Chapter Text
It is wet and dirty and it smells like a certain sweaty gym locker that Carlos hoped he would leave behind forever (high school was fun.) His Edward Green Chelseas are screaming at him as he steps through puddles of water (he could only hope it was water) behind an officer. The place is shabby, to say the least. The drive to the holding cells had been long and Carlos was frankly already too tired for whatever bullshit he knew he would have to take.
The officer in front of him, unfazed by the state of the cell, walked briskly, splashing small droplets right onto Carlos’s trousers. Le salaud . He pushes his glasses up the bridge of his nose as they finally reach the last cell in the narrow hallway, the officer unlocks it and rolls the rusted metal away. Carlos nods at him before stepping into the room.
The walls are a disgusting shade of lime yellow and green (make up your mind) with cracking plaster and it's ugly. Carlos bites his tongue because he has a job to do. And his job is a man currently sitting on a grey metal chair in the middle of the room with cuffs around his wrists and his head down.
Time to face the music, Carlos thinks. Which he wouldn’t mind, he can appreciate good music, unless, of course, it sounds like a creature being run over by a lawnmower. That is what this felt like.
He places his briefcase on the table and sits (begrudgingly). He clears his throat while the asshole in front of him finally looks up.
He’s smiling like the little bastard that he is.
“So, I made a bad call.”
Carlos wants to scream in his face, for his stupid lilted French accent ( “it’s Monaco” ) and maybe throw a punch (or ten) for making him come to work on a Saturday in the middle of nowhere because he made a bad call. But he is not a slave to his desires. His parents raised him better than that. So he resorts to a sarcastic comment instead.
“You think?” His anger is evident. Carlos isn’t even trying.
Charles Leclerc is a good man, objectively. He works in a federal agency, he’s good at his job, hardworking, and a golden boy through and through, Carlos has heard from everyone. Except that's what most people who haven’t had the pleasure of meeting him think. Charles Leclerc could have been the golden boy of the organised crime department of the FBI, but he isn't. Because he is the cockiest, assholiest, asshole Carlos has ever seen and he can shove his ‘bad call’ so far up his as-
“Always so charming, mon cher .” he leans on his cuffed hand, elbow on the metal table separating them. His voice is sweet honey slow and- annoying .
“I hope you know I’m wishing you a special place in hell for this.”
“Ah well,” Charles sighs and smiles still, so fucking smug, god-, “only if you come with me.”
Carlos sighs, folding his arms. His suit feels uncomfortable because the temperature in the whole facility brought a thin layer of sweat on his skin the moment he entered. “Why are you here, Charles?”
It's Charles’s turn to sigh, “Would you believe me if I said I wanted to see your face?” Carlos opens his mouth to lose his shit , he is done- “No wait!” Charles holds out his palm, stopping Carlos’s outburst before it begins. “I wanted to hear your voice.” he grins, “that's more romantic, no?”
Carlos has to push his glasses down to massage his temples, “Charles. For fucks sake, why aren’t you telling them you are undercover? I can go back home and you can go stare at your reflection.”
Charles ignores Carlos’s jab and hums, finally serious (impossible, but Carlos doesn’t want to jinx it) “I think,” he leans his elbows on the table inching closer to Carlos, who mutters a soft ‘ surprising ’ at that. “I think there’s a mole.” Carlos raises a brow. “In the agency.”
“Scratch that, I know there's a mole.” He continues. (Cocky).
“Have you gotten in touch with your team? Vettel?”
Charles shakes his head, a frown on his face (why does he have to be so. Hm.
Nice to look at
.) “Too risky, didn’t really get the time. I’m pretty sure they know we’re investigating the cartel. That’s why I’m in here.”
Carlos bites the inside of his cheek, deliberating. “Tell me how you got here.”
“Ragnar, the cartel second in command, paranoid to the bone that guy, he doubled security last week. One of them caught me on my rounds for suspicious behaviour or some crap last night. These assholes,” he tilts his head towards the bars on the cell, towards the officer, “showed up just in time, I might have shown, er,” he waves his hands about, turning his head, “too much resistance. That was the bad call. Maybe.” he shrugs, “And they took me in. Without reading me my rights and all.” he scoffs like a child .
Carlos nods, “Did any officer end up with a broken bone? Nose? Any blood?”
