In 2089, a man returns to his old team, greatly annoying his former partner. Time travel is not an easy matter, especially if you cannot trust the man beside you. Now they have to work together again, awakening feelings that should have died with th...
"Welcome, Veeru," the house computer said cheerfully.
Veer staggered, nearly tripping over the doorsill. "Why did she call me that?"
"We were friends the last time you were here. I was hoping we could be more than friends, but you abandoned me." Anger surged blindly, and Quinn slammed Veer against the wall closest to the door, sending a portrait to the ground with a loud crash. He pressed both hands against Veer's hard chest. "I would've never left you."
Veer roared and pushed Quinn away. They struggled, hands around throats, knees threatening soft parts. Quinn swept his foot under Veer's. They landed together, rolling across the rug. They knocked over chairs and trinkets, destroying the living room in their fury- growls and curses became the demolition's soundtrack.
"Should I call 9-1-1, Quinn?"
"Don't you dare," Quinn yelled at his house computer. "I'll handle this!"
That momentary distraction gave Veer an opening.
A solid punch in the jaw made Quinn's brain rattle in his head. He grunted, "Fucker!"
Veer's eyes went wide as if he'd just discovered something alive and really gross and his salad. He jumped back and away from Quinn in a perfect imitation of a frightened crab. His face contorted into a savage mask of horror. The old navy blue leather couch prevented him from going further. He hissed, "Why did you bring me here?"
"I want answers."
"We were partners for three years. You knew me better than many members of my own family. You knew all the answers before you even had the questions," Veer snarled.
True. They'd been partnered as soon as they entered Clepsydra Project in 2082- after four years with the Marines. Quinn, the child of two colliding words: superstition against science, and Veer, brought up to be a saint-soldier but wanting to be so much more. They had become fast friends easily.
"You didn't say good-bye." Quinn had wanted to bark those words, but they came out despondently pathetic.
Veer used the couch's arm to push himself up. He didn't say a word until he was at the door. After opening the door and with a foot outside the apartment, he turned to look at Quinn. He offered softly- a mere whisper, "And I'm not going to say it now."
The door closed with a sad click. Quinn stared at it for an entire hour. His mind not blank but so jumbled with confusing and contradicting thoughts, it was impossible to find a single thread of coherence to use as a lifeline.
As Quinn resurfaced from his catatonic state, he noticed a large blood stain over his shirt. Had Veer stabbed him? Impossible, neither of them had drawn weapons. Quinn touched the side of his jaw, and his fingers came up smeared with blood. Veer had been wearing the square, bloodstone ring Quinn had given him for his birthday, a couple of months before their inconclusive separation.
That's why he looked horrified. The ring cut me.
Quinn thought for a second that the ring was a sign, a silent message, when she saw it on Veer's finger as he sat with Ramsey. Nevertheless, his anger had incinerated that silly idea the moment Veer walked out of that room. He acted as if he'd just gone on vacation for a few months and was ready to pick up right where he left off. Like vanishing for four years was the most natural thing in the world.
Quinn didn't know how, but he found himself facing the bathroom mirror. The amorphous blood stain created by the long, still dripping cut was right over his heart. Damn it all. Any normal cut would have dripped down his neck, but no, the mark of the fucking lion had to mess with his wardrobe and his brain. He laughed against his better judgment. Singh meant "lion." Four years ago, for some absurd reason or just plain stupidity on his part, he thought Veer Singh could be his lion.
Though for different reasons, they were both lions if Quinn believed his date of birth made him a Leo.
What a fucked up Monday.
April, 11th. Shit! Veer's birthday was next Friday. Quinn dragged one hand down his face in frustration. The blood from his reopened wound left him marked like a barbarian after an epic battle. He rolled his eyes. "Computer?"
"Yes, Quinn?"
"Contact the store and request two cases of MoonGoddess to be delivered this afternoon."
"At once, Quinn."
His hangover wasn't as bad as it could have been the next morning.
"Geez, Fondant, didn't know you'd developed a taste for the ladies." Russo made a rude gesture with hand and forearm and then pointed at Quinn's jaw. "That's gonna leave a pretty nasty scar. Hope it was a nasty battle too."
"I don't see ladies involved. Maybe he adopted a big pussy!" Hollander followed without missing a beat.
"Or he was trying to do us a favor and kill himself, but he was too drunk to aim at his jugular correctly," Jagger counterpointed, guffawing.
Quinn noticed how Veer flinched at the words kill and drunk. He locked eyes with his partner, refusing to be the first to look away.
They would never know the winner of the staring contest because Ramsey yelled, "Enough." Both turned to look at the team leader. "You two," Ramsey pointed at them, "three hours of dance lessons."
"Oh, Fondant won't have any trouble with that," Hollander commented almost excited. "Don't you remember how he flamenco'ed the fuck out of that mission we had in Madrid during Franco's dictatorship?"
"Yeah," Jagger joined in, "I'm not into dudes, and I was all hot and bothered when he was strutting over that table in that seedy joint. The crowd went wild."
Russo elbowed Veer, waggling his eyebrows. "You missed a hell of a show." He winked too. "You could have learned a thing or two."
"He can dance," Quinn blurted before his brain could censor his mouth or stop the blood rushing to his face.
All eyes landed on Quinn.
Ramsey saved Quinn from having to offer an explanation for his comment: "We'll do the fangirling later, boys. This is a different kind of dance. Singh and Fondant also need to try on clothes and everything else, so go ahead. Alaska Conference Room, Fifteenth Floor." Before they could shuffle off, Ramsey added, "And Fondant..."
"Uh-huh?"
"Don't submit your sword for this mission. We can't have you running around Algiers with that thing. This is not Kill Bill."
"You only need one kind of sword for this mission!" Russo yelled- hands cupped around his mouth.
Veer and Quinn left Team Aegis headquarters amid catcalling and wolf whistling. Their destination was within the same building (Tower D), five floors above their offices. They hadn't even said good morning to each other that day. Wordlessly, they entered and exited the elevator and found the conference room. A man and a woman awaited them. The man was their dance instructor. The woman was in charge of their- costumes, uniforms? Quinn didn't know what to call the gauzy, translucent genie pants, thong, slippers, and jewels she gave him.
Once dressed, Quinn left the cubicle so the lady could inspect the fit and decide if any changes or adjustments were needed. He wasn't happy with the string teasing his asshole. His outfit was in shades of red and purple, blending nicely with his fair complexion. He was crouched down, fiddling with his satin slippers when he looked up and saw Veer.
His partner was a vision in gold and green.
Fuck me.
****
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