Work Text:
Unknown Number: heads or tails
VR: …
VR: Aventurine.
VR: I told you to never contact me again.
Unknown Number: aww come on!!
Unknown Number: u cant even indulge me?
Unknown Number: for old time’s sake
Unknown Number: partner
Unknown Number: i’m just trying to decide between the brain or the heart
VR: I don’t have the patience for your riddles.
Unknown Number: ugh
Unknown Number: whatever
Unknown Number: seems like that stick in ur ass has only been lodged further up since i left
Unknown Number: but
Unknown Number: i must say ur lookin handsome today ratio
Unknown Number: r those new glasses?~
Unknown Number: heh. i’ll go with the heart
…Incoming call. From: Unknown number.
Accepted.
“You do look beautiful today, doctor,” Aventurine drawls on the other end of the line, his tone as maddeningly brazen as ever. Veritas casts a cautionary sweep around him, eyes sharp. Nobody similar to Aventurine’s physique is walking past him, nor an echo of someone speaking at the same time as the call. Meaning, that Aventurine isn’t here. Around, most definitely, but not near him, not on the street.
“What did you call for?” Veritas demands, the rhythmic clack of his shoes against the pavement mingling with the distant hum of traffic. It’s still dark out, with the dawn casting a hue on the faces of passersby– on the city itself. “Like I said. I do not have the time for whatever quandaries you may impose on me.”
The wind whistles, on Aventurine’s end of the call. Veritas wishes his voice would go along with it. “Actually, you said you don’t have the patience for my riddles. I’m not speaking in riddles now, am I?”
“Get on with it.”
“I was just curious about your glasses! They look nice. Versace? Or Prada— oh, it doesn’t even matter. They’re a huge step up from your old pai—“
Veritas stops walking. At this, his grip tightens on his phone. The pulse of the city seems to falter as Aventurine’s words fully register. His eyes flick over the building behind him, to the right. Four stories high. Aventurine is most likely there, considering he could see the logo of Veritas’ glasses from the angle he’s at. The building on the left is a bit too high up to be able to see it successfully.
The rooftop. The assassin’s obnoxiously pink safety goggles are over his eyes, and he offers a lazy, two-fingered salute down to Veritas with the hand he holds his phone in. His other supports the rifle propped up on the rooftop. Veritas recognizes this one. It’s one he made for Aventurine two months before he defected from the IPC. Lightweight and untraceable, like all of his guns, but the scope of this one had a facial recognition software that Veritas had spent months perfecting.
“...Hmph.” Veritas gives a click glance to his watch. It’s only 7:24. He has thirty-six minutes until he has to be at the lab. No meetings or training today, either. He makes his decision. “You won't shoot me.” Veritas assures, stepping out of the way of the street and into an alley– the distant sounds of the city fading into a muted hum, replaced by the sound of the wind whistling on Aventurine’s end. Aventurine will still have a good view of him for the moment, he knows, but he is not truly concerned about that.
“So confident,” Aventurine drawls, his tinny voice cutting through the speaker. “Right as always, Ratio. It’s a wonder you still trust me this much, not to blow out your pretty little brains.”
Then why? Veritas wants to demand— but he knows the answer. Of course he does. He’s known Aventurine inside out for the better part of a decade, now, not even including the year it has been since the assassin defected. This is merely posturing, to see how Veritas will react. He’s bluffing, playing the game, and trying to drag Veritas into the cursed thing. A gambler must be skilled in the art of bluffing, and a scientist must be skilled in the art of analysis. This is an intricate dance of deception and deduction. It’s nothing new for the two of them. Veritas knows he must tread carefully.
Hmph. Well. If it’s a reaction Aventurine wants, then it is a reaction he will get.
“I thought you said you were going with the heart,” Veritas responds, pushing himself on top of the dumpster, and then the the fire escape. He uses the ladder to pull himself up and onto it with a practiced ease. He hasn’t been in the field for a year, but he keeps up with his physical training. “I must admit, it seems a bit more poetic than the brains.”
A scoff on Aventurine’s end. Veritas can hear him fiddle with the clip of the rifle. “I don’t care about poeticism.”
“You did when you blew up my lab.”
“...Hah! Well, that was nothing personal, y’know.” Veritas can practically feel the eyeroll that comes with the assassin’s words. “Strictly business, doctor.”
