nerds ahoy

“I said I’ve killed a man with less,” she quickly corrected. Although the truth was that at this point she’d killed enough people and had to get creative and desperate in certain circumstances, that she honestly couldn’t recall if tape had ever been involved. She pulled out a tab of tape and tore it off the role, placing the wire in position, before taping it down to the skin. “Sometimes all you need is bare hands and determination.” 

Mortimer’s eyes goes to the ceiling the minute that Lena starts applying tape, as if he can’t bear to watch.

Watching him unclothe is beyond uncomfortable. Not for her nesscarily, but watching the awkward act of him shedding layer after layer, she starts to realize that he is a different kind of spy from her entirely. The tools at her disposal were not something he would ever think to use. And it was likely he could say the same to her. Lena rolls her eyes, “I’ve killed men with less but I think I should be able to control myself this time.” 

Lena stamped her foot, her patience running thin. He was a grown man, a spy, pretending like this was some major inconvenience. “Either you can take off your shirt or I can take it off for you, darling.” 

“Perhaps not, darling.” Lena offered him a disapproving gaze, nearly a pout. She was not having his whole ‘strong indepedent feeble nerd’ shtick. She’d met men like him before, that fussed and fought at every given opportunity. But she didn’t endure a family of older brothers just to quit now. “Now take that cute little sweater of yours off.”

“The goal is for you to have a constructive conversation, not her,” said Lena. Pulling out a tab of tape from the roll. “The less she gets out of you the better. It also means the less you have to lie. And it seems you are getting the hang of it already, sweetheart. Luckily, I’m not here to go round and round right now.” 

@codename-fugue​

“Be polite, and answer their questions with questions.” 

The officiant hadn’t even gotten through Mortimer’s vows before Mortimer had blurted out, “I do,” much to the amusement of the crowd and the long-suffering sigh of the officiant. He’d forgotten his words. For the first time in his entire bloody life, he’d forgotten words and the order they came in.

In fairness, Levi looks incredible today. 

He’s sure it’s not the last time he’ll do something stupid today, but for now, they have a dance to do. The first dance of the newly married couple, a tradition Mortimer frankly doesn’t understand (oh god, everybody is watching) but had nonetheless had very strong opinions on the song that was to be played: a slow waltz that had been playing on a tinny speaker in a Paris cafe, the one Levi and Mortimer had wound up in for breakfast their first day there on their first mission. Before they really knew each other, but the precise time that Mortimer had looked at the man sitting across from him and wanted more.

And that man was now his husband.

“We’re married,” Mortimer says, stunned. He’s moving on pure auto-pilot, catching glimpses of familiar faces out of the corner of his eye, but all he can concentrate on is the new weight of the ring on his finger.

Married! To Levi Mercer! His name is now Mortimer Mercer!

“Married,” he repeats, insistent, a stupid, silly grin creeping over his expression. “Can you fucking believe it?”

Ever since that day in the Red Square, Lena had been hoping and planning for this eventuality. She never truly believed in a happy ending for herself. and especially at that time, five years ago, she didn’t believe she even deserved happiness. But she’d spent all the time between then and now hoping to keep the two of them safe so that maybe this day could come to fruition. And here it was. She’d made some mistakes along the way. Like trying to get Levi off the team to protect him from Vronsky or distancing herself so that they could never be accused of treason. Somehow, it all worked out. 

“Don’t taunt me,dear,” she teased, “The moment you mention you’re trying to keep me out is the moment I get the urge to take a hammer and batter you with it until your chest spills out all it’s secrets. Maybe even what’s truly in your heart. Metaphorically speaking, of course. 

At his words her hands and smile fell. After a moment of looking up into the watery blue eyes that had so often dodged her gaze she sighed and smiled. Reaching up to tuck a stray hair into place, she spoke softly, “I never for a moment questioned otherwise. I love you too, Mortimer. And you were right to be angry just as I was right to be paranoid. Sometimes it can be hard to be right, wrong, and upset all at the same time. But we got through. Just as we’ll get through all things.” 

