Ladybug wants to say I love you. He doesn’t. Not yet.
***
The first time was back in Glasgow, in the rain, like it always seemed to be in fucking Glasgow. To be honest, Ladybug doesn’t remember much. Blood down the side of his face — he can’t remember whose it was, only that it wasn’t his. Yet. He had left the mark bleeding in a cheap hotel room, all set with whiskey in crystal like a goddamn Bond movie, a suitcase full of cash, a cheap silver gun. Ladybug had wanted a charm on his, little loop of beads, like teenagers did with their phones. Candy distraction. He thought it would maybe add to his persona. Make him seem a little friendlier. A little less like a killer.
Sharp teeth. He had bitten down hard on his inner cheek just in time with his gunshot. Blood on the pillows, in a wildflower arc along the wall of the hotel room, and his own blood filling the inside of his mouth. It tasted bitter. And more — out in the alley, again, the job complete. He caught a flash of copper hair and slick-dark brick walls — competition, huh?
And pain — he heard more than felt the way his cheekbone crushed against the brick. Red on the yellow paint lining the curb, road marks, too bright. He swung the suitcase, his pay, hard around, hoping to hit bone.
He felt that swing in his own jaw. Felt the burst of the guy’s nose breaking against the case. A quick spatter of blood, a little prettier than a gunshot.
That copper hair, too long. Wild blue eyes, so open, so heated — fuck — gotta get closer, finish this. Ladybug threw his shoulder hard into the other guy’s stomach, felt the air leave him in a hot, sharp wheeze. Hoped he broke a rib.
And asphalt against his back. Wet pavement soaking through his t-shirt. He dodged the knife as it came down, almost a second too late, staring up at the aquiline profile above him, blurred in rain and blood. He twisted, landing a kick to the ribs. The guy crumpled down onto Ladybug. The knife — an extension of the guy’s hand, so fluid, so smooth — carved down, down. Cold. Carved a pretty little arc into the flesh of Ladybug’s stomach.
Ladybug didn’t scream. He wrenched himself out from under the warmth of the guy’s torso, held a hand to his knife wound, pressing a little too hard. He stood shaking for a second. Watching. The guy pulled himself up, slouching to one side — Ladybug had definitely broken his rib. Fuck. He felt those blue, blue eyes on him again, burning, burning. He ran as best he could all the way back to the little hole in the wall his agency put him in for the job. Left a blood trail, maybe. He can’t remember.
Ladybug didn’t scream, later, either, as he worked a half-moon upholstery needle across the ragged edges of his skin. Crooked stitches. No one to do them but himself.
He sees the scar when he takes his shirt off in the full-length mirror in his penthouse, when he turns just slightly to the left. It’s not ugly, not like some of his scars. It just is.
***
Tangerine grins. His teeth are white and almost perfect.
“Hey,” says Ladybug.
“You’re thinking too much,” says Tangerine.
***
The second time, Philadelphia. Of all places. Ladybug watched, careful, over the rim of his cheap sunglasses, wishing his agency paid him enough to afford designer. Too flashy, anyways. He was casing, that day, staking out the scene of the approaching night’s kill. He sat in a cafe across the street from the stage — apartment building — watching, watching.
The recognition intoxicated him more than it should have. It fuzzed hot at the base of his spine. Copper hair — aquiline nose, a little crooked from a past break — eyes, even at this distance, so blue. He tilted his head, appreciating the line of the guy’s jaw, his mustache, his neat, dull blue suit. Cut well. Pulled at the lines of his muscle. Ladybug watched him sidle over to the cafe, eyes wandering casually. They stuck on the apartment building, but never for too long.
Competition, again. Ladybug let himself watch for a few slow moments, then he got up. Walked over to the guy’s table, sat down, introduced himself with a name that Ladybug has forgotten now. Took the guy’s name, fake as well. Took in that voice, surprisingly dulcet, strangely soft, but edged like the guy was trying to lower it, harden it. Ladybug watched, and watched well. Took it all in. Took it all.
