Mike Baker has always had a knack for teaching. Born from the addicting sensation of being smarter than everyone, he quickly realised there’s actual merit in passing on hard-earned knowledge founded on a mixture of theory and painful experience. It took him a while to suppress the resentment of witnessing others, armed with his wisdom, excel immediately where he had to struggle for much longer, but once he overcame that particular ego trip, he started receiving heartfelt compliments.

And, well, he likes those.

Suddenly, he played a part in many success stories, was cited as a major influence by skilled operators around the world, and shook hands with others whom he admired on equal footing. There are other advantages as well, like broadening his horizon through exchanges with young minds from vastly different cultures, many of which left him befuddled at first yet enriched in the long run. He’s often called old school, a term he wears with pride instead of embarrassment seeing as it stems from his conviction that advanced technology might be useful but ultimately a crutch. He’s opened many eyes to the old ways and no doubt saved countless lives by empowering others to acquire survival skills not reliant on newfangled tech.

This, too, he learnt the hard way. After the disaster in ‘92, he vowed never to allow something like it again.

Amidst the coaching, he endeavours to learn from his students just as they soak up his advice. Not always successful, he still tries to grasp their differing world views and outlooks, attempts to understand how they developed and why his own rarely match. Finding similarities is easy, there’s timeless topics such as cars, sports and physical fitness, and beyond that cyclical trends materialise and disappear over the course of a decade or two – whisky, gardening, woodworking, it all recurs.

But the longer Thatcher pushes his retirement, the more he perceives a rift forming between his generation and the younger ones. Not having any children himself (or any friends who do), he’s reliant on his work relationships to keep him up-to-date, and while there’s no shortage of sensible, eager young men in the SAS as a whole, Rainbow generally features established, well-adjusted operators who need little guidance.

So… maybe it’s the small sample size. In any case, Thatcher is increasingly perplexed when Mute mentions most of his friends don’t even own a car anymore. Or that they have no notion to buy a house and settle down – even Thatcher considers marriage optional, seeing as his own crashed and burned spectacularly, but not wanting to own property? And the absolutely disrespectful way Mute speaks of national treasures like the Queen and Thatcher’s namesake (which, alright, he’s had long discussions about this and maybe she wasn’t the progressive saint he once thought she was, but still – defacing her monument just isn’t funny).

At first he was filled with a giddy sort of glee when the taciturn, serious young Brit opened up to him, heeded his advice and even looked to him first when he was unsure about anything work-related, but the longer they spend conversing about their private lives, the more Thatcher wishes he’d never asked in the first place. He’s fairly sure he will never understand the point of ‘memes’, no matter how often Mute tries to explain.

.

And one day, a humid, muggy Friday in June, Mute approaches him with a problem for which Thatcher has no answer ready yet. So he does what he always does when he’s unable to process news or make his mind up: ask the one person for help to whom he’d entrust his life without a second thought.

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~*~

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“Mark thinks he’s gay”, says Thatcher, apropos nothing, as he turns the page from sports to local news. ‘Hotel California’is softly pouring out of the radio next to the toaster – the classic rock station isn’t his favourite but one meaningful glance over Simon & Garfunkel incentivised him to switch to it. He didn’t want to be accused of being a lonely old man again.

Across the table, Lesion visibly smothers his initial reaction, whichever it would’ve been; there’s an unnatural half-blink and an almost imperceptible pause in guiding the ham-topped croissant to his mouth. And Thatcher thinks: here we go.

They haven’t fought in a while. Not for the entire year, actually, if he discounts their usual bickering (and he’s inclined to, it barely counts despite the awkward atmosphere it forces bystanders to endure, which is incidentally Thatcher’s favourite part). He regrets having to sacrifice their harmonious breakfast which, apart from the at-times questionable songs wafting over, is nearly perfect where he’s concerned. Lesion bought fresh muffins for Thatcher and croissants for himself, Thatcher provides good-quality cold cuts, they share a pot of tea and discuss whatever is new either in their lives or the world. It’s idyllic.

Sadly, he’ll have to ruin it – for the greater good.