Mortimer, as is his wont, immediately wants to argue. Because dear god, she really shouldn’t forgive him so easily and without question -- not just for his behavior on that mission, but for his choices.

But one of the first things his father had very dryly said to him this morning was: do try not to argue with everyone today, Mortimer, it’s supposed to be a happy day. Apparently his parents knew him better than he thought, which is... vexing. So he takes the urge to argue, and shoves it away. For now, at least.

“You might be right. We did, after all, survive twice despite impossible odds,” he agrees wryly. “Let’s ensure there’s not a third time, yes? I honestly don’t think my constitution could take it.” The first time had been hard enough. The second time? After he’d solidified his connections to them? Monumentally worse.

Lena took the bowtie over the the station she’d set up. Equipped with an iron, ironing board, sewing machine, and full repair and first aid kits, she was prepared for any hitch in the plan. As best man she took it as her mission to ensure that this wedding continued according to plan. 

“Because this is an important moment, dear,” she told him, smoothing out the creases in the bow tie, “If you didn’t invite them it would be because you didn’t care about them being here. And you do care, you care more than you want to admit, and that’s why you’re getting so antsy.  But remember, going forward from today you’re making a new life and you get to choose who is in it. So if they do something tonight that makes you upset it’s not unreasonable to consider cutting ties. Everyone knows to be on their best behavior for a wedding.” 

Mortimer doesn’t bother to quash an amused little smirk when he takes in the sight of Lena’s station -- god, she really is prepared for anything. He knew it had been the right choice to make her best man. Who’s more capable than Lena? Nobody, that’s who.

“Yes, alright, thank you, we don’t need to be exposing all of my inner emotions to the world this early in the morning,” he sighs, even if she’s right. He just wants to say I do to Levi and then fuck off to their honeymoon, but he’ll admit: there’s something deeply satisfying about today. About seeing all the people he cares about in one place, looking healthy and happy. 

As Lena carefully makes sure his bow tie perfect, he watches her work, and he needs to say it:

“I’m sorry. For how I treated you.” He’s had months to think about it, now, to reflect back on how he’d acted. To think about all the times Lena had saved his ungrateful ass. “I was-- you disappeared because you were worried about the safety of you and your family, and I should have acknowledged that. I should have respected that. I was too caught up in my own hurt to see what it must have like for you, after our first mission.” He wrings his hands, and even though his affection is real and genuine, he still has to force himself to say it, like blood from a stone: “I love you. You ought to know that.”

Levi breathes slowly. Memories trickle in. A colosseum. A spear. Bobby. 

“How—” he starts. His voice fails him and he clears his throat. He doesn’t even know where to start. It’s not like there’s anyone to debrief him, in the traditional sense. “I never would have thought…” he says, shaking his head. It’s difficult to form a complete thought, he realizes. It’s probably just the painkillers…

He brings his hand up and gently runs his fingers down Mort’s jaw, the uncustomary scruff scratching his fingers. There are a lot of things to say. He doesn’t know where to start.

“I’m out for a month and you decide to try out a new look?” he asks after a moment with a hint of a grin.

Mortimer doesn’t ask what Levi would never have thought, because he has a sneaking suspicion he knows where that trail of thought would have gone. And he can’t bear it.

Instead, he takes on the haughty look of a cat who’s just fallen off something but totally meant to do it. “Yes, well. I thought I might give it a try.” In other words: he’d forgotten to shave for a few weeks, and while his facial hair is unbearably ginger, he finds he’s okay with the look. Maybe it’s time to try it out. “I think it makes me look very distinguished.”

He reaches up, and clasps his hand over Levi’s, twining their fingers together. It’s such a small thing, to be able to lean his cheek into Levi’s hand, but it’s everything.

“I, um.” God, there’s so much he needs to say. He needs to apologize. He needs to fill Levi in on everything that happened. But the poor bastard’s just woken up, Mortimer doesn’t want to drown him. “Do you need anything? Water? Whatever passes for food around here? Do you want me to call a nurse?”

