I Spell M-A-N

The cold air felt good on his face. His blood hadn't stopped pumping in days and the crisp chill of fall made him breathe just a little easier. Archy stood at the door. He should knock. This needs to get done. Yet his hand wouldn't raise. He stood and let the oncoming winter soothe him for just another moment. He never liked the cold before. It made him ache in places he usually forgot about, and that only increased with age. Sixty five he was now. A long life, at least in his line of work. Most certainly a full one.

“Get on with it.”

Archy forcefully rapped on the door. He was never known for being impatient, but right then he couldn't fathom why it took an eternity of twenty-six seconds for the old fuck to answer. It wasn't as though the man he was waiting for ever aged properly anyway, he has no excuse to move so slowly. However, even eternity had to end, and Harry Hart had to answer. The door opened wide, which surprised Archy. He was expecting fifty different kinds of locks and then the door to open only a sliver.

But then again, who was he kidding? Harry had nothing to be afraid of.

“I can only guess Rosalind decided to forget my very reasonable request of keeping my home address private.” Harry both looked and sounded as dry as always. Even standing there in a God damn eye patch, like some kind of cartoon villain or Bond villain or... well just some idiot in an eyepatch.

“I'm a very convincing man when I want to be,” Archy replied. He could normally match Harry's stoicism with his own, but today he just missed the mark. Wrongness tinged his voice and settled in the lines of his face. “Only took me, what, fifteen years to get it out of her? You should thank her for resisting my charms for so long.” Wrapped in the glib comments was a real request. 'Don't blame her for what's about to happen.' “Gonna let me in or what, Harry, haven't got the time to dick around.”

The spy raised a brow. Archy knew better than to leave himself so open for comment. However, Harry didn't take the easy bait. This wasn't a day for jokes. “I don't see any reason I should, Archy.”

“Consider it a dead man's final request.”

Every word was lead leaving Archy's mouth. The weight fell between them. Harry stared rather impassively, which was infuriating, but he stepped aside and the light of his home rushed out to invite Archy inside. Before Harry could change his mind, Archy stepped in. He followed the hallway, eyes roaming over the decoration. It was much more... kitsch than he expected. The living room was much the same, both maudlin and ridiculous. It was like a coroner and a granny shared the space. “Homey,” Archy said wryly.

“I've seen what you call art, you don't get a say,” Harry replied blithely. “I'd offer you a drink, but I'd say you're a couple whiskeys in already, judging from the smell.”

“You think I'm drunk.”

“Your actions say yes, but your demeanor says no.”

Archy smirked. At least, he tried to. It came out much more grim than any expression of mirth ever should. It faded away quickly. He looked Harry in his eye. The two of them had been through a lot together. For the pair of them, their work meant nearly everything in their world. They actively opposed one another every day, while helping the other in large and small ways. They both saved and try to kill one another countless times. Harry paved the way for Archy to be with the love of his life. The two of them shared a complicated relationship. And it all came down to this. “You know what's about to happen to me.”

Harry met his gaze. “I know a lot of things. You'll have to be--”

“You. Know.”

That wrongness, the acid bubbling under Archy's skin, showed so much more with just those two words.

Harry nodded. “I know.”

Archy took a breath. The decision was made. He made it when he realized a sentence would be coming down on his head. Then why was it so hard to get the words out now? The chances were always good that it would come down to this. And really, what was the alternative? “Get me out of it.” It could be a request or a demand, but it sounded like neither. Archy wasn't sure what he sounded like anymore. Maybe this is what desperation looked like on him. He had forgotten. He had it so good for a while.

Harry's frown grew slightly, only slightly, but enough for the disappointment to come through loud and clear. Even as his voice gave nothing away, Archy could read it all over him. “You know I'm not going to do that,” Harry said. “You played the game, Archy, and you lost. It was a matter of time.”

Archy's eyes fell shut. It might have been read as his own disappointment showing, but he knew that was going to be the answer. He grinned and it twisted, a broken thing. “Well, never hurts to ask, does it?” He couldn't back out now. He couldn't. Archy reached around and pulled his gun from his waistband. He leveled the Browning between Harry's eyes. “But now I'm done asking. Get me out.” Every last molecule tightened in his body. Archy was as still as stone, and serious as a heart attack. Harry had been using Archy's own language when he called what they did a game. Archy wasn't a man for winding metaphors and to him, that had always been the easiest way to describe what it is they did. Right now, his message couldn't be any more clear. Archy wasn't playing anymore.

He had to wonder if Harry was genuinely thrown by the levels he was going to right now, or if the agent simply wasn't bothered by the gun pointed at him. There was a time when Archy would have barely gotten his hand around the grip before Harry would've broken his arm in three places. Maybe he just missed the thrill of the field. Who could tell with Harry Hart? Either way, Archy had his advantage. Harry remained nonplussed when he said, “What did you think was going to happen, Archy? I've been unfortunate witness to a few of your plans and this is by far the most idiotic one. Shoot me if you must. You're going back to prison. Kill me now and you're just promising yourself a longer sentence.”