Could he introduce the topic in a less inflammatory way? Sure. Would it have the same result, i.e. a quietly destructive Lesion who chooses his words so carefully it’s hard to imagine he’s simultaneously holding himself back from throttling Thatcher? Absolutely not. And therefore this is the only option remaining.

Once Lesion has bought himself some time to process Thatcher’s remark by carefully chewing for an inordinately long time, he avoids his gaze and asks, very calm: “Did he drink too much and say a few things he now regrets?”

Deflection. With a joke, at least, Thatcher taught him that – when they first met, Lesion would raise his brows and change the topic when confronted with anything he did not want to comment on. Either he’s attempting to save the mood or his brain is working overtime to figure out how to respond. Good. So he doesn’t know what to think about this either.

“Nah. We both know the lad barely drinks.”

Lesion begins pushing the crumbs on his plate into a neat pile. “He does when James is around.”

And this is why Thatcher chooses him for any difficult topic. Lesion has mastered the art of being unobtrusive and inoffensive to the point where everyone around him either forgets his presence or believes him to be an accomplice of sorts, thus dropping all inhibitions. His skills in information gathering and observation are unparalleled and Thatcher enjoys making use of them, even if it’s for petty purposes.

Well. Especially for petty purposes.

He’s right, of course, he always is: Thatcher retroactively analyses Mute’s behaviour around his colleague and concludes that yes, Mute does indeed let Smoke be a bad influence on him.

“Tell me what happened.”

Somehow, the initial friction has disappeared and though Thatcher would prefer a sharper exchange of words, he plays along for now. “Julien dragged him to a Pride event last week and some bloke there talked Mark into believing he fancies James. He’s not fully sure, though, so he poured his little heart out to me.”

He spots the tell-tale crease between Lesion’s brow. He’s getting pissed – even though Thatcher isn’t entirely certain why. But that’s what he’s here to find out. “I have additional questions”, Lesion states after a moment, “but I think it’s best if you tell me your thought process first.”

“On what?”

“You seem to disagree with him. I’d like to hear why.”

“With whom?”

Lesion refuses to take the bait and get angry over stupid details. His patience is another virtue Thatcher admires greatly. “With Mark’s assessment of himself.”

“That he thinks he’s gay?”

“Yes.” He takes a sip of his tea. “That.”

Alright then. If this was anyone else, Thatcher would refrain from elaborating, wave it off and attribute it to personal differences rather than risk offending or coming across as ignorant. The two of them, however, have known each other for such a long time that no such anxieties remain: they’ve both made idiots of themselves in front of the other, have supported each other through various crises, have become such an important and fundamental part of each others’ lives that he discards any vanities in favour of personal growth.

Most of the time.

Which doesn’t contradict his urge to exasperate his best friend. It’s almost… charming? Endearing? He’s not sure of the correct term, but it does leave a deep, satisfying feeling in the low of his stomach to watch Lesion ruthlessly apply logic to try and change his mind, working himself up to unmerciful gentleness with which he both ensures victory and that Thatcher’s pride isn’t hurt. These days, he rarely allows himself any indulgences, yet Lesion’s cutting rhetoric is too addicting.

He’s not proven wrong often, but with this man, he almost enjoys it.

“We’ve talked about it before”, he starts, Lesion keeping up eye contact now as he finishes the other half of his croissant, “being gay isn’t a choice.”

An encouraging nod. So far, so good.

“Either you’re born gay or you’re not.”

The nodding fades. Surely, he can’t object this early.

“So either you know that you’re gay, or you don’t know, which means you’re not. And yeah, there’s the bisexuals and whatever, but they know who they are as well. Mark on the other hand said he never really had any interest in anyone until now – but if he was gay, that wouldn’t have happened.” He probably should stop talking. Lesion is looking at him, mid-chew, the same way he did when Thatcher ranted about poor people always buying poor quality products even though purchasing slightly more expensive, higher-quality ones would last much longer.

Which, alright. He conceded the point eventually.

Another sip of tea after the croissant has disappeared. Lesion adds more crumbs to his pile. “Is it too late then?”, he asks, curious. “For him to realise he fancies men.”

