Chapter Text
Rashid is too exhausted to think about how odd it is that there’s light emanating from within his flat. He unlocks the door, tows his rollerboard inside, and then stares in jet-lagged shock at the baffling scene in front of him. Raglan could’ve warned him about this. Raglan should’ve warned him about this. Instead, he’s walking in to find an intruder curled up in the corner of his sofa watching an offbeat show with Bill Hader in it.
A familiar intruder, though. One he’s so glad to see that his heart’s abruptly in his throat.
Sam Barclay hits pause, turns to face Rashid, and blinks in surprise. “You’re home early.”
“Not by much,” Rashid says, propping his suitcase against the wall. “Why are you here?”
Sam scoots away from the arm of the sofa as Rashid approaches. “They didn’t tell you?”
“Nobody tells me nothing,” Rashid quotes, smiling at Sam as he plops down next to him.
Rolling his eyes, Sam glances at the telly. “Rather watch Hot Fuzz for old times’ sake?”
“No, we can keep this on,” Rashid says, removing his shoes. “Just…what is it, exactly?”
“Barry,” Sam replies. “The second season. Not sure I’m fully sold on it, if I’m honest.”
“Sam, what are you doing here?” Rashid asks in concern, drawing his legs up on the sofa.
“You’re just getting back from delivering the ’73 interview tapes to New York?” Sam asks.
Rashid nods. “Raglan suspected that Armand might send me in person. He was correct.”
Sam makes a fretful noise. “I’m here because Daniel won’t be able to resist the invitation.”
“So, the Order thinks I’m going to need backup if the situation deteriorates?” Rashid asks.
Sam taps the headphones around his neck. “That, and I have experience with sound tech.”
“Oh,” Rashid says thoughtfully. “They want someone constantly monitoring the surveillance.”
“Letting the recording software run unattended while you’re on shift is no longer acceptable if we have a third active mark in the penthouse,” Sam confirms grimly. “Every second I’m awake, I’m going to be stuck in this flat listening to the live feed from all those bugs you’ve planted.”
“That’s terrible news for you,” Rashid sighs. “Great news for me, though,” he continues before he can stop himself, tipsy from the Champagne he’d drunk in first class on the plane. “It’s been lonely fucking work.” He leans over the side of the sofa, glancing back the hall. “The second bedroom’s been designated as an office. The desk’s in there…the computer, the recording setup, everything. I assume you’ve had a look.”
Sam nods guiltily. “I signed for a delivery from Raglan a few hours ago. It’s in there, too.”
Rashid pats Sam’s arm. “Coffins don’t bother me, Sam. You’ve got to sleep somewhere.”
Sam heaves a sigh of relief. “Well, this is…less awkward than I was afraid it might be.”
Withdrawing his hand, Rashid shrugs. “Do you…want a drink? For old times’ sake?”
“Oh, you’re grand,” Sam replies in a rush. “Might take the weird edge off, you think?”
Might also be a wretched idea, Rashid thinks, rising, but I want to feel something.
Sam puts the show back on while Rashid returns with the open bottle of Sauternes and one wine glass. Rashid drinks half the bottle as quickly as he can, and then holds his wrist out to Sam as soon as he feels the effects of the alcohol stack on what he’d already drunk on the plane.
“I know it’s been a few years since I left,” Rashid says when he sees Sam hesitate. “Look, I’ve…” He touches Sam’s jaw, feeling a shiver pass through him as Sam finally takes hold of his hand, parts his lips, and lets his fangs descend. “I’ve missed this. Drinking with you.”
Sam gives him a glance that’s downright sheepish as he presses his lips against Rashid’s pulse-point. “You’re still fuckin’ certifiable,” he replies, sinking his fangs slow and clean, closing his eyes with an audible intake of breath through his nose as he takes a swallow.
Rashid hisses with the sting of it, scooting closer to lessen the pull on his wounds as Sam runs his tongue over the punctures to catch every spilled drop of blood. He slides his left arm around Sam, burying his face against Sam’s shoulder, crushing his right arm between them as Sam sinks his fangs a second time, widening the first set of punctures. This had always been the excuse they’d used to seek closeness, hadn’t it, as desperate for warmth and connection as they’d both been? They’d always stopped at this: sharing a bottle of wine and cuddling on weekends during the years Sam had trained Rashid for this mission. And then the job listing in Dubai had turned up too soon for their liking, and Rashid had shipped out, and they’d been stuck with sporadically emailing and texting each other while Sam had been on tour ever since.
Rashid has been in Dubai for four and a half years on his own. He’s followed Sam’s tour dates and locations with a determination that borders on obsessive; he’s watched just about every TikTok and YouTube video of Sam that has crossed his path. He’s sent Sam plenty of teasing texts about what he’s seen in those videos. Plenty of unintentionally flirty ones, too, or at least ones he’s not willing to admit might be intentionally flirty. Sam has always, always responded quicker than a blink. He opens his mind to Sam, pressing them cheek to cheek.
“Fuckin’ sap,” Sam grumbles against Rashid’s wrist. He licks over Rashid’s wounds with his nicked, bleeding tongue to heal them. “Mmm.”
