prelude to a postlude [renmartyn]

[waveridden]

Title: prelude to a postlude

Fandom: Life Series SMP

Prompt: conflicting obligations/oaths

Rating: PG

Warnings: vague allusions to violence/confinement

Summary: Martyn gets some new business with an old friend. Or an old... whatever Ren is. [Crime AU, Ren/Martyn, 1.1k]

Notes: another vague crime AU thing. I continue to use these to work out headcanons and plots <3

Everything about the Hermits is just a little too… nice. It makes Martyn’s skin itch somewhere that can’t be scratched, the familiar phantom feeling of being far, far too out of place.

“You get used to it,” Grian says, which isn’t actually that helpful, given his history. But he shows Martyn around like nothing’s changed in the past half a dozen years. Like it’s still six guns split between the eight of them, trading tips about which ones need maintenance, and like Grian isn’t one of the most feared men in the city.

When the Hermits contracted Martyn, he came back with a rate close to double his usual, because they could afford him, and because if they needed to afford him it probably meant they would pay it. The Hermits are paying him nearly double that rate. Martyn’s going to take a very nice, very long vacation after all this.

Grian takes him through the Hermit offices with ruthless efficiency, although that efficiency seems to account for lots of breaks and harassing strangers. Martyn lets half the names slip through, because he couldn’t possibly learn them all.

“You’re not going to be in the office much,” Grian says, which is an incredibly delicate way of saying that Martyn is a hitman who specializes in making things look like horrible accidents, and also isn’t even true. He has to plan a lot, office space will be great. “But in case you need it we have an office over by— oh, Ren!”

It’s years of experience that prevent Martyn from freezing to the spot. He turns, natural as anything, to follow Grian’s gaze.

Ren looks healthier then he remembers, obviously. His hair is neater, his skin is cleaner, and his his eyes are hidden behind sunglasses. Indoors, because that’s the kind of guy Ren is. Martyn thinks for a second that he can feel Ren staring at him, but Ren’s a good actor too, because his gaze slides over to Grian with only the barest hesitation. “G! What’s happening, baby?”

“Showing our newest contractor around.” Grian claps Martyn on the shoulder; Martyn shoves him out of habit. “This is Martyn, he’s going to kill some people for us.”

“Wow,” Ren says, as though he hasn’t seen Martyn soaked through with blood. “Welcome, man. Grian, Impulse said he’s looking for you, it sounded important.”

“How important?”

Ren makes a face. Martyn can’t parse it, but Grian can (and wow, Martyn definitely can’t be jealous of Grian, can he?) because he groans loudly. “Can you show him to his office? It’s that one at the end, by Cleo’s studio. Martyn, I’ll be back after… whatever this is.”

“You got it,” Ren says, easy as anything. Grian nods at him, which is ridiculous, because the Grian in Martyn’s memory is still twenty-one and sharp around every possible edge and isn’t the kind of man who gives businesslike nods and fixes other people’s problems. And then he’s hurrying off, and it’s Ren and Martyn. Isn’t it always just Ren and Martyn?

“Office sounds out of the way,” Martyn offers weakly. Ren pivots down the hall and starts walking, and Martyn rushes to follow him. He opens his mouth to say something, but Ren isn’t looking at him and there are doors still open, so he holds onto it until they’re in the office. It’s an irritatingly nice office, because everything the Hermits do is irritatingly nice.

Martyn closes the door behind him. He barely manages to turn before Ren is pushing into his space, crowding him back against it. It’s pleasantly familiar, even as his heart stutters in his chest.

Ren’s hands on his shoulders, cupping the back of his neck, trailing down his biceps. Ren’s eyes, wide behind his sunglasses. Ren’s voice, strangled and desperate, as he says, “What are you doing here?”

“Contract work,” Martyn answers. His hands are on Ren’s waist now, funny, he doesn’t remember putting them there. “What are you doing here?”

“Uh, project management?”

“You’re a Hermit?”

Ren quirks a half-smile at him, one that’s undercut by him squeezing Martyn’s shoulders. “Have been for years.”

“Congratulations,” Martyn says, a little weak. “Um.”

He remembers weeks on end in hiding. He will always remember. Guarded looks and fake names and having to put his confidence, his life, in a stranger’s hands. That stranger earning that confidence over and over and again. A shoebox apartment. Whispering his name and feeling Ren’s answering smile against his mouth.

Leaving. He remembers leaving.

“Now’s actually not a great time,” Ren is saying, almost like it’s to himself. “Given, um.”

Martyn’s eyes snap up to Ren’s face. “Given?”

“Well,” Ren says. “Given, the. Uh. The possibility of political unrest.”

“In the city?”

“In the Hermits.”

Martyn takes a second to absorb this, then sighs. “As long as I get paid, yeah?”

It’s the wrong thing to say. Ren steps back, smooths Martyn’s T-shirt down in a move that is certainly designed to make Martyn think about Ren taking the shirt off instead. Or, worse, it’s not designed or calculated at all; he never was able to figure out how honest Ren was being at any given moment.

“Wait,” Martyn says, lightheaded with proximity and desperation and guilt. “If there’s… political unrest. Can you let me know?”

“So you can get out?” Ren says, and it’s almost, almost devoid of judgment.

“So I know my options,” Martyn says. What he means is: so I know I don’t have to choose between you and Grian. So I have time to think. So I know which apologies I can stomach making.

“Fine,” says Ren. And then, “It’s good to see you.”

“You too,” Martyn says, words dangerously close to Ren’s goddamn mouth.

One of Ren’s arms snakes around Martyn’s waist, near his hips. “Martyn?” he says, and Martyn wishes he could bottle the feeling that rushes through him at the sound of his name in Ren’s voice, the euphoria, even laced through as it is with guilt.

It takes a second to remember how to answer. “Yes, Ren?”

Something vulnerable crosses Ren’s face, so fast Martyn’s not sure he’s seen it. “You’re blocking the door,” he says, and twists the handle open.

“Ah,” Martyn says, flushing hot, hot, hot. “Right.”

He steps to the side, and Ren leaves, quick as he came. Martyn watches him go and waits to hear the door click shut behind him, and slowly, agonizingly sinks to the ground.