“You blew up my life’s work,” Veritas answers, steadying himself as he works his way up the fire escape ladder. And– it’s merely a distraction, to throw Aventurine off for even just a moment. Veritas is not upset. Really. He’s not! He doesn’t get emotional, least of all upset. Even though it was barely eleven months ago. Even though there are still hundreds, if not thousands of records and experiments that Veritas nor the IPC will ever be able to get back. “For what? Distracting the IPC for a few months so they wouldn’t come after you?”
Aventurine laughs, the sound cutting through the line with a mocking edge. “Oh, Ratio, always so focused on the past. You should know by now that in our line of work, sacrifices must be made. Besides,” He pauses, his tone turning bit softer– a bit contemplative, “You and I both know that your ‘life's work’ was barely scratching the surface of what you could do. The IPC was holding you back. You’re able to do so much more with the Guild.”
There's a pause, a momentary silence that hangs heavy between them, before Aventurine continues, his voice back to its mocking edge. “But, I suppose if it makes you feel any better, you’re welcome to consider it a necessary evil, heh. After all, what's a little destruction in the grand scheme of things?”
Veritas inhales, the cool morning air filling his lungs as he reaches the top of the fire escape. He can see the silhouette of Aventurine's figure against the skyline. His outfit is new. A black t-shirt and vest, black pants. Discreet. His goggles are perched on his head and the rifle beside him is discarded— two things Veritas had made for him. It seems even after he left, he carried a bit of the scientist with him. Veritas fatuously wonders if it’s due to leftover sentiment from their partnership or nothing more than a pragmatic decision. Veritas’ tech is superior. He doubts Aventurine would use anything else before it, if he had the option.
He can’t deny the flash of resentment that courses through him at the sight of Aventurine. Veritas doesn’t hate him. He doesn’t think he ever could, no matter how much he wishes to. But—
Aventurine promised to stay, and he hadn’t.
Veritas reaches into his waistband, drawing his gun. “Behind you,” he mutters into the phone, coming to a stop behind Aventurine’s figure. The barrel of the gun meets the back of the assassin’s head, and he switches off the safety. With a swift movement, he hangs up the call and pockets his phone, gazing down at the Stoneheart.
It’s been– a long time. Far too long, a traitorous voice in Veritas’ mind whispers.
“You came,” Aventurine offers as he turns his head around, an eyebrow quirking up. His hand brushes against the comm in his ear while he lifts his arms placatingly, and his lips twitch up– just the slightest. Amusement. What else was Veritas expecting? The man has never cared when he’s dancing with the cold hands of death. Veritas leans forward, snatching the comm out of his ear and crushing it with his shoe. No risks today. “Color me surprised, partner.”
“Who knows you’re here?” Veritas questions, pushing Aventurine’s shoulder down against the ledge of the roof. He tries not to be too rough. (Granted, he never tries to be, when it comes to Aventurine. He knows of the scars that deface the assassin’s skin. The blemishes and the contusions, spanning his body as a map of careless mistakes in the field and the cruelty he has faced at the hands of others. Veritas has had to sew Aventurine up more times than he can count, to pry bullets out from behind his skin and to wrap his injuries. He’s always been as delicate as possible, with this. There is no need to cause the assassin any more pain than is necessary).
“You think so low of me.” Aventurine tsks, grinning up at Veritas. The sun reflects off the silver dogtag around his neck— it seems the assassin has clung to even more of Veritas, more than just his tech. “Completely confidential, I assure you. Trust me, Diamond would have my head if he knew I still kept in contact with you.”
They don't keep in contact. Not at all, really. This is the first they've seen one another since that night. Until today, Aventurine has only texted him once, since. One word. Peacock. A part of the code they had established. Alive.
Veritas hadn’t replied.
“And the Stonehearts are treating you fine, I presume?” Veritas scowls lightly, while Aventurine’s grin grows a bit more.
“Well enough! I’m afraid Topaz and I aren’t as in tune as you and I were.” Aventurine's voice was smooth as silk, laced in a honey and mischief that Veritas hadn’t realized just how much he missed. Though his words are so obviously bait, Veritas can’t help but feel infuriated and endeared.
He’s silent for a moment, his hand tightening on its grip on Aventurine’s shoulder. “And what do you want from me?” Maybe coming to Aventurine was an oversight, on his behalf. Veritas should have known better. He knows Aventurine. He knows he’s playing into the assassin’s plans. Whatever Aventurine intends to get from luring Veritas here will not be happening, the scientist decides.
“Heh… straight to the point, as always. You know how much I like that.” Aventurine starts, shifting against Veritas’ tightened grip. He’s infallible as ever, unconcerned about the gun against his head. “I need a favor.”