“Missed you lots,” Rashid mumbles against Sam’s shoulder, intoxicated enough not to care how vulnerable he sounds in admitting to that.
“Missed you more,” Sam replies, his breath affectionate against Rashid’s ear as they settle cozily into each other to watch another episode.
Rashid isn’t sure when he falls asleep or at what point Sam extracts himself to go to coffin—but he’s alone on the sofa when he wakes at dusk the next evening, still fully dressed and covered with the ratty throw blanket. There’s noise in the kitchenette behind Rashid, though, the sound of Sam cursing under his breath as he tries to both get a piece of silverware to stop falling off a plate and make the kettle stop bubbling.
Rashid struggles to sit up, rubbing his face. He has a hangover, but it’s not as bad as it would’ve been if Sam hadn’t drawn about half the alcohol out of his system. Twisting around, Rashid leans over the back of the sofa, watching Sam drop a tea bag in his favorite mug and pour hot water in it. Sam’s pajamas and robe are still as outdated as the glimpses he remembers having caught of them in the London motherhouse kitchen, pinstripes and brocade and mother-of-pearl buttons. He even wears the same old slippers, which makes Rashid’s stomach twist.
“Still a creeper, aren’t you,” Sam sighs, turning with the mug and plate in hand. “You’d better eat this, or you’ll be suffering on tonight’s shift.”
Rashid smirks at him, resting his chin on the back of the sofa. “Don’t think you’ve changed much, either, from what I can see,” he says. “Thanks.”
Sam brings Rashid’s breakfast to the sofa and takes a seat next to him. He hands the tea to Rashid, and then holds a forkful of egg out to him.
Rashid takes a sip of tea and stares at the fork. “You’re going to feed me.”
“I’m imposing on you thanks to the Order,” Sam replies. “Least I can do.”
“Wait on me hand and foot?” Rashid asks, taking the bite of egg in defeat.
“It’s what you do for those two ingrates up the road, isn’t it?” Sam asks.
“I don’t go this far,” Rashid sighs, but, fuck him, the eggs are perfect.
Sam offers another forkful of egg, contrite. “I took too much last night.”
“Blood? I don’t think so,” Rashid replies. “It’s just a hangover, Sam.”
“No,” Sam insists, tapping Rashid’s lips with the fork. “I got greedy.”
“I don’t blame you,” Rashid says. “Some of the bagged stuff’s awful.”
“How would you know?” Sam asks, relieved as Rashid takes the bite.
“Louis barely touches some of what we serve from the Farm, that’s how.”
“I’m nowhere near as picky as that snob. Although I’d be lying if I didn’t admit…”
Rashid sets his tea aside, carefully taking the plate from Sam. “Admit what?”
“You’re still my favorite,” Sam admits, resting his chin in his hand as Rashid eats on his own.
“I’m still flattered,” Rashid tells him, and truly means it. “Shouldn’t you be eavesdropping?”
Sam wrinkles his nose, fiddling with the headphones around his neck. “Armand’s boring.”
“If Louis isn’t awake, that’s likely true,” Rashid agrees. “He’s not doing much in that case.”
“Messing about on the iPad, if what’s incoming from the security cameras can be believed.”
“I shudder to think what he’s spent on furniture for the guest room, all for two weeks’ use.”
“You’re going to be late if you don’t shower,” Sam chides, taking the empty plate from Rashid. He reaches across Rashid to the end table, grabbing the mug of tea. “Finish up,” Sam urges, sticking it under Rashid’s nose until Rashid takes the mug. “Let’s get you out the door.”
Rashid grasps the mug, and then bursts out laughing. “You must really miss training me.”
“You’re the most fun I’ve had my entire career in the Order,” Sam scoffs. “So, yeah. I do.”
Once Rashid has showered and dressed, he emerges from his room to find Sam seated at the desk in the office with his headphones on and a mug of blood in his hand. Rashid sneaks up behind him, not that he’s going to get away with it. Sam spins in his chair at the last second, gazing up at Rashid with a wistful half smile. He reaches with his free hand like he means to touch Rashid, but thinks better of it.
“Back into the trenches,” Sam sighs, genuinely put-out that Rashid has to leave. “I’d say give maître my best, but that’s tempting fate.”
Rashid sets a hand on Sam’s shoulder, squeezing briefly. “Text me if you need anything. I’ll be home a couple of hours before dawn.”
Hassan, the household driver, collects Rashid just like he does every night. He remarks on Rashid seeming more relaxed than usual, which…with a hangover? That’s really a credit to Sam’s over-familiar meddling in Rashid’s evening routine. Rashid thanks Hassan as he drops him off at Al Sharaf Tower, and then greets Shamira on his way through security. He runs into Louis coming out of the elevator.
“Are you running errands tonight, Mr. du Lac?” Rashid asks respectfully. “Hassan is waiting.”
“It’s just some business in the city, Rashid,” Louis tells him, distracted. “Don’t worry about it.”
“No, sir,” Rashid says calmly, stepping into the elevator. Fuck, Daniel has written back already.
