First Squad were the best. They got the difficult jobs, they worked less than everyone else, and they got respect. They deserved it.

Fifth were in their first year of official assignments, having had 6 months of intensive training they still had superiors looking over their shoulders waiting for them to screw up. In their second year they moved on to Fourth squad, third year moved up to Third squad, and so on. If you lived through four and a half years and made your way up to First squad, you were officially living on borrowed time and were born with more luck than you deserved.

Jack and Marc were the best they ever could be after three years, in Third. Jack put it down to experience. Marc – more familiar with cynicism – put it down to the fact that if you reached three and half years, you’d done better than you were expected to, and you started to think you must be pretty damn good at your work to still be alive. Third got the most work and had a good success rate because that made everyone more confident, but it also made them braver than they needed to be. People died that way.

But Jack and Marc weren’t run of the mill good; they were the best. If that hadn’t been let slip in a reluctant congratulations from one of the higher-ups, they would have been able to figure it out by the level of assignments they were getting now. They got things done. They were quick, they worked well as a team, they were creative, they didn’t ask questions, and neither took much of their leave. They were what the FCS wanted.

“You know the Firsts look at us funny?” Marc’s question was a leading one, a way of introducing the topic, but Jack looked up from his magazine quizzically.

“Like what?”

“You haven’t noticed?”

“I just sorta…” Jack waved his hand vaguely. “Wander through life. That’s what my guidance counsellor told me when I was 14. I don’t notice things like that.”

“Like they feel bad for us.” Marc was taking apart the second in a line of guns, cleaning each bit individually and checking it before he threw it all back into place and it clicked. He liked that sound, the crunch of metal as it fitted back together. “Like we’re walking towards the edge of a cliff but it’s too late for them to say anything. Does that worry you?” Jack was looking at him, his magazine discarded on his lap.

“Well it does now.”

“How many jobs have we got lined up?”

“Five…”

“Yeah.” Marc tested the trigger and slotted the cartridge in, flicking on the safety. “Maybe we should take a break.”

Jack threw the magazine onto his bed and stood up, walked over to the window. Their quarters were pretty nice in his opinion. It was still one room with two beds, but there was more than enough space, and it was on the corner of the building so the two windows looked out over the city. There was a 42 inch plasma and a sofa, an en suite bathroom with a power shower. It was still small for them to have to live in when they weren’t working, but they could have done worse. Marc had never suggested taking a day off before, let alone a week, or however long he implied by ‘a break’.

“… together?” Marc snorted and smiled to himself.

“No Jack. I’m not going on a weekend getaway to a romantic hotel in the country with you.”

“Very fucking funny. I’m serious. What am I going to do? I haven’t been home in 3 years – my mom wouldn’t know what to do with me and one of my sisters is a pacifist now.”

“Seriously? That’s pretty fucking ungrateful for someone getting their college fees paid by you.” Jack shrugged without interest. He got letters from his family – his sisters as well as his mother. They always kept him up to date on their lives, and he usually passed the information on to Marc whether he wanted to hear it or not. He’d started at the FCS to earn money to supplement his mothers income, among other reasons, but now she’d been promoted and was earning a bit more, she’d only accept half of the cash though Jack had a feeling she was still only just making ends meet with it.

“She’s flaky. Dyed her hair green last summer. Anyway, what are you going to do?” Marc’s hands slowed and he finally looked up.

“Visit Nicci I guess.”

“You guys always fight. You’re on the phone for 5 minutes and you fight – how’s that a break?” Marc shrugged.

“That’s what you do with family. You travel half way across the universe to see them, then you argue about everything you hate about each others lives.” To that, Jack grinned and shook his head.

“The two of you are a pretty fucked up family.” He sighed and leant against the window frame and looked down at the crossroads below. It was gridlocked. “I don’t… really want time off. But if you do, I’ll ask for the same so they don’t pair me up with someone else while you’re gone.” Marc shook his head. If Jack got assigned to someone else, he’d probably finish his leave a week or so later and find him stretched out down in the morgue. It was a bad idea to split up partners and stick them with someone else when they’d been working together for so long – they expected their partner to behave a certain way and when reality didn’t match up, that was how people got killed.

