His eyes flew open.
Damn.
He had trained himself for years to wake up at exactly 5:17 AM, so as to allow the exact amount of time necessary for his morning routine and get him out the door by a quarter to six. Twenty-eight minutes. His eyelids were his own personal alarm clock, twitching apart at just the right moment.
The rest of his body, however, still wanted to sleep. Not wanting his eyes to drift back to the closed position, he blinked a few times and shifted his gaze—WHAT? Within a moment, he was on his feet, fists raised and knees bent. Where was he?
Oh. Right. He straightened, feeling a bit embarrassed. He had forgotten about the new job. With his eyes scoping the unfamiliar room, he scowled. He would have to slightly alter his morning routine, as there didn't seem to be a bathroom adjoining his sleeping quarters. Sighing, he grabbed his toiletry kit and put his hand on the doorknob. Ever so slowly, he turned and pulled, being sure not to make a sound. There was a bathroom just a few doors down, and the hallway was totally devoid of people. Excellent. He dashed in silently and began his morning ablutions, meticulously brushing his teeth, shaving, and scrubbing his face. When he was done, he examined himself in the mirror and poked critically at his hair. Being irresistibly sexy, by his estimation, was part of the job. He was about to head back when he noticed footsteps approaching. Oh, he definitely hadn't made time in his morning for this.
When the tall stranger opened the bathroom door and walked in, the room must have seemed empty. He didn't look up at the man on the ceiling, gripping a water pipe with his hands and bracing himself against the wall. The hiding man watched the stranger scratch the back of his head, yawn, and walk straight past the mirrors without so much as glancing at one. Unbelievable. The stranger's height was making him uncomfortable, but he knew his fears of the other man's head bumping his stomach were totally unfounded. Hopefully, he would see the man enter a stall and then he would be able to swiftly and quietly make his exit and complete his preparations in his room.
Having formed his plan, he concentrated on watching the conspicuously shirtless stranger, noting muscular, scarred shoulders and a lean torso. He bit his lip, forcing himself to concentrate on escape. He had long embraced his bisexuality, especially since his job sometimes required seducing the enemies of both genders, but now was not the time to admire this—this—this probably dangerous man, probably trained to kill, possibly trained in deception, as he was…Maybe they'd have something in common, he mused. He was so busy concentrating on not concentrating on the stranger that he didn't realize what would happen when he watched the man stretch, bringing his lean, muscled arms forward, clasping them together, and raising them up—
"Merde!" He swore as the hands connected with his stomach, causing his knees to buckle and dropping his body from the ceiling. His hands lost their grip on the water pipe, and he fell right on top of the stranger, who was letting out some curses of his own. The dark glasses that the lanky, bare-chested man had been wearing flew off at the impact, and revealed deep brown eyes that the fallen Frenchman's met with his blue ones for a moment before he hastily covered the stranger's face with his hands.
"What the bloody 'ell?" The man underneath him thrashed and grabbed his arms, and he was forced to slide off of him and out of sight. As the stranger stood up, he came up from behind and covered those chocolate eyes again with one hand, wrapping the other arm around that bare torso so that, he reasoned, the tall man wouldn't struggle free again. That didn't stop him, though, from struggling, and the Frenchman took a moment to appreciate the bare back hitting against him and the warm chest straining against his grip before he hissed into his ear, "Stop writhing around like an imbecile, monsieur, and listen to me."
"The hell are you, some kinda bathroom rapist?" The stranger snarled in response, remaining tense but struggling less.
"Quoi—non! Of course not! I would have no need for such tactics," he retorted, offended. "My face, however, is not for your eyes. I will walk you to a stall, you will enter without looking at me, and then I will take my leave. Can your half-wit brain understand all that?"
"Under—? No, so sorry mate, I don't understand. Your face ain't for my eyes? What, yer ugly mug gonna turn me to stone?"
There was indignation in that voice, but did he sound…amused? "Very funny, but I assure you that I am quite lovely. My line of work simply insists that my face be kept a secret, you see. It would be quite a travesty, would it not, to be fired on one's first day because some ridiculous half-clothed man couldn't keep his mouth shut?" Though, if he was honest, he did want to comb his hair and put on cologne still, and change from his silk pajamas into his new uniform, which he had had fitted as soon as they'd mailed it to him. But he was rarely honest.
"Hot damn, you're pretentious sounding." Definitely amused. Was that a chuckle he heard? He felt it, a slight quiver of the stomach, a shake of the ribs, the skin shifting under his fingers—"Who the 'ell are you, wanker?"
"Renaud—Ah, that is to say, a—a Spy. I am a Spy." He coughed; he wasn't used to following all the notes in that damn long memo about code of conduct while on the job. He had hoped to maintain a sneaky, subtle silence for the first few days, at least, while getting used to the new gig. No such luck. "And as a Spy, I must insist that you forget what you have seen of my face and let me be on my way."
And with that, he flung the stranger forward and dashed out the door to his room. As he ran, he heard the other man swear as he hit the bathroom wall, but was that? Yes, he was still chuckling. The Spy scowled, unhappy with himself that he had managed to break the rules so early, silently berating himself as he slipped into his shirt, giving his lower half a quick, reproachful glare as he zipped up his pants. Grabbing his belt, he glanced up at himself in the mirror. What did he care, he mused as he buckled it, grabbing his tie next, with more fervor. What did their silly codes and regulations mean to him, he fumed, looping and knotting, what did they mean to him, Renaud Corbet, teller of lies, keeper of secrets, he who slips through the cracks? Yes, what, he thought as he ran a comb across his head, to a man who possesses skill, strength, and sex appeal? What, he continued, tousling his dark hair so it was just so, to a man who could be any man he wanted? Who could kill a man, smoke a cigarette, and get laid all in the same room within the time of thirty minutes? (That had, indeed, happened once—poor girl never realized it was he that killed her drug lord bastard of a father. The old man had good taste in smokes, though.)
He pulled on his dark, pinstriped jacket, grabbed his gloves, and surveyed the full effect in the mirror. Mmm, yes. He deemed himself both edible and predatory, ready to seduce or threaten; he was ready for the job—almost. He sighed as he reached for the mask and winced as he pulled it over his perfect hair. This would almost certainly not look good on him…
Oh.
Never mind.
Dressed from head to toe in well-fitted, pinstriped black, he already looked dapperly dangerous, and the mask perfected the look. A beautiful mystery, a man with something to hide, a creature of the shadows with just a few pinpricks—and pinstripes—of light peeking through. He stopped himself short and remembered the stranger's words: "Hot damn, you're pretentious sounding." Perhaps he was.
He struck one final roguish pose in the mirror and grinned widely.
"Hot damn."
