still sounds a little like a quip, but a lot more genuine than his previous rebuke. Maybe it's the breathy rawness and rasp in his voice. Connor likes it, he decides. He likes Tommy, with his stupid nonchalant macho attitude, with his hypocrisy about rule-bending, his quick-witted responses to Connor's banter, and his unfair good looks that don't seem to be hindered by his frankly terrible fashion sense.
"Good to know," he says, aiming for aloof and clearly missing so hard that Tommy responds with a scoffing little chuckle.
Rude. Connor tightens his grip on Tommy's jacket and reels him in once again. Maybe it's because this time he isn't caught by surprise, but the second kiss is even better than the first one. When Connor bites a little at Tommy's lips in retaliation for the mockery, the noise Tommy makes is all kinds of fascinating, and the way his fingers dig into the skin of Connor's neck makes Connor want to offer his throat to him.
Suddenly, the door is flung open.
They jump apart as light fills the tiny room, making Connor instinctively close his eyes. Tommy's hand is gone from his face, and he feels him fumbling at their side, like he's reaching for his gun.
"You shouldn't be here," a female voice says.
Not Donovan then. That's good. That's great, in fact, unless that lady is a security guard who's going to take them to Donovan and then drive them to the harbor to drown them. Her tone sounds annoyed enough that it's a distinct possibility.
"I'm sorry," Tommy is saying. He isn't shooting, though, and he doesn't appear to be aiming his gun, which Connor counts as a good sign.
He squints his eyes open and looks right into the glowering face of a tiny angry woman holding a broom and a bucket. It's only now that he realizes that they're surrounded by cleaning supplies.
Tommy's still fumbling his way through an apology. "This isn't what it looks like. We were just—"
Whatever he's trying to sell, it's clear that the cleaning lady isn't buying it. Not a surprise, considering the slightly debauched way he looks, kiss-bruised lips and flushed cheeks and his gelled hair hopelessly mussed even though Connor can't remember putting his hands in in. Connor doubts he looks more put together himself.
He interrupts Tommy. "No, ma'am, this is exactly what it looks like. We should have left the office hours ago and got a little distracted. I apologize. We'll leave you to do your job." He lets his tone drop a little, like he's sharing a secret. "Please don't tell anyone that you've seen us. Mr. Donovan is strongly against inter-office relationships, if you know what I mean."
She rolls her eyes and jerks her head, which Connor chooses to interpret as assent. He has no intention of lingering, either way.
He grabs Tommy by the front of his jacket and pulls him along, back down the corridor they came from.
"Quick thinking," Tommy says, when they've made it out of the back door without any further interruptions.
He sounds almost impressed, and Connor feels an embarrassing rush of satisfaction at the compliment. He feels his cheeks heat up, grateful that darkness probably swallows the telltale flush.
"Well, it sounded like you were about to tell her that, no, we weren't making out in a supply closet, we were actually trespassers hiding from her boss, so I thought I'd save both our asses." He ignores Tommy's outraged splutter in response, like he hadn't been about to give their game away.
Connor reaches out and breezily brushes Tommy's ruffled hair back into form. When Tommy doesn't bat his hand away, he feels emboldened enough to make another move. "You can thank me by buying me a drink. And telling me what you were looking for in Donovan's office."
"I'm not going to tell you shit, Connor." Tommy shakes his head.
His mouth is curled in amusement, but he sounds pretty damn adamant. That's a blunt brush-off, if Connor's ever heard one. He tries not to let the disappointment sink in, but it's a little hard, when their little tête-à-tête in the closet was so promising.
"Tell you what," Tommy adds, before Connor can figure out a smooth way to slip away and lick his wounds. "You stop trying to pry details of my case from me, and I'm gonna invite you over to my place for that drink."
He's eyeing Connor speculatively, and the heat in his gaze settles in Connor's gut like a warm coil of anticipation. He feels his smile slowly stretch his lips, and it's impossible to keep his excitement out of his voice.
"If you put it like that, maybe I could be convinced to let the story rest for tonight."
End.