Later, laced in moonlight, he watched the guy’s neck whip back, recoiling from a hard punch to the jaw. Tendons defined like a Greek statue. Light and shadow so deep that Ladybug wanted to drown himself in that pattern. Instead, he took a kick to the chest.
God, he had forgotten — entranced in the sleek rhythm of gunfire — he had forgotten how delicious a good fistfight could be. He struggled to breathe, shook off the heat — the thrill of recognition — dove back in with a bloody smile. His own blood, although the other guy was bleeding from the mouth as well. Ladybug twisted his shoulders, trying to escape the other guy’s pin. Not so easy. He took a fist to his own jaw — fucking silver rings —
The fight was so — so goddamn good that Ladybug didn’t even notice the other one. Taller, darker, or maybe it was just shadow. He was in and out before Ladybug noticed that there was someone else there. The copper-haired guy leaned down over Ladybug’s face, hot arm against his throat, burning, burning. No knife this time. Just the sharp edges of him where he pressed Ladybug into the wall. “My twin,” he whispered, victorious. He stepped back and let Ladybug crumple to the ground in bruised defeat. Then he left, he and his twin, the whisper of their shoes on the hallway carpet sounding to Ladybug like a symphony of stuttered breath.
This time, Ladybug lost — the mark and the money. Win some, lose some. It only seemed fair, seeing as he won the last time.
His scar twinged, painful.
***
That was then. He was angry, then. Wanting and wanting and wanting — connection, connection, to make himself into the assassin he swore he was. He didn’t remember much — doesn’t — from jobs over the years, but this one stuck in his memory like a butterfly pinned to cardstock. So beautiful and so goddamn dead.
Best way to treat it, anyways. Kill the passion in his mind. Kill the heat. Ignore, ignore the twisted part of him, the part that treats a fight like a dance, every time. Shoot it all dead. Leave nothing but empty casings and sweet hot blood.
That was what he would have thought, back then. What he was thinking. Now, though …
***
Ladybug sighs, drops his head to rest on Tangerine’s shoulder. He tries to shift his weight away from the rainbow of injuries staining Tangerine’s body, which means he ends up sort of planking awkwardly above him.
“Come back,” says Tangerine. “I’m cold. Get back down here.”
“I don’t. I don’t wanna hurt you,” says Ladybug.
“You already bloody did, didn’t you?” The words aren’t sharp, no undertone of resentment, of anger. Just a smile. “Come back,” he says, and yanks Ladybug down onto him, chest to chest, warm.
Ladybug smiles. He brushes a hand across a bruise on Tangerine’s side. He thinks maybe he did that, with one of the carts, on the train. Doesn’t matter now. He sweeps his land lower, carefully, down to a collection of finger-shaped bruises on Tangerine’s hip. He definitely did those, like, ten minutes ago. Held fast to Tangerine, pressed a little too hard. Every meeting, every fight, up until now, leading to this. The logical conclusion. Cross paths enough and they might just converge, become one. Let them be together.
He doesn’t wanna leave this.
***
Johannesburg. Still lost in time. It brought expectations. It brought names. The Twins — best in the business, hmm? The ones responsible for the Bolivia job.
Ladybug grinned at one of them, the copper-haired one, from across the ruined car park. He could see the glint of the guy’s new earring — holy shit — from where he stood. It glimmered pretty against his neck.
“Long time no see,” called the guy. Ladybug raised a hand, flipped the safety off his gun.
“Name’s Tangerine,” the guy yelled. “This here’s Lemon.”
“Why do I have to be Lemon?” said the other one. His twin.
Ladybug raised his gun, careful, watched the other two do the same. Evenly matched, that’s what they were. Tangerine, and himself. Against Tangerine and Lemon, he wouldn’t stand a chance.
Better keep a distance, then, today. He hoped, hoped like hell, there would be another fight soon, another chance to get his hands on Tangerine, one on one, to fucking destroy him. Because that’s what he wanted, right? To get rid of the competition?
Sure. The answer worked for now. Ladybug pulled the trigger.
***
He says it. Somewhere in the back of his mind there’s his therapist, telling him that healthy communication is essential to healthy relationships. He doesn’t think this relationship could be described as healthy in any way, shape, or form — but still. He says it, and Tangerine listens.