@codename-fugue​

“Oh dear, why didn’t you let me iron this again? you look all rumpled.” 

His bowtie is probably rumpled because Mortimer keeps fiddling with it every time his mother starts to talk in his vague direction, and god, Mortimer’s beginning to regret inviting her to the wedding.

“Yes, alright, if you must,” he sighs thinly, aggrieved, yanking his bowtie off. “Christ, I’ve participated in rocket tests that were less stressful than this. Why did we think it was a good idea to invite anybody outside of you lot?” Relatives, ugh.

Doctors and nurses swarm into the room before Mortimer’s even finished talking, directing him away so that they have access to Levi. He fights the intubation a bit, but he’s still a bit too fuzzy to be truly anxious about it.

He knows that voice, remembers how it sounds when it’s yelling and murmuring and everything in between. He knows those hands, knows they’ve carded through his hair just like that countless times.

As the doctor efficiently extubates him, Levi struggles to remember the man’s name.

Even through his cotton-cloudy thoughts, panic pierces.

Levi coughs and someone hands him a glass of water; he drinks it because…when was the last time he’d actually drank anything, again?

“How long?” Levi manages, his voice rough from disuse. He coughs again, takes another sip of water. 

“Four weeks, give or take,” a person in a white coat says, jotting something down on a clipboard. “You’re a fighter, Mr. Mercer.”

Levi bites back a bitter laugh. Even just that action sends ripples of pain through his body.

Distantly, Levi knows the doctor keeps talking, but Levi’s focus fades rapidly. Just before he begins to doze, he has a thought.

Mortimer. Of course. Mortimer.

///

When he wakes up again, he feels present. Grounded. He shifts and winces. It’s hard to pinpoint where the pain is, because it feels like it’s everywhere. It’s night time, he thinks, because the hallway seems quiet.

The room is empty save for him, but a jacket slung over the back of a chair tells Levi someone can’t be too far.

Even just those brief moments of consciousness, just those few words, are enough to relieve about ninety percent of Mortimer’s stress. He woke, he talked, he was cognizant of his surroundings. 

He spends the next day practically walking on air, doing away with the grim thoughts of Levi never getting out of that bed, never waking up. It’s not to say that all issues have been resolved. Levi will still have a long recovery ahead of him, to say nothing of the giant, glaring issue of this all being Mortimer’s fault. 

But it’s a start.

The next time Levi wakes, Mortimer’s off getting coffee -- and he nearly drops it when he walks back in the room to see Levi’s eyes open. This late at night, it’s quiet and still, even the beeping of machines seems hushed, if not the snoring of various other patients.

“You’re awake,” he says, stupidly, from the doorway, seemingly not quite sure what to do.

Thankfully, muscle memory kicks in, and it’s a moment’s work to get from there to Levi’s side, perching gingerly on the side of the bed, taking care not to jostle him.

“You’re in the hospital,” he fills in gently. “It’s been four weeks, you’ve been out for most of it. Everybody else is fine.” Sort of. “The mission’s over. And you’re still healing from that giant bloody hole in your middle.”

Christ. He’s had nightmares about that. Every night he watches that spear sink into Levi’s belly while he watches on uselessly, every night he wakes up in a cold sweat and a plea for mercy on his lips. Every time he closes his eyes, he sees the bloody smear left behind after Levi’s body was dragged out of the arena.

“You’ve made a habit of this,” he jokes weakly. “I don’t know how much more my heart can take.”

@codename-fugue

There is only so much trauma a human body can take.

Levi dies once in the ambulance and twice on the operating table. Or, his heart stops anyway. The blood loss alone was critical, let alone the organ damage, the shattered ribs, the punctured lung.

He was in a coma, afterward. It was impossible to tell, the doctors said, the extent of the brain damage. There had been a significant lack of blood flow and oxygen to the brain, after all. His ribs would heal, and his leg too—as long as the sepsis or brain damage didn’t kill him first, of course.