The response is immediate. “No.”
“No?”
“No.”
“Not even for your old partner?” Aventurine’s lips curl back a bit. A nasty smile. An unfriendly one.
“No, Aventurine. I find myself appalled by your sheer audacity.”
“You once called my audacity charming, unless I’ve started to lose my mind?”
“…I highly doubt you ever had one in the first place.”
“Ouch.” Aventurine grimaces, and there’s a flicker of irritation in his eyes. Veritas tries not to focus on his eyes. Aventurine has always been so expressive, through his eyes. Too sincere, for someone with his profession. Windows to his soul, they are, however marred and tattered it may be. “Look, it’s just a small favor. You know I wouldn’t have reached out if I didn’t have anywhere else to go. At least hear me out?”
His eyes. His damned eyes. “…Fine.”
“Wonderful!” Damn him. Damn him and the way the morning sun hits his hair, the way his eyes flicker with a little bit of life, for once. Seven years together, and Veritas still detests the way his heart flutters at the sight of Aventurine’s smile– his real one. He detests the way his own heart feels warm when he’s the cause of it. “I’ve been commissioned, so to say, to take care of someone. I’ll spare you the nitty-gritty details, but— my client wants it clean. No guns, no knives.”
“Right. And what that has to do with me is…?”
A beat. “Ah… so, maybe I lied. Just a bit. It’s a little more than an itsy favor.”
“Aventurine.” The word is akin to a warning, and Veritas can feel his patience truly wearing thin. It’s a wonder to himself why he hasn’t turned around and walked away yet. “What does this have to do with me?”
“You see, the target is a high-ranking official. It’s hard to get to him normally, even for a marksman at my level, but without guns? Not a chance. He’ll be at a charity gala this weekend. Some humanitarian shit. And I happen to have it on good authority that the Intelligentsia Guild received an invitation.”
…Ah, fuck. “No. Not a chance in hell.”
“You don't even know what I was going to ask!” Aventurine scowls, and Veritas is utterly sick of this. He almost forgot how exhausting Aventurine can be to deal with, especially when the blond is after something.
“Yes, I do. You want me to request to go and then to the invitation and give it to you.”
“Well… not entirely.” Aventurine offers, moving one of his gloved hands to rest on the one Veritas has on his shoulder. His touch is gentle, but the leather is rough. Worn. It’s not faded, but there are clear signs of cracking on the fingers that brush against Veritas’ skin. He runs a finger against the back of Veritas hand, like he’s soothing an unruly child.
Absently, Veritas thinks of how Aventurine used to brush his ungloved fingers against his skin. The leather feels nothing like his ex-partner’s callouses. “Quit dancing around your words.”
“The invitee is highly encouraged by the host to bring a plus one.” Aventurine’s fingers continue their caress, and it’s near distracting.
“No.” Veritas answers, his tone sharp. “No, no, no. Absolutely not, you bastard.”
“It’ll be just like the old days! Me and you, undercover, with good wine and even better stakes.”
How dare he? How dare he disappear, and destroy every modicum of trust Veritas held for him, and come back and ask him for a favor?
“Please, Veritas. After this, you’ll never have to see me again.” Persuasion has always been one of Aventurine’s dearest friends. Sometimes, Veritas wonders if the assassin’s silken words are consciously woven.
Aventurine’s eyes meet his as the assassin turns Veritas’ hand over, moving his finger over the crease that runs from his pointer to his pinkie. The heart line, if he recalls correctly. A small movement, but that conveys enough. The touch, light and intimate, painfully familiar, is enough to spend Veritas near spirally. The sound of the city fades into the background as he holds Aventurine’s gaze.
…Maybe Veritas is a true fool, after all.
“Don’t make me regret this,” Veritas warns, lowering the gun and taking a careful step back. He slides the gun back into his waistband. Capitulation, a show of his hand. Your move, Aventurine.
“All or nothing, partner,” Aventurine responds, his lips twisting back into a smile. Sharp. Knowing.
It’s far too familiar. A sharp reminder that despite everything, Aventurine still knows Veritas, and Veritas still knows Aventurine. They know one another’s blind spots— Aventurine knows of the gaping, human shaped hole in Veritas’ foresight.
“I’ll text you the details. Later, Ratio,” Aventurine offers a wave and grabs his rifle with one hand. He kicks himself back, and off of the roof with a laugh that the wind carries away. Veritas doesn’t bother looking over the ledge. He knows the assassin will be gone.
He glances down to his watch. 7:58. Goddamnit. He’s going to be late.