“Huh? No.” Ridiculous. As if there was some kind of cut-off point where lads had to live as heteros because they didn’t claim their gayness fast enough. “No, what I mean is… he’s just not gay. He’s found a kindred spirit in James, somehow, and I predict he’s going to turn into an annoying little gremlin under his supervision, but he’s confusing a serious, close friendship with, I don’t know, attraction? Romance?” The more he scrutinises it in his head, the more sense it makes. “Yeah. He never fancied anyone before. How would he know what it feels like? I have the impression he just never had a friendship like that before.”

Actually, this is obvious – he’s almost embarrassed he couldn’t come up with the same explanation when Mark sought him out. No wonder the poor lad is a little lost, a shithead like Smoke will do that to an innocent soul.

Lesion is starting to shift now, sharpen around the edges, weighs his words more deliberately before he allows them to escape his lips. It’s reminiscent of how he is on the job, competent, no-nonsense. He might crack jokes and wear a smile but Thatcher’s gaze penetrates the thin veneer of jovial gestures to reveal remorseless efficiency. And though he respects that part of Lesion deeply, he also savours how pliable, how… domestic they are around each other. Lesion has saved his life more than once, and he’s helped remodel Thatcher’s bathroom. He asked Thatcher to test drive a used car he considered buying, and he’s killed with a smile and a shrug.

If he’s honest, Thatcher prefers his softer side. There’s something peaceful in sitting in his garden and trying to spot birds, even if they’ve had to wash blood off their bodies more times than they care to count.

“How did he come to the conclusion that he likes James?” Gathering more necessary intel. Thatcher suppresses a grin.

“I can’t recall his exact words, it was surprisingly flowery. Maybe he dreamt about kissing him, felt like he was having butterflies in his stomach whenever James texted him, something along those lines. Typical shite, you know. But I mean, that’s normal.”

Lesion’s eyes snap up.

Oh? He’s picked up on something though Thatcher wouldn’t know what exactly. They’re still dancing around the issue, Lesion hasn’t formulated his point yet so it’s difficult to tell what he’s thinking. It’s no fight yet.

“Normal stuff”, Lesion repeats and it sounds very close to a question. He must know what Thatcher means.

“Aye. Everyone has these kinds of thoughts, even if there’s some kind of stigma on it since blokes barely talk about it. It’s curiosity, nothing more, the brain latches on to something and you can’t get it out of your head for a while. Like buying a new car, innit? A mate gets himself a brand new ride and suddenly, you want one too. It’s almost impossible to push that thought away.”

“… a new car.” It seems Lesion has resorted to parroting bits and pieces of Thatcher’s speech. Again, with anybody else, he’d be upset that he’s opening up about a topic rarely discussed between men and met with hesitant mockery, but this is Lesion. His best friend would rather jump out the window than hurt him deliberately.

“Not the best metaphor maybe, but you get the gist. He’ll just have to pull himself together and realise it’s perfectly normal to have these kinds of, I don’t know, intrusive thoughts, and move on.”

Lesion’s face evokes the image of an exhausted mum debating internally whether she should let her child eat the crayons just so she can have a bit of peace and quiet. He’s still not contributing to their conversation which is frankly worrisome – not that Thatcher is apprehensive about what might be going on in his head, but he knows the longer he talks the worse it gets. The two of them have a code word for ‘you should probably shut up now’ and there’s a reason Lesion is the only one who uses it regularly.

“Do you not agree? Just because you think like this doesn’t mean you’re queer. Hell, most of the blokes on this earth would’ve ended up married to another bloke if they followed that line of thinking. The two of us might as well have married.”

This shakes Lesion out of his stupor. “Might as well”, he repeats, sounding oddly entertained. It seems he’s about to add something but decides against it, shaking his head a little before he takes a deep breath and gets up to pour himself another cuppa. Buying more time. This is getting serious. “Want the rest?”

Thatcher hands him his Arsenal mug, mulling over the phrase which seems to have sparked amusement in his best friend. There’s worse fates in the world than being tied to this man, he supposes – they get along better than any married couple he knows. Most days, their schedules are intertwined, they give and take in equal measure and have found compromises for all their differences in taste. “Might as well”, Thatcher mutters without meaning to and accepts the tea-filled mug with an added ‘ta’.