Armand’s flurry of activity in the reading room is instant confirmation of Rashid’s assumption. There are archival boxes of photographs and documents laid out in neat rows all over the table and all over the floor, dozens of them. Armand is on his hands and knees before several of the boxes on the floor, frowning as he hunts through a pile of photographs. He rocks back on his heels when Rashid enters.
“There you are. I’ll require your assistance with this,” Armand says, looking relieved to see him.
“Of course, sir,” Rashid says, setting his messenger bag on the nearest chair. “Daniel replied?”
“Within six hours of when you made the delivery, by my math,” Armand replies, sounding dazed. He sets down the handful of photographs back down in their box. “I almost didn’t expect…” Armand gets to his feet, brushing off his hands. “These are too well organized.”
“They’re…what, sir?” Rashid asks, perplexed.
“Too orderly,” Armand clarifies. “Mix them up.”
Rashid gives him an exasperated look. “Sir.”
Armand looks petulant. “Louis doesn’t deserve—”
“An easy time of this, no, I know you don’t think so,” Rashid replies. “However, it’s a terrible idea to push him when you’ll be on-edge yourself.”
“You’re lucky I don’t pay you to keep your mouth shut and opinions to yourself,” Armand says. “Advice registered, request denied. Mix them.”
“As you wish,” Rashid sighs, reaching for one of the boxes on the table.
“Princess Bride. You wouldn’t make a half bad Westley,” Armand muses.
“They’d better not remake it as long as I live,” Rashid says. His phone vibrates.
“If someone were to turn you, we might prevent that travesty,” Armand says.
Rashid rolls his eyes as he begins to swap photographs at random. “Unlikely.”
Armand tilts his head, approaching the table while Rashid works. “Talamasca.”
At the sound of the word, Rashid’s heart stops. “I’m—I’m sorry?” he manages.
“It wouldn’t be in your best interests to deny it at this juncture,” Armand tells him. “I’m not angry with you, Rashid. Far from it. This isn’t the first time that pit of vipers has slipped one of you under my door. You know Sam Barclay, I take it? My erstwhile playwright in Paris?”
Rashid drops the photograph he’s holding, staring at Armand in barely suppressed alarm. “I do,” he says numbly. “He trained me for this mission.”
“Regardless of what the Talamasca’s files might tell you,” Armand says gravely, “and regardless of what you might hear pass my lips in the weeks to come? I was always quite fond of Sam. Were that not the case, he wouldn’t be alive, under your roof, and listening even as we speak.”
“I know that you let Sam escape,” Rashid replies. “That’s not news. He told me as much.”
“Sam never knew that I knew what he was up to,” Armand says. “But I’m telling him now.”
Rashid’s phone vibrates again in his back pocket. He’s going to have one hell of a text backlog to clear on his break. “What’s the point of this?”
“Leverage,” Armand says. “That, and I might need to call in a favor or two before the next three weeks are out. Does Sam still have his scripts?”
Rashid blinks at Armand in confusion. “You still have copies of those scripts, last I checked.”
“Not his personal ones,” Armand replies, running a fingernail over the parquet-topped table.
“Sam handed most of them over as evidence,” Rashid points out, thoroughly disgruntled now. “There’s no telling which motherhouse archives they’re housed in. It would be a fool’s errand to go digging for them. Do you honestly think Daniel is going to demand details on Paris?”
“If you don’t believe that Daniel will demand details on everything I put within his reach,” Armand says soberly, “then you’re naïve, Rashid.” He leans across the table, his next movement so swift and disconcerting that Rashid breaks a sweat as he draws Rashid’s right wrist up to his face. “Naïve,” Armand repeats, pushing up Rashid’s cuff, running his thumb over the veins visible between his tendons, “but brave, I see.”
Rashid pulls his hand away. He knows full well that Sam hasn’t left a mark, but even the lack of scars and the fact that Rashid has showered is not sufficient to remove the olfactory traces of Sam’s feeding from a vampire as old and observant as Armand. “Stay away from him.”
“I mean him no harm,” Armand says calmly, “just as I mean you no harm for harboring him.”
“And that will stand as long as we comply with any requests you might make?” Rashid asks.
Armand breaks into a wistful smile. “I’m glad that we understand each other, Rashid,” he says, and then tips his head toward the ceiling. “Sam.”
Rashid’s phone vibrates again in his pocket. He can only imagine the string of creative expletives he’s going to find in that particular message.
“I have work to do, sir,” Rashid says wearily, turning his attention back on the photographs.
“He must care for you a great deal,” Armand says, suddenly thoughtful. “And you for him.”
“What makes you say that?” Rashid asks, not bothering to look up. His phone remains silent.
“I doubt that you would’ve survived your training otherwise,” Armand replies. “And you were quick to tell me to keep my distance from him.”
“He was alone in Paris,” Rashid says under his breath. “No partner in the Order had his back.”
“I know,” Armand says quietly. “Unforgivable, if I may say so. Paris field office paid for it.”
Rashid glances up at him, staring in disbelief. “There was a fire. Not long after the theater.”
“I know,” Armand says, giving an elegant shrug. “One of the Order’s great historic losses.”
Rashid just stares after Armand as he leaves the room. His phone starts to vibrate nonstop, but there’s nothing he can do about it until his break.