#niriall

"Gancanagh, get down!"

Niall dropped to the ground without thinking, and the explosion that shook the building barely fazed him. Maybe I've been in his line of work for too long, he mused idly as he moved to take down one of the thugs that had followed his lead in dropping and was thus virtually unaffected by the blast. Explosions aren't normal for other people, are they?

Granted, he wasn't other people. None of the people who worked at Avalon Industries were other people. Not all of them dealt with explosions and thugs on a regular basis, but they all had a hand in dealing with these sorts of threats so the other people could live their mundane little lives in blissful ignorance.

"Sit rep," the voice in his earpiece commanded. Keenan, who was somewhere out of the action taking stock of the agents.

"Little busy right now," he got out, jabbing at the guy's solar plexus. "Blast damage extensive. Few other minions to dispatch."

The thug was glaring at him a little, obviously throwing his all into the fight. Niall pushed him back a few paces, seemingly effortlessly.

"My way’s clear. Do you want backup?" another voice, Tavish, asked. Tavish was somewhere else in the building, abler to come to his aid.

He considered the number of men left, ducking under a wide punch. Very few were standing on their own and not swaying. "Nah, I think I've got it."

With the sort of acrobatic grace you wouldn't expect from someone of his stature, Niall took the other guy down. Hard. They didn't get back up, but Niall sedated him for good measure. He wasn't a huge fan of killing, but he didn't want them to get away, either. The blast had destroyed the main data bases, and the main big bad had been taken care of already. His job had been to provide a distraction.

A job he did well, if without his usual perfectionism. He hadn’t needed to be perfect since… Well, he hadn’t needed to be as refined in three years. The low level thugs he was assigned to dispatch now were nothing compared to his former marks.

Later, the unending bureaucracy of missions crept up on them. Every discharge of a weapon, every piece of property destroyed, every man killed had a form. Forms that they had to fill out. Keenan bore the brunt of it, but Niall more often than not spent hours on paperwork. Even though they were technically all equals, and both Niall and Tavish were more experienced, they let Keenan call the shots and do the forms. Keenan was gunning for a promotion, and it made him look better to be on the roster as lead agent. If either of them really disagreed, Keenan could be persuaded to change his mind, although it took some effort.

Keenan's father Miach had held a position on the council, the same position Keenan was hoping for, until his partner-slash-lover Beira had iced him in the field. Totally threw him under the bus, and they never really saw him again. Beira herself was still on the council, as she never could be proved of any wrongdoing.

It was all kinds of awkward, in Niall's opinion, and he wanted nothing to do with it. His former partner had held a position on the council too, a position that had yet to be filled.

Gabriel told him, whenever they saw each other (which was admittedly not often) that he ought to take the seat. That it's what Irial would've wanted. Niall had managed to avoid answering thus far, and wasn't about to begin any time soon. (Which is probably why they didn't see each other much.)

The ride home was a blur, as it always was after a mission. Taking the subway, feeling the pressing weight of his gun at the small of his back or the knife strapped to his forearm was surreal among the masses of people who had no idea what he'd just done. The overwhelming feeling of dissociation, the tense alertness that never quite wore off.

Maybe I should get a car, he mused offhandedly, stepping into the sunlight. He blinked as the cars zipped by, the sounds of the city suddenly assaulting his senses. Car horns blaring, people cursing... Actually, nah. Maybe not.

Niall gave tired greetings to the neighbours he passed, really, he just wanted to go to bed at this point. It was with weary relief that he got to his door.

He could tell something was wrong the minute he entered the apartment.

The air smelled different, not as stale as it usually was after a few days on a mission. He raised his gun, switching from the cautious relaxation he'd been enjoying moments earlier to the alert mindset he'd been in for days, ignoring the exhaustion. A small part of his mind vaguely registered mournfully that he was going to have to find a new apartment. (This was going to be his seventh.)

The living room looked, well, lived in. Some crappy reality show Niall was sure he'd never have turned on was playing on mute, and the blanket he'd thrown over the sofa was on the floor. Shuffling noises from the kitchen made him swing the gun around. His feet were soundless on the carpet, and then he knocked aside the kitchen door to reveal...

Nothing.

There was a second of confusion, and then he felt the air move, just before wham.

The ground rushed up to meet him, and someone was trying to take his gun - fine, he could let them - and he slid out a knife in a wide slash, the grunt of pain achingly familiar (but at the same time, wholly foreign) and he tucked away the thought for later. The next second, Niall had managed to get on top, knees on the other's elbows, knife pressed to the attacker's throat, and it wasn't an attacker at all, but a ghost.

He came home, Niall's first thought, wild and desperate.

Clone, his second. He ignored the first. (He didn't ignore it at all.)

"Who are you?" he growled, adjusting the knife a little.

"It's me," the not-him murmured, expression begging for Niall to understand.

Playing for emotion. They obviously didn't know that he'd stopped feeling three years ago. "Who are you?" he repeated, pushing the knife a little harder to prove that they weren't hitting a weak spot.

"Niall..." Whoever or whatever it was, it had done its homework. The micro-expressions were perfect, right down to the nervous cheek-biting and the earnest eyes. But it was impossible, absolutely impossible, and Niall could see right through it. "Since when do you carry a knife in your sleeve? I thought you found it inconvenient and clunky."

That threw him. He hadn't thought they were under surveillance for that conversation. Niall's eyes narrowed, considering how much information the not-him might have. That an enemy organization might have. Either their information was out dated, or they'd made the comment to see how it would affect him.

It wouldn't affect him. (It affected him.)

"I know it's hard to believe..." the not-him said softly. "But it's me. I'm okay."

