“There,” he says, tilting his head at the coffee. “Drink that and simmer down before you hurt yourself.”
I look from my cup to his still sitting on the kitchen island next to his bowl of cereal. “You don’t like coffee.” It sounds like an accusation coming out of my mouth and that’s because itis. Aaron complained more than once about my desperate need for coffee in the brief time we worked together, stating his utter distaste, which is why I figured he was drinking tea this morning.
Aaron props his hip up against the counter and rolls his shoulders in a small shrug. “But you do.” As if it’s that simple. I don’t want to deal with the implication that he bought coffee, which he hates, specifically for me.
I take a sip from the mug and blanch inwardly when I realise it’s my preferred blend, which is expensive and not somethingyou’d choose by accident. Either I must have mentioned it off hand at some point or Aaron has that information written down somewhere in a file from when he was gathering intel about me before I was hired by FISA.
Clutching the mug like it’s my only chance of survival, I flick a narrowed eyed look up at Aaron, who’s watching me again with that façade of nonchalance. I want to tell him it comes off fake as hell, but that’s not even true.
“North,” I say, less antagonistic this time, “why’d you bring me here?” To hishome. He probably pays a mortgage and council tax for this place, what the fuck?
Aaron loosely crosses his arms, a classic defensive posture whether he wants to admit to feeling uncomfortable or not. “I know how much you hate being in medical.”
It’s not an answer, not really, but it’s the best I’m probably going to get out of him, especially after all the mouthing off I did before.
“Whereishere?” I ask, darting a glance around like coordinates will magically appear from behind the fridge.
“Rohan,” Aaron says, broad shoulders relaxing slightly now we’re back on less testy ground. “Do you expect me to believe you don’t know exactly where I live?”
Aaron North, bizarre individual that he is, lives in a place called Colbie. It’s a tiny seaside town not too far outside Danger City. I followed him back here once when I was tailing him around for a week. But it would ruin the game if I admitted that to him.
I stare back at him, guileless, and he snorts but doesn’t push it.
“Does Snow know I’m here?” I ask, already pretty certain of the answer.
Aaron confirms it with a sharp nod. “I told her on the way, and she cleared it. You’re expected to report back with me once you’ve healed up.”
Told her on the way. Interesting. Better to ask for forgiveness than permission, I guess. But.
“Hold on, you were there?” I say, frowning at him. “At the docks, I mean.”
Aaron tilts his chin up like he’s bracing for impact, too stubborn to back down even when he knows he should. “We were on high alert after you turned off your comm unit, and when you didn’t check in when you were supposed to, we came to find you.”
“But why were you there at all?” I push. I push because I don’t understand and if there’s one thing I hate, it’s not understanding shit, especially when it feels like I should. “You’re not my handler anymore.” I know I’m stating the obvious, but it feels important to point that out.
“After what happened during your last mission,” Aaron says, anger sparking in his eyes like a lit fuse chucked onto a line of gun powder. “I was concerned about letting you go off with another temporary handler. I was afraid of how you’d react with another person you don’t trust in your ear.” He gives me a pointed look. “And I was right to worry, apparently.”
I bristle at that, despite the fact he’s right. “So what? You shadowed my temp handler because you thought I’d do something stupid?”
Aaron’s expression softens, becomes less confrontational. “I know trust is difficult for you, kid, and I can’t blame you for losing faith in us after you almost got killed in Siberia.” He sounds so reasonable about it, so genuinely understanding, that I momentarily consider the prospect of chucking my scalding hot coffee in his face. Really, it’s only my craving for the drink itself that holds me back.
I have no idea how to feel about any of this shit. What Aaron did, and the reason why he did it? It’s too much to process right here, right now.
It’s just. The man put me in his house and in his bed and in his clothes. He broke his own rules, not once or twice, but three times, for me. He came after me when I needed help and saved my life when he has no reason to care about me anymore after he stopped being my handler.
I know what it feels like to be owned, the ice-cold bite of metal clamped around your throat and wrists, invisible manacles and chains trapping your soul in a chokehold. This, what he’s doing, has been doing with me almost the whole time, is the same thing in so many ways, but it doesn’t feel the same at all. It feels dangerously close to something good. To being coveted, protected, rather than possessed.
“You ever gonna get off that kid shit?” I take another drunk from my cup and stare him down over the rim.
Aaron doesn’t flinch, taking that uppercut to the jaw like an experienced prize fighter. He doesn’t even have the decency to look thrown off by the non-sequitur.
“Why?” he asks, dropping his arms and turning to brace his large hands on the countertop, fingers splayed out, taking up more space than they need to across the wooden surface. His shoulders are slightly hunched due to how he’s standing, but there’s no tension in them. He’s watching me speculatively. “Does me calling youkidbother you?”
“Would you stop if it did?”
Aaron doesn’t hesitate. “Yes.”
“Thought you’d be the one who’d find it weird. After we…” I shrug, pulling a face at myself for not being able to just say the words. “You know.”