“I don’t wanna leave you,” he says, his lips pressed against Tangerine’s collarbone.
***
Again, on a bullet train somewhere between Tokyo and Kyoto. The fight was as good as it always was. Ladybug kicked, vicious. Been too damn long since the last time. He wasn’t surprised when Tangerine caught his leg. He fought to hold Tangerine back. He wanted to get him closer, closer — finish this — but the knife —
He slammed Tangerine against the wall. More, more, more —
A growl — Tangerine. Broken glass. Ladybug heaved the carts at Tangerine, watched him catch every blow. He swung open the cabinet door. This time, the blow was softer. Tangerine’s nose didn't break.
Ladybug spit. Long hair hanging in his eyes. He caught a blow to the jaw and let himself fall. Pain sparked hot behind his eyelids. Tangerine swung again, again, his face contorted, animal. Too much. Ladybug didn’t want to hurt him — but then again, he really, really did —
Interrupted. Ladybug caught Tangerine’s eyes over the head of the concession girl. Those perfect, wild blue eyes, bright with rage. Ladybug smiled. For a brief second, the world spun, blue around those eyes. Ladybug wanted this, didn’t he? This — a perfectly matched enemy. A good fight every time they met. It was like stress relief. Except that wasn’t it, was it? No. Far more damning than that. They kept finding each other. Over and over again. Ladybug wanted to know Tangerine. Ladybug wanted him to stay.
Tangerine glowered as he picked up the bill.
As soon as she left, they were on each other again. Ladybug let his back slam into the cabinets, over and over again. He had had enough. Wanted too much — wanted Tangerine’s touch to be soft — wanted —
Tangerine pushed him back, and he felt the window shatter under his head. Fuck. He was gonna get whiplash for sure. He grabbed two fistfuls of Tangerine’s suit — expensive — tried to push back, but the world was spinning. Vertigo. The bright shock of those goddamn rings against his jaw. He spit blood. He knew he should fight, fight back, but it was all he could do to twist away, struggle to breathe, plead — staring into those sweet blue eyes —
***
“You’ve gotta, love,” says Tangerine. “You’ve gotta leave me or you’ll never come back.”
***
Somewhere, sometime, far from now, they will meet again. Ladybug knows.
It makes sense, then, that he will receive a note, slipped carefully into his jacket pocket, somewhere in a crowded Singapore market. It will read “Rooftop bar, Raffles Hotel after we’re done here. I’ve always wanted to try a Singapore Sling.” There will be a crudely drawn tangerine at the corner of the paper, done in orange ballpoint. Ladybug will smile and wonder how the hell Tangerine has gotten this far in life without having tried a Singapore Sling.
This will be his last job. He will tell Maria, and he knows she will pass the information along to the right people. She’s good at that. He trusts her.
This will be Tangerine’s last job as well. Ladybug doesn’t know that, not now, but he will. Because Tangerine will tell him, voice soft, shining in the sun reflecting off the rooftop pool. He will kiss Ladybug, slow, warm, careful around Ladybug’s split lip. He will taste like gin and opportunity.
Ladybug will take him home and kiss him gentle over every bruise.
***
“I will,” says Ladybug. “I will come back.” God, the version of Ladybug from before the train would never had said such a thing. It feels soft, raw. Ladybug knows he means it. He smooths his hand through that copper hair, feels Tangerine push further into his touch. So sweet. Seems like such a far cry from the way he moves when they fight, every muscle tense, coiled tight with power, with rage. But then again, it isn’t that different after all. He knows Tangerine, by now. Knows the ways they fit together. An echo and an answer.
Tangerine brings his arm up, settles it around Ladybug’s waist. “I know you will. I’m too good for you to live without.”
It’s true. It’s true in this deep, encompassing way. Ladybug feels it humming at the bottoms of his lungs. Tangerine is too good for him to live without.
Ladybug chuckles. “Best I’ve ever had.”
Tangerine's answering laugh is genuine. It sounds like a sunrise.
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