It was a long four weeks.

After the infection passed, it was largely a lot of sitting around and waiting. Doctors and nurses were in and out, quietly counseling Mortimer on what his options were. Levi’s body, worn down after years of abuse, fought on.

\\

With his first shreds of consciousness, Levi feels the scratch of a tag on the nape of his neck. It’s itchy, he thinks absently. Then, he is gone.

\\

He is conscious again and more aware of his surroundings this time, though he cannot quite move or open his eyes. He hears voices—both strange and familiar. His head hurts. His stomach hurts. There is pressure on his palm, like…like someone is holding his hand. It’s nice, he thinks. I had this, once, didn’t I? Someone who held my hand? He doesn’t dwell on it long as the dark drags him under.

\\

The third time, Levi’s grasp on reality is much stronger. He can feel his fingers and his toes. He can hear the beep of machines, tugging him further awake. He knows that time has passed but he doesn’t know how much. He remembers…he remembers blood. And pain.

Wake up, a little voice tells him. Wake up.

With great effort, Levi opens his eyes.

The doctors weren’t even startled at the sight of Mortimer when he’d turned up at the hospital, wild-eyed, spattered with blood, ranting and raving about how he needed to see Levi. After all, they’d just been dealing with a man who’d taken a spear to the chest and a man who’d had his leg cut off. Some asshole with a bit of blood on him didn’t compare.

Safe to say, Mortimer rarely leaves the hospital during those following weeks.

He does, once, get escorted out, after nearly punching a doctor who had been trying to fill him in on his options. On Levi’s options. Whether he’d ever wake up. Mortimer knew the statistics, he knew once a coma passed a week then the chances were astronomically low of ever waking up, but he didn’t care to hear them said out loud.

Other than that, he sits. He holds Levi’s hand. He waits. He tries desperately not think about the very real possibility that Levi will never wake up. He quietly thinks over plans for Noah, building a leg for him, as a small way he might be able to make up for his wrongs. Some days he tries gently bidding Levi to wake, other days he curses a blue streak at him. It’s the latter that seems to have a result, a spike in brain activity before it’s gone.

It’s normal, the doctors tell him. Coma patients have spikes in activity due to external stimulus. Don’t get your hopes up.

But one day, when Mortimer’s in the middle of reciting King Lear in hopes of waking Levi out of sheer spite, Levi’s eyelids flutter, then slowly part.

“Holy-- fuck, Levi, oh my god,” Mortimer sputters, jumping to his feet, heart going triple-time. “Jesus, don’t try to talk, you’re intubated. There’ll be a doctor here in a moment, I promise.” All he can do is lean over and press a shaking hand to Levi’s cheek, then further up, brushing back hair that’s grown a little too long. “You’re in the hospital, you’re fine. Well, you’re not fine, but-- you’re better, you’re healing.”

levimercer‌:

“I’m sure you have the whole song and dance memorized by now, Mr. Redford,” Levi says with a thin smile.

He gives Marion a sort of “what can you do?” look before straightening up a bit and setting his mostly full champagne flute on the tray of a passing waiter. His leg twinges but his face doesn’t flinch.

Things were happening and things were happening fast. This was where decisions were made in milliseconds behind smiles that could never falter.

She tosses her hair back and says, “Well then you and I might get along very well and very briefly. I’m quite fond of the idea of a quick conversation and then bunker life from there on out. I eagerly await the day that I can just avoid talking to others all together and just send everything through my computer.” 

“Amazing!” says Marion throwing her hands up in excitement. She begins to lead them down the hallway and through one of the doors to the restricted back halls. As they walk she chatters, “I didn’t like air travel until I got my own jet. It’s so much better when the staff is competent and there’s no silly tourists to ruin my day.” 