“S’alright. I got takeaway.” He just changed the subject, and predictably Jack’s eyes lit up. That was the way he’d planned it – if Jack agreed it’d be like a celebratory meal, if he didn’t it would be the best way to take his mind off the subject and avoid further questions.

“What did you get? Pizza? Chinese? It’s Chinese, isn’t it? Marc you’re fucking perfect.”

“I know.” He grinned and stood up, chucking the gun he’d just put back together back onto the table. “It’ll be here in 10 minutes.” He was standing in front of Jack and he put his arm up to lean on the window frame, his other hand in his camouflage pants pocket. There were only 2 inches at most between them, but Marc was pretty good at using those inches to his advantage and Jack found his back against the wall without thinking about it. He was grinning though, his blood heating up.

“I hear you can get a lot done in 10 minutes.” Marc tilted his head as if he was considering.

“I reckon only once though.” He suggested.

“You’re probably right.” Jack conceded, faking sincerity.

“Fight you for it.”

Jack didn’t usually suggest deciding things this way, because he’d learnt fairly quickly that when there was a real incentive, Marc always won. He had won right from the beginning when they sparred, but after that time he’d toned it down a little so it was more competitive. And when he was bent over the table, his hand on his dick while Marc fucked him, his hands on Jack’s hips, he realised that he could probably persuade Marc that there were other ways of settling things, if he didn’t actually quite like the way things turned out. Marc didn’t suggest taking leave again though, he didn’t bring it up.

He was smoking on the window, sitting with one leg out against the brickwork and the other bent up against the opposite frame, warm summer city air coming into the room, when Jack chose to ask.

“Why don’t you ever kiss me?” He was half expecting a joke, it was too easy a question to laugh at. The smoke flowed a little unevenly as Marc breathed out, and Jack guessed from his profile that he was probably smirking. “I mean, you never have. Not my lips.”

“Gay.”

“What?”

“That’s the gayest thing you’ve ever said to me.”

“You fucked me in the ass last night and this is gay?” Jack exclaimed, and Marc laughed, still not turning away from the city outside.

“Yes Jack.”

“Come on, man.” He sat back, putting his feet up on the table. He was watching TV with the sound down low, not really having paid attention to any of the movie before now. “Answer the question.” Marc took another drag from the cigarette and let the smoke blow out into the night.

“It’s kind of weird.”

“Weird?”

“Well, sex is sex. Kissing is… it means something.” Jack frowned. He had a feeling he’d just learnt something very important about Marc’s psyche, but he couldn’t really make sense of it. “Besides, if neither of us had shaved we’d feel stubble, and do we use tongues? Would we kiss each other if there wasn’t sex involved? That whole area’s a minefield.”

“You’re so fucked up.” Jack said after a moment, shaking his head. “Next time we fuck I’m gonna kiss you.”

“Try it and I’ll sucker punch you.” Marc said casually.

Maybe because he’d been so casual, Jack did try to kiss him after the next time they had sex – which was in the shower because he’d felt horny and deliberately started undressing while Marc was brushing his teeth – and Marc proved that he didn’t take his promises lightly and gave him a black eye.

“Mother fucker!” Jack shouted, holding his hand to his eye.

“I warned you.”

“You punched me in the eye!” Marc shrugged and reached for a towel, wrapping it around his waist.

“I’ll get you some ice.”

Jack did get his ice, but he sulked consistently while nursing his eye until he woke up the next morning, when he’d still got the subject in mind but didn’t seem to remember being angry about it.

He had a plan.

It was true that he and Marc had a system, and roles within their working partnership that were better not changed, but that didn’t mean he couldn’t be manipulative and lie even though that was Marc’s job.

His plan came into fruition when they were working a job in Sangre Ciel, and Jack was meant to book them a hotel room for one of the nights. That was a big part of his job – booking things and getting the information, while Marc usually took care of improvising and lying to people. He’d never thought of lying as an art form until he saw the blonde at work. Marc had dropped their overnight bags in the room and come back down to the lobby to wait for Jack to finish checking in with fake names when he asked why he’d booked two rooms.

“I didn’t. I haven’t paid for 2. Have we got 2?”

Marc gave him an odd look, noting the slightly rushed pace of his sentences.