"How stupid do you think I am?" Niall blurted out, and was immediately furious with himself. He couldn't let himself be convinced by this. He wouldn't let his guard down. "You have until the count of ten to figure out something to convince me to let you live."

“Niall – “

“One.”

-

Niall's eyes were cold.

“Two.”

They had once been warm, full of laughter and light despite their job. He had been willing to see the good in everyone and to put his own life on the line to save anyone else's. Although Irial had despaired of Niall's insane selfless sacrificial thing, it had reassured him that he was doing this for the right reasons. If someone as good and pure as Niall could do this, so could Irial, whose morals were significantly less white.

“Three.”

But now... The scar wasn't the only thing about Niall that had changed, although Irial died a little inside every time he looked at it. The floppy hair was gone, replaced with the regulation crew cut. The knife, that was new, too. Niall had always hated knives. He was proficient, of course, and had carried one, but usually on his belt, and never at home. The superficial differences didn't come close to the others, though.

“Four.”

Asking if he was stupid was the only hint of the Niall he'd known that he had seen so far. The irritation at being underestimated, now that was something he remembered, but usually he wore it on his sleeve, in fact, whenever they didn't need to be undercover he was open and honest about his feelings.

“Five.”

The lack of expression was an unwelcome change. No matter the situation, Irial had always been able to tell was Niall was thinking. Their communication had been flawless. It had saved their lives on more than one occasion, and their careers on double that. They had been best friends, and sometimes Irial imagined through all of the sex and camaraderie that they'd had something more.

“Six.”

Pinned to the kitchen tile, knife against his throat, life threatened, Irial could only guess at what was going through Niall's head. Whatever he said was going to be a gamble, but he had to try.

"I love you," Irial said honestly, desperately.

Niall froze, and he could feel every muscle tensed above his. The knife didn't let up any, but it didn't press down, either, so Irial counted that as a win.

"I never told you, but I do. The way your stupid hair flopped in your eyes, and how you always put way too much sugar in your office. You’d sing in the shower, and I always told you it was annoying and called you Justin Bieber, but in Budapest, that time everything went tits up and we thought we were gonna die, I asked you to sing for me. You're the only thing I'm ever gonna miss..." he added hopefully.

"We were made for this," Niall finished in a whisper.

It felt like the whole world was on pause. Everything was weighted on Niall's decision, and the achingly blank expression was frozen on his face. The silence was compressing Irial's chest. (Actually, it was Niall's body weight pressing on his chest, but the silence is more poetic.) (Their mess of a relationship is nothing if not poetic.)

He could see the war waging behind his once-partner, once-lover, once-everything's eyes, trying to decide whether or not to trust what was in front of him. On the one hand, Irial knew logically that you shouldn't trust someone you thought dead. Cloning was a thing nowadays and it had become pretty clever. But on the other... He'd kind of hoped that he'd be the exception. That Niall would look into his eyes and know the truth. That always happened with the sort of true love you see in movies and shit, but obviously that wasn't a real life sort of thing, unfortunately.

"I'm losing circulation," Irial pointed out eventually, when the quiet had stretched on for a long time and he began to grow a little concerned about the knife.

Niall finally seemed to come back to himself, and he scrambled off Irial as if he'd been shocked, the knife clattering to the floor. It lay, forgotten, half under the island, a small trail of blood dancing across the white tiles.

Irial pushed himself up, grimacing a little as he shook his arms out. He was pretty grateful for how that had worked out, as he could have gotten himself killed with his smart mouth. However, the sarcasm had worked and that gave him a little hope that things could be okay. For now, he kept his gaze pointedly away from Niall, leaving him a little privacy to gather himself, as an apology for springing this on him. It lasted for approximately fifteen seconds, as Irial really wasn't a great person and his concern for Niall's mental wellbeing overrode any manners he may or may not have possessed.

Niall was leaning against the island, half turned away from Irial. His eyes were closed and his head was a little bowed. All in all, not as bad as it could be, but definitely not ideal.

Irial took a deep breath before trying to explain himself. "I had to get away... I'm sorry I didn't tell you the truth, but I couldn't trust anyone then. I've since realized that maybe I should've trusted you. I apologize, Niall. It was a dick move."

"Anything else you'd like to share with the class?" Niall asked roughly. The tone of someone who was really, really hoping there the hell wasn’t.

"I ate all of your cereal," he admitted shamelessly.

"You know what? I should have guessed. You never do anything by halves," he sighed, seemingly exhausted, then turned to rummage through his cupboards with unnecessary vigor. "Knowing my luck, you're going to bleed out, too.”

The floor was blood stained, Irial could tell. It was kind of gross, but his bigger concern was the way his neck was probably still bleeding. His hand was now covered in blood, and he was feeling a little light-headed. The island was beginning to swim in his vision.

"You're angry," Irial commented mildly, rubbing at the wound on his neck. His hand came away bloody.

"You ate all my cereal and faked your death for three years, Irial!" Niall raged, throwing bandages at Irial with way too much force.

Okay, that was fair. All true. Maybe he should mention he’d also rented a few movies on pay per view… One look at Niall’s livid expression, and he decided against it. He’d save that comment for when Niall didn’t have as many weapons at hand or the murderous rage he currently possessed.

He sighed, catching the bandages against his chest. He pressed the one to his neck gingerly. "Okay, Niall, be reasonable --"

"Reasonable!" he scoffed. The silence stretched on between them, and then suddenly Niall came over and dropped to his knees in front of Irial. "You're doing it wrong, dumbass." His hands were gentle as always as he wiped at the cut and applied pressure.

Irial was content to let him, confident that he wouldn't use the opportunity to smother him or something, and a little too woozy to resist anyway. "Nice apartment," he said, trying to diffuse the tension.

"Fuck off."