She leads them out to a final doorway, and in the back of the estate next to the docks there is a Learjet 23 waiting out on a tarmac. Two men in pilots uniforms are waiting by the staircase, “It’ll be a two hour flight and I’m afraid I have some calls to take. But Marshall, Stone, and the flight crew will be there to assist you. Lena, Noah, Henry, and Gregory should already have boarded!” 

Living in a safe, secure area, not having to talk to people beyond typing?

Mortimer makes a noise in the back of his throat. A wordless noise that, in approximately fifty years, will be the exact sort of envious groan that translates to: hashtag life goals. As long as Levi was there in that bunker, he’d be ecstatic. Unfortunately, such a thing will never come to pass. If only.

“Ah, yes, tourists. The bane of existence,” he agrees dryly, following Marion at a sedate pace. 

God, she’s not even trying to hide anything. Just rattling off names like Stone, Lena, Noah and Henry. They’ve all been made -- at least, most of them? what about Klara and Roman? -- and she’s talking to him like they’re having a perfectly pleasant conversation. And Mortimer has no choice but to respond in kind, because what else is he going to do?

“I should think the only assistance I’ll need is a few stiff drinks. I took a peek at the wind conditions forecast over Casablanca earlier, and the Learjet 23 does tend to get tossed about by turbulence.” It might sounds like some sort of code, but it’s really not. Mortimer hates turbulence. “But I think we’ll be fine, thank you.” He manages half a smile at Marion, subtly edging closer to Levi.

“That’s just fine,” she assures him, her smile never faltering. She’s not offended. After all, she was lying. If he did claim  to recognize her she would have to resist rolling her eyes. Plenty of people pretend to know who she is to earn her favor but Mortimer is refreshingly honest. Especially for a spy. 

“Ah I see,” she responds, putting on a facade of worry and dismay. In truth, she is delighted by the prospect that he might fear for his life. If he was being hunted then her offer of solace would be well received. It’s much easier to trap someone who is already on the run. “I’m glad you have a bodyguard but even so I am surprised you feel comfortable coming to a place with so many strangers. If it were me I’d just build myself a bunker and work until it’s all done.” 

“Oh yes!” she exclaims, laughing sharply as if she is surprised that she forgot to explain, “My brother is hosting an event over in Rome and we’re going to go watch the show! You and your bodyguard are invited. I know my attendant already helped Mr. and Mrs. Jones board the jet so if you choose to come you can fly with us!”

Brother? Ugh. Fantastic, more connections.

It’s probably a good thing that Mortimer’s busy thinking -- it means that he gives no visible reaction when Mr and Mrs Jones are mentioned. No fake names used. It appears that shit has officially hit the fan. And Marion’s telling him this with a big friendly smile on her face.

Is Stone involved? They’re only here because they found his passport and the invitation, presuming that the host of the party, or at least a major benefactor, would be highly involved with the organization they’re tracking. All signs are currently pointing to Marion being... what? High up? A financier? The bloody leader?

“Believe me, a bunker has been a very tempting idea for the entirety of my working life,” he grumbles.

Damn it. They need to get on that plane. 

Mortimer cuts a glance over to Levi, knowing that Levi will be working through the exact same things he’s currently thinking. “Unless you’re going to give me some song and dance about unsecured areas and un-vetted personnel, I’d quite like to go.” Then, to Marion: “Admittedly, I detest air travel -- which I suppose is ironic, given my profession -- but it sounds like it’ll be worth it to see whatever you’re cooking up.”

levimercer‌:

The more the woman talks the more unsettled Levi gets. He hides it well, obviously, but his drink is forgotten as his attention is acutely elsewhere.

There is only so much Levi knows about the fineries of Mortimer’s work, but it seems that whatever the woman is saying seems to pass his muster in terms of validity, so she certainly knew her stuff.

He arches an eyebrow slightly as he waits for the woman to properly introduce herself.

She lets out a little, mock embarrassed shriek, “Oh my goodness how rude of me! I’m Marion Clare, I’m the host of this party. I would have figured you would have known that. .  . seeing as you are a guest in my home at my party!” he laugh is sharp and pointed, another jab at their facade, “And I’m self-employed. I’ve never been much for following the orders of others. but it seems to have worked out pretty well for me!” 

