Jon’s seen this look - the deep, pale circles under Tommy’s eyes and the tightness in his forehead and the wrinkles at his temples - a handful of times before. The morning Tommy took Jon to breakfast and, with shaking hands, wrote the name of his very secret and classified assignment on a napkin before drowning it in his coffee cup. The afternoon in Bangkok when Tommy snuck into Jon’s hotel room through the outside window and had laid out a very carefully constructed plan that broke any of a dozen protocols and begged Jon to help him rescue Agent Rhodes. The evening in Venice when Tommy had broken those same protocols to rescue Jon, destroying six months of undercover work and saving Jon’s life.

Before Jon can push, though, Pri’s sticking her head into the tack room, her hand over her eyes, “everyone decent?”

“Nope.” Tommy pops the ‘p’ as he pushes off the wall. “Just dicks and nipples for days.”

Pri drops her hand so that they can see the full effect of her eye roll. “Ass. The Director’s waiting.”

“Better not keep her waiting, then,” Tommy says, his voice light and easy. But he pauses halfway out the door, that same expression on his face as he asks, “you coming?,” as if Jon’s ever given him a reason to question it.

Jon shakes himself. He has enough to worry about without imagining trouble. If Tommy throws him a curveball, Jon will roll with it.

Tanya’s waiting for them, the op details pulled up on her tablet and her headset already settled over the left side of her face. “You’re running late already,” she says by way of greeting.

“Sorry,” Jon offers, glancing at his watch, as Tommy shrugs easily, “better skip the briefing then.”

“Nice try,” Tanya snorts. 

She slides two tablets towards them and Jon grabs his, pulling up the mission details. He tries to follow along as Tanya walks them through each step, but Tommy’s shoulder is pressed tightly to his, the toes of his combat boots digging into Jon’s calf on the rail of his chair. Besides, Jon figures, no exit strategy or contingency plan will save them when they’re buried five layers under Kinshasa’s seediest crime ring.

“Is that clear?” Tanya asks, finally, tapping her pen rhythmically against her tablet as she narrows her eyes at them.

“Get in, steal back the flash drive, get out, preferably with all four limbs intact and without giving up the CIA’s most precious secrets,” Tommy summarizes.

Tanya nods. “You’re ready.”

“Are we?” Jon asks, skeptically. This mission is dangerous, less predictable and with higher stakes than he or Tommy have ever faced. Jon’s used to high stakes poker where his life is on the line. He still wishes the CIA would stop raising his bet with Tommy’s life, but, Tanya has always known how to motivate him.

“HQ is giving you 8:1 odds,” Tanya shrugs easily. “They’ve always underestimated us, so, how about we prove them wrong, yeah?”

She’s always known how to motivate Tommy, too.

Tommy grins, his toe pulling back from Jon’s calf as he leverages himself up. “We’re not going to let you down, boss.”

“You better not,” Tanya warns. She slides her tablet onto the table and reaches her fist out for a bump. “Good luck, prove the bastards wrong, break a leg.”

Jon stands and meets her fist with, “choose a metaphor and stick with it,” because if Lovett were here- 

Jon shakes his head. He can’t focus on the stakes of his mission or he’ll fail before it even starts.

Tanya smiles sadly, Jon’s thoughts visible as they run across her face. “I’ve got a smorgasbord of cliches, so pick your poison and get out of here.”

Despite himself, Jon laughs and manages to keep it going all the way down the hallway, through their final checkpoint, and into the industrial elevators.

The doors clang shut and then it’s just him and Tommy in the low artificial light and the sudden drop in temperature. The elevator is big enough for a SWAT team, but Tommy leans against the wall next to Jon, their shoulders brushing. His fingers flex, long and warm and wet with sweat as they twist with Jon’s.

Jon swallows. He traces the circles under Tommy’s eyes with his own, follows them up to the worry lines at his temples. Tommy’s teetering on the edge of a cliff and Jon doesn’t know how to stop him from falling.

“Listen,” Tommy says, his voice low and quiet and still echoing around the cavernous elevator, “we might not survive this.”

Jon’s throat is wet and thick. “Eight to one odds aren’t that bad.”

“They’re not good either.” Tommy’s eyes are clear, like the crest of a wave waiting at the bottom of the cliff, threatening to pull Jon under, waiting to pull Jon to safety.

Jon teeters at the top, toe to toe with Tommy, not breathing in case the merest hint of a breeze pushes them both over. Jon can’t do this. He can’t let Tommy jump. Jon can’t save him if he does.

They hang there, listening to the creak and groan of the elevator all around them and the crash of the ocean below them. Long, interminable moments that can’t last more than a few floors, until Tommy takes a long, deep breath and whispers, “we might not survive this and I can’t go without you knowing-”

“Tommy,” Jon pleads.

“I think I’m in love with you,” Tommy jumps, “and I’m fucking terrified.”

Jon watches the ground crumble under their feet, a decade of cliff that they’ve built with handfuls of dirt and moss and all the things unspoken between them, giving way in an instant.

Jon twists his fingers with Tommy’s, holding on tight as they fall, together. “Me too.”

The elevator comes to a stop, jolting through their knees and their shoulders. Jon feels the shock as they crash into the ocean, but Tommy’s still there, his palm still warm and steady in his, treading water in time with him.

“Ready?” Tommy asks, squeezing once, twice, as the doors clang open.

Jon nods, squeezing back before dropping Tommy’s hand and reaching for his gun. “Shake a leg.”