Instead of sitting back down, Lesion leans against the counter, fingers wrapped around the Winnie the Pooh mug he used to pick as a joke (and now defends from other guests), steady gaze resting on Thatcher without the hint of reproach. There’s a warmth in it he’s accustomed to seeing when it’s late and they drank a little too much. Quiet anxiousness rises in Thatcher; he can deal with exasperation but doesn’t do well with vulnerable sincerity.

“You’ve not talked about this with anybody else, I assume?”, Lesion asks.

“Of course not. If they’re all too embarrassed to say it out loud, I’m not gonna be the first one.”

An eternity passes while Lesion stands there, eyes drifting aimlessly around the cosy kitchen, and contemplates how to reply. Thatcher’s uneasiness increases with every passing second yet he knows better than to interrupt the other man’s thoughts. Despite his growing desperation to interrupt his own.

He has a feeling he won’t like what he’ll hear next.

“I wouldn’t call it ‘normal’”, Lesion starts hesitantly. “I do believe it’s not unusual to be curious in one’s younger years, but… dreaming about kissing your mates when you’re in your fifties is, um.”

Thatcher’s cheeks begin to heat up. He hopes he hasn’t committed a grave mistake. “Oh come off it – don’t tell me you don’t think about those things.”

“Ah…” The corners of Lesion’s mouth lift into a sheepish smile. “I do.”

“See!”

“But, Mike. I’m gay.”

Uh.

Thatcher’s brain screeches to a halt. “What”, he says and can’t keep the hint of anger out of his voice. Strangely, he feels betrayed rather than surprised, and it’s a tad odd to realise he’s genuinely upset over the fact Lesion never told him. He cares not one bit about his sexuality, Lesion can do whatever he wants, but Thatcher needs to be in on it. Still, it helps to distract him from the fact that Lesion’s earlier words open up an entirely different can of worms.

Which is that apparently Thatcher’s mind has significant overlap with that of a gay man, at least where other men are concerned, and he is not prepared to face this particular revelation just yet.

Maybe I should’ve married him, he thinks and suppresses the sudden, absurd urge to laugh.

“Do you want to talk about this?”, Lesion offers, still smiling, and it’s eerie how well he knows him – when conflicted, Thatcher tends to withdraw unless assisted, yet is too prideful to ask.

He appreciates the suggestion but appearances force him to weakly object: “Don’t you have errands to run today?”

Lesion shrugs. “They can wait. I’d rather make sure you don’t end up brooding the whole weekend.”

A fair assessment. Thatcher nods and is flooded with relief over having someone in his life so willing to talk about everything and nothing, except… Suddenly, there’s something else besides gratitude as well.

.

~*~

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“… so, in conclusion, it doesn’t matter what you identify as. Just do what you feel is right, use your common sense – and I know you have a lot of that. If you feel an attraction, there’s nothing wrong with pursuing it without worrying about labels for the moment. Alright, lad?”

Mute stares at him in much the same way Thatcher’s family did on their last reunion when he asked for extra vegetables. He adds a mental note to teach Mute how to control his expressions better and keep his composure even when confronted with the unimaginable.

“Do I have something on my face?”

“No, I just -” The lad blinks a few times before starting to nod. “I mean, yeah. Thanks. That’s actually really helpful. I was worried about some of it, but what you said just… some things clicked.”

Boy does Thatcher know how that feels. “Don’t mention it. You got your head on straight, lad, keep it that way.” He realises too late and hastens to correct himself: “I don’t mean – well, you know what I mean.”

His awkward floundering earns him a grin he much prefers over the troubled look which has recently dominated the young man’s features. “Yeah. No worries.”

“Good man.” Thatcher pats his back and gets up, relieved their talk went smoothly and confident he’ll be able to manoeuvre similar conversations in the future. Which is a relief, because based on Mute’s memes, the entire younger generation is some kind of queer or other and he’s had his suspicions about Dokkaebi for a while.

“Just one question though.”

He turns to Mute, expecting anything from mundane to profound and certain he will be able to advise. After all, it’s his job to guide and teach wherever he can.

The lad points to Thatcher’s neck. “… is that a hickey?”

Alright.

Well.