“Well. That room’s a double. I assumed you’d got another.”

“No…” Jack frowned and turned away, going back to the desk to have a conversation with the receptionist about giving them a double when he asked for a twin room. He felt a little bad about that seeing that he’d never asked for anything other than a double when he called, but he hadn’t counted on the receptionist being the same one he’d booked with, or that she’d remember his voice. He shrugged as he walked back to Marc, pushing his hands into his pockets. “She doesn’t have any other rooms. Says it’s Independence Day weekend.”

“I know what day it is, Jack.”

“Everywhere’s booked up.” Jack shrugged again. “What’re you gonna do?”Marc’s eyes narrowed suspiciously. He’d known Jack for over 3 years. He knew when he was lying – he just couldn’t work out what in particular Jack was trying to cover up, or where it was leading.

“There isn’t even a couch.”

Jack waited until they were up in the room and standing in the doorway, looking at the double bed, before he said it.

“We’ve done worse.”

“What’s that mean?” Marc asked as casually as he could.

“Well…” Jack shrugged again – the sort of shrug that the blonde was well accustomed to as a warning sign. “We… y’know, fuck, every now and then, so… this really can’t be pushing too close at the boundaries of personal space.”

“Maybe I like sleeping alone.”

“May be.” Jack said cryptically, and headed off to the shower.

Because it was such a long job – the kind which blots out trivial subjects of conversation because there’s too much blood on your hands and nothing’s really gone right since you started and more people got hurt than should have done even if the job got finished – it didn’t even become an issue until the evening of the next day. They’d climbed into the shower together without any exchange of pleasantries, the same atmosphere as in a sports changing room as they washed blood and dirt and dust from themselves as hastily as they could, basking in the spray of hot water as it soothed their muscles. Eventually they fucked, too tired to call up their usual enthusiasm and instead settling into a steady rhythm and pulsing climax that pulled some of the strain from their muscles.

It was a kind of routine when a job went that bad, when they needed to relax and occupy their minds with something else other than gunshots and mistakes and death, when Marc needed to feel in control again, when Jack needed to share something with the only person who he could remember having been there for him so consistently for so long.

Jack sighed softly as Marc came in him, not sure why he felt relief. He’d never thought of himself as a ‘bottom’ – overlooking for the moment that he’d never thought he’d be in this sort of situation at all – but he couldn’t argue that he was less of a ‘bottom’ than Marc. They swapped over occasionally, but more often than not Marc inevitably got to be on top because he was stronger, more stubborn and he didn’t take particularly well to the feeling of subservience. But in the shower, feeling a warm body against his, that was what made Jack feel relaxed and safe. He stood, stretching the muscles of his back as he and Marc leant heavily against the shower tiles, their heart rates slowing.

“That was fucking horrific.” Marc murmured at length. Jack considered making a joke about taking offense, but he knew his partner was talking about the job and they’d been through too much to make light of it. He sighed again and looked down at the water running around their feet.

“One of us is still bleeding.” He said, noticing the tinge to the water colour.

“Both.”

“Didn’t see you get hit.”

“You were being shot at.”

Jack nodded. In some ways he felt bad for making a fuss when he got hurt, as Marc seemed to keep it to himself quite successfully, but he knew that was a ridiculous thing to worry about.

“C’mon. I’ll patch you up.” Marc offered, stepping out of the shower and reaching for a towel to wrap around his waist. “Order something vaguely food-related from room service while I get the first-aid pack.” They called it ‘the first-aid pack’ for a better way to imply a small bag of painkillers, antibiotics, skin reparation formulas and other drugs. It had never held a band-aid, but it had plenty of gauze and bandages, and some sterilized knives and tweezers they’d only ever used to remove bullets from muscles.

“Room service’ll ask questions.”

“Bout what?” Marc murmured, trying to find the anti-septic.

“Us. Standing here in towels in a room scattered in guns and blood soaked clothes.” Jack dialled room-service and held up the receiver, waiting for an answer from the blonde.

“Get them to leave it outside. And I don’t want fucking ‘garnishes’ on the food, okay?”

“Yeah.”

“No garnishes.”

“Okay, okay.” Jack smiled for the first time in 32 hours and the receptionist answered.