It begins with the scope

EJ lies flat on a rooftop, city lights sprawling below like a shattered mirror.
His rifle rests easy against his shoulder — too familiar. The crosshairs hover over the balcony across the street.

Where Nicholas stands, raising a glass of dark liquor to the night, his silhouette cut clean by neon.

Just another job.
Just another name in a file.

So why won't EJ pull the trigger?

When it gets messy

Nicholas tips his head, like he feels the stare through concrete and steel.

Then he smirks.
Raises his glass — to EJ, though he can't possibly know where he is.

Or maybe he does.

EJ curses under his breath.
Clicks the safety back on.

He's never hesitated before.
Never second-guessed a mark.

He packs up fast, vanishes into the night. The agency's going to demand answers. He's not sure he has them.

How it comes to a head

The next night, Nicholas finds him.

Of course he does.
Someone with a bounty that high doesn't survive by being oblivious.

EJ wakes in his rented safehouse to the press of cold metal under his chin — Nicholas's gun.

Nicholas sits on the edge of the bed, one leg crossed over the other, smirk crooked, eyes too bright.

"You're very hard to find. Harder still to resist killing after someone tried to shoot me."

EJ's breath hitches. Hands raised slowly.

"I didn't try. That's the point."

Nicholas's thumb taps the safety.
His eyes narrow.

"Then what were you doing, lying on a rooftop with me in your scope?"

The admission

EJ swallows.

"Not pulling the trigger."

Something shifts. Nicholas lowers the gun just slightly, his expression dark and curious.

"Why not?"

EJ should lie.
But he's tired, and Nicholas is close enough to smell — danger and aftershave and something that makes his pulse jump.

"Because I wanted to see what you'd do next."

The first mistake

Nicholas laughs low, then leans in so close their noses brush.

"You're either the dumbest man alive... or the loneliest."

His mouth crashes into EJ's before EJ can think better of it. The gun clatters to the floor.

They kiss like it's violence — teeth, breath, EJ's hand fisting in Nicholas's shirt like he needs an anchor, Nicholas's hands rough on his jaw.

It's wrong. It's reckless. It's the first real thing EJ's felt in years.

When they finally break apart, gasping, Nicholas grins.

"Next time you aim at me, make sure it's with worse intentions."

EJ's eyes darken, thumb brushing Nicholas's lower lip.

"No promises."

Continuation: After the kissA comedown

They pull apart. The hotel room is silent but for their heavy breathing.

Nicholas's hand still grips EJ's collar. EJ's gun hand hovers uselessly by his thigh. Both of them are flushed, off-balance, trying to catch up with what just happened.

Nicholas is the first to move — steps back, smooths down his shirt like it matters.

"I should shoot you anyway," he says, voice low, almost amused.

EJ gives a hollow laugh, wipes at his mouth.

"Then why don't you?"

Nicholas's eyes narrow, studying him.
Then he bends, picks up his discarded pistol, checks the chamber with an expert flick.

"Because if I was going to, it would've been on that rooftop."

A deal they shouldn't make

They both know this is reckless. Two predators circling, neither trusting fully, both too curious to let go.

"You were supposed to kill me," Nicholas says after a long stretch of quiet, pacing near the grimy hotel window.

EJ watches him, weary, shoulders heavy.

"I know."

"And now you're on your agency's blacklist."

"Probably."

"So what now?" Nicholas stops, facing him directly. "You keep following me until one of us finishes it?"

It's not a threat. It's worse: it's an invitation.

EJ stands, pushes a hand through his hair, then mutters,

"I think I'm already past the point of finishing anything."

Nicholas watches him a moment longer. Then lets out a short laugh that doesn't quite reach his eyes.

"Lucky me. The agency's most precise ghost can't pull the trigger anymore."

A few weeks later: trust on a knife's edge

They start working together. Not openly. Never officially. But information slips from Nicholas's network to EJ's ear, and bullets meant for Nicholas start landing in other targets instead.

They don't share beds. Don't share confessions.
But they share long nights, shoulder to shoulder, guns oiled between them on cheap motel sheets.

One night, Nicholas gets clipped — a shallow graze along his ribs, but bleeding enough to make him swear.

EJ doesn't say anything, just pulls out a kit, starts cleaning it with practiced hands.

Nicholas watches him, face tight.

"You ever wonder how long this lasts? Before one of us gets smart and finishes the job?"

EJ doesn't look up.

"Every day."

Nicholas's smile is crooked.

"Good."

The quiet line that almost ruins it

When EJ tapes down the last piece of gauze, Nicholas's hand covers his, holds it there. Just for a breath.

"But for some damn reason... I still keep waking up hoping it's you who shows up. Even if it means getting shot at again."

EJ's jaw flexes. He doesn't pull away.

"Yeah," he rasps. "Me too."

Final image

Later, Nicholas lights a cigarette by the window, city lights crawling up his silhouette. EJ sits on the edge of the bed, loading magazines.

Neither says it.
But the truth hangs there anyway, thick and bitter:

They should've been each other's end.
Somehow, they keep choosing not to be.