“ Non , I was gentle,” he winks . Ugh.
Carlos nods, “They don’t have anything on you then. You should be able to walk out.” he states.
“I should , you’re right. That's what I need you for.” and he’s back.
Carlos stands up straight, buttoning his blazer and pushing his glasses in place. He grabs his suitcase when he looks back at Charles’s handsome punchable face. “What are you going to do about the mole?”
“Get the message out to Seb. There's not much I can do without any intel.”
Carlos frowns. “I doubt that’s going to work.”
Charles tilts his head in a challenge. “Are you trying to do my job for me, Carlos?” he purrs.
Carlos clenches his teeth. Caahlos . Charles Leclerc is an absolute asshole but he says Carlos’s name like a gasp of desperation and Carlos sometimes cannot. Breathe . Still an asshole. “If there is a mole, your team can’t reach you.” Carlos has to physically restrain himself from sighing because he knows what that means.
Charles gasps dramatically, also catching up, “Does that mean I’m going to be seeing more of you then?”
“Mostly. Unfortunately.”
“Awh, c’mon, chéri . I’m not too bad to look at.”
He wasn’t but. Self-obsessed prick trumps devilishly handsome. Carlos opens his briefcase on the table and takes out the agency-issued burner phone he had inside, holding it out to Charles.
“I will let you know the details of our rendezvous. You know the rules.”
Charles grins again, his dimples like perfect crescents on his stupid face. “If I knew I could get your number like this, I would’ve gotten myself arrested ages ago.”
Carlos can only roll his eyes and close his briefcase before turning around and addressing the officer on the other side of the closed cell. “Open, please.” He straightens his blazer, tilting his head towards Charles behind him, still sitting. “My client has been here for, I’m assuming five hours now?” The officer opens the door, pushing it open as he starts to speak. He doesn’t get to, Carlos is quick.
“That is five hours too many. Without probable cause or evidence, I’d suggest you don’t keep him in custody for any longer or I will not hesitate to take the necessary legal action.” Charles whistles behind him. Carlos ignores it, “You don’t want that.”
Charles is finally standing and Carlos can see him for all his glory then. He does, well. He looks good. Still an asshole but a hot asshole. He’s wearing a tattered black t-shirt and jeans with a horrible pattern on them, Carlos wants to assume it's for his cover but he would be wrong. Charles holds his cuffed hands up to the officer, a cheeky smile on his face, threatening almost, not like when he spoke to Carlos. (He doesn’t know if he should be honoured or concerned.)
The officer stares at him for a second before Carlos clears his throat. “You’d better hurry.”
The cuffs are off and Charles massages his wrists as they walk down the disgusting hallway again. They don’t speak until they’re outside and Carlos can finally breathe and not get flashbacks of high school.
“Well,” Charles leans on the balls of his feet, hands in his pockets. “I suppose you are my saviour then? Prince charming, no?” he turns to Carlos and he looks good . Very good. The five o’clock evening pink on his face looks good . (Fuck him.)
“Just doing my job. As should you.”
Charles chuckles at that, fully facing Carlos. “Always so serious, Carlos,” ( Caahlos ). He leans in then, faces too close for Carlos’s liking so he takes his head back, chin jutting out. Charles smiles his stupid smile and his hand comes up and Carlos is wary if not scared. Charles’s hand is in the middle of his face, his finger to be precise Carlos can’t see it but he feels it on his nose, and.
Hm. Charles is pushing Carlos’s old framed glasses up his nose.
Carlos blinks. Confused. Charles smiles so big (dimples, god ) that his eyes are closed when he straightens his back. “A bientôt, chéri!”
Carlos is still standing there, briefcase clutched in the loose grip of his damp hand, watching as Charles walks farther away from him, hands in the pockets of his silly pants. Carlos is almost there, back to the present after Charles had thrown him off with his stupid stupid self, when he turns around again, still walking. He brings his hand in a gesture to his ear and mouths an exaggerated ‘call me’.
Carlos blinks again. Turning around finally. Stupid Charles Leclerc getting in trouble. Stupid Charles Leclerc who Carlos was going to have to help otherwise he may well end up in a ditch. Stupid Charles Leclerc and his stupid brown hair and dimples (Carlos doesn’t care about them. At all. Definitely not an unhealthy amount.) Stupid Charles Leclerc.
What an asshole.