She looks at Mortimer, her fake smile never flickering, and then glances up at Levi, “Mr. Redford would you be so kind as to introduce me properly to your plus one?” she says pretending she does not already know his name. Eyeing Levi up and down, her grin curling into something more genuine and sinister, “He is your  … chauffeur? Bodyguard, perhaps?” 

“I’m very glad to have you and all your friends joining us here tonight,” she purrs, “We do love a good underdog story. And more than that we love an after party. Will you be staying for the flight?” 

Ah. That explains it.

“My apologies, I’m terrible with faces,” Mortimer apologizes, somehow managing to do so fairly smoothly. This entire situation is still throwing him off; he has no idea how to act around her, what to say, how much to say. Marion’s an independent hardware developer, so she claims, but Mortimer knows better than to take that at face value.

Besides, he really doesn’t enjoy the way she’s eyeing Levi like he’s a slab of prime beef.

Only Mortimer gets to look at him that way, thank you.

“My bodyguard,” he says, trying to keep it simple. He doesn’t want to use Levi’s real name, nor does he want to make one up on the spot. “Various Apollo engineers have been getting threats. Soviet based, mostly. The race to the moon has us all on edge.”

And then: “Sorry, after party?” Oh, god, he hadn’t known about that. Should he have known about that? “Er, yes, we’ll be staying.” For information gathering purposes, it might be vital. “What exactly will it entail? If it’s a demonstration of anything you’ve been working on, absolutely count me in.”

levimercer‌:

There is not a single part of this that Levi likes.

Not the oily slick way the woman talks, not the way she knew exactly who Mortimer was, especially not the way her hand settled on Mortimer’s arm.

This is bad. Levi doesn’t know how bad, but his mind has begun to whir with contingencies.

His grip tightens minutely on his champagne flute and he takes a sip, pausing to see how the woman responds. Because how does she know Mort or, perhaps more importantly, how will she say she does?

‘Unknowingly’ targeting the right arm was not necessarily the case. Marion was tactical before all else and having read Mortimer’s file she knew more information on him than he would care to divulge. But she was playing dumb… at least in the sense of how much she was pretending to know him. Knowledge is power, but information purposefully withheld is even more so. 

She laughs again, smaller and lighter, a sound tinny and hollow. “I should hope that I’m in to solid state electronic. I do make my living creating prototype integrated circuits.” 

She can see the taller man seething with repressed anger and maybe even worry. Marion can’t help but genuinely beam at the thought of being in control. 

“I really wish I didn’t sound like a fangirl right now but I do have a habit of finding what people try to hide from me. My siblings never let me play hide and seek with them for exactly that reason,” she crooned, “And it was just the one photo. But I have to say it does not do you justice.” 

Levi’s got his thinking face on -- it’s not obvious, and in fact looks like his regular face, but Mortimer can tell. Levi’s probably thinking up all sorts of plans, but Mortimer’s kind of stuck on please, miss, please take your hand off my arm, oh my god.

Finally, he draws his arm back, tucking it a little behind his side. There. That’s significantly better.

But then sets in the panic about exactly what photo she saw. Did he take a drunken photo at some point that he doesn’t remember? His memory is impeccable, except for when he gets drunk, then it’s a little shaky. But he’s fairly certain there’s no embarrassing photos out there -- other than his CIA ID photo, which, yes, is terrible, courtesy of little sleep and grouchiness at the photographer.

“Oh, really? Let me guess, you’re either with Bells Labs or Fairchild. The self-aligned gate was an incredible breakthrough. We’re already integrating that technology into the Apollo program, it’ll be an enormous time saver.” It comes out slightly distracted, because... has she seen his CIA photo? How? “Er, I’m forgetting my manners. You know who I am, it seems. Miss...?”

He doesn’t offer his hand to shake. There’s been significantly too much touching already.