He just stood there. Harry just stood there, with his infinite supply of haughtiness and power, and Archy could only think of two more times in his life where he had been more tempted to pull a trigger. He represented every power that was about to put Archy away, maybe for life (even not factoring in if he did kill Harry). Yet he didn't. In all honesty, Archy didn't expect to make it to this point. For a man who cherished planning, now he flew by the seat of his pants. He stared at Harry, taking his time. He never looked more lost in front of an enemy, or maybe in front of anyone at all. “I can't go back.” He sounded small, and he hated it. A spark of anger went off in his belly, then Archy seized it. He thought of every damned moment in his life, everything that led him here. He thought of every childhood beating from coppers and his fellow boys alike. He thought of his country, a place that failed him miserably while giving him the trappings he needed to thrive. He thought of Lenny and the example he gave, and how he would rather die than become a sell out to avoid prison. He thought of Johnny, that angry little kid who became a savvy and cutthroat man, who had lost enough but was about to lose another. He would at least have an empire to soothe his sorrows. Archy felt at peace of the idea of Johnny taking his mantle. He just wished he had more time. There were so many things to make up with that boy, to teach him.

And then there was Ros.

Brilliant Rosalind, beautiful Rosalind, his Rosalind. He thought that kind of love was just something that would pass him by until she came along. She wasn't cold like the world thought she was, like even she herself thought. He knew that she would have trouble with this. He could only hope she'd forgive him.

Archy cocked the gun.

The lightning Archy had been waiting for struck. He hadn't even been able to pull the hammer back fully before Harry came for him. The supposedly retired agent moved a little slower, but he still had a skillset. He grabbed Archy's gun and wrenched it from his hand, throwing it across the room. Before Archy could react, Harry balled his fist and jabbed him in the throat. Archy doubled over, coughing violently. Even at this low, Archy would go down swinging. While bent over, Archy took to opportunity to punch Harry between the legs. The sound that escaped Harry made him grin viciously. They grabbed for one another at the same time. Archy groped Harry's person and lucked out, immediately finding his gun. Harry, meanwhile, took Archy by the waistband and kneed him in the stomach not once, but twice. Archy knew how to take a few licks, but he was closer to the grave than he was his prime. The only thing that kept him hitting the floor was holding on to his enemy. With all his force, he wrenched his head up and clocked Harry in the chin with it. He heard the man's teeth rattle. It hurt him too, but he had to keep going. Just a little further. Archy then made himself rise. Gun still in hand, he pointed it under Harry's chin.

Harry clapped his hands around both of Archy's ears. While it didn't hurt, it did disorient the hell out of him. Hurting was for the next bit. Harry punched him in the solar plexus, then swung his leg around to trip Archy. He fell hard on his back, again coughing like mad. He wasn't sure where the gun went, but it left his hand somewhere in the fray. Harry met him on the floor, straddling him. Archy could practically hear the blood coursing through the other man. One more time, Harry put his hands on Archy's face. This time, one violently grabbed the side of his head while the other went for the back of the neck.

Archy was about to get his neck snapped. It went against every principle in his body, but he closed his eyes and resisted the urge to fight him off.

Harry had always insisted he was like every other man. He just had extra training. But Archy knew better. He was something else, something just a little bit beyond. In his heart, he knew it was why he had always been just a little bit drawn to Harry Hart. He could do things men like Archy could only dream of. If the roles had been reversed, this would have been over. Archy would have killed the man and slept like a baby that night. However, Harry had something Archy did not. Archy didn't know how he could possibly ignore the adrenaline, but Harry did. Harry must have felt something, or seen something, but he stopped himself from going all the way. He took in Archy. Archy was defeated. Archy was old. Archy was done.

Harry let go with a jolt. Archy could not only feel the disgust, he swore he could taste it. He watched Harry sit upright, still on top of him. Such a compromising position once upon a time, but the two of them were beyond embarrassments. Archy took in the scene of Harry coming to terms with this moment. Disbelief lasted for only the briefest of seconds.

“You fucking bastard.”

Archy, beneath his anger and disappointment and crushing hopelessness, felt a bit of shock. Never, not once in their strange partnership, for all the trouble Archy caused, had he heard Harry so enraged. That rage seared when Harry continued.

“You coward.”

Truly an awful thing to be called, a coward. It wasn't something Archy heard since he was a boy. But there is something worse, much worse. Archy, on his back in enemy territory, powerless to his opponent, lay there and took it. He didn't argue. His temper didn't flare. His expression didn't even change. Resignation was truly an ugly look, but it was all Archy saw when he looked in a mirror in the days coming up to his final hearing. Ros, that wonderful woman, kept looking for ways to get out him out of the inevitable sentence. But Archy knew better than to hope. It was like Harry said. He lost.

And he'd rather die than go back.

Harry, usually the epitome of grace, clumsily made his way off of Archy. He moved back until he was against the wall. He stayed seated on the ground, the two of them panting in the corridor. Archy still couldn't say a word. Just when he thought he couldn't sink any lower, he somehow managed to feel shame. Archy thought it better this way. Wasn't really suicide if someone else killed you, was it? But now, Harry was almost shaking with anger. He was horrified at being provoked and being used, and Archy knew that all he did was try to make Harry his gun. Sick bubbled in his guts. This was never how it was supposed to be.

“Get up.” Harry was on his feet again. “Get out of my house.” Archy was shaky in his bones, his breath, his fucking soul, but he stood. He locked eyes with Harry, and Harry's held nothing but revulsion. Archy never gave a damn before. They saw eye to eye on almost nothing. Archy lived how he lived, and not once did he feel inclined to apologize for it, least of all to Harry Hart. In that moment, Archy would have if he thought it would've done anything to change Harry's knowing gaze. He fixed his jacket in some attempt to regain dignity. They held the stare for one more moment. Then, with no fanfare, Archy turned on his heel. He stalked away, not bothering to pick up his Browning. Didn't need it anymore, did he? As he walked out the door, Harry had one last thing to say.

“You better fucking apologize to her.”