Chapter Text
The reality of Kinn is at times a grasping, hungry thing even when he is standing still. It bears down on Porsche now with all of its weight: flesh, bone and muscle, alive and alight with the rush of gunfire.
He lets himself sink into Kinn's desperate embrace, for a moment. And then he twists their bodies away from where Chan is already yelling orders for thorough clean-up. Kinn has to take charge in their next breath. He spends the current one just looking at Porsche, eyes searching for something Porsche has long stopped guessing at, and then he nods to himself.
Kinn lifts himself up, and Porsche allows relief to fill him. His shoulder still aches from when Kinn had slammed into him to push him out of the way of raining bullets. Otherwise, he is unharmed; it might be a miracle if Porsche hadn't just witnessed the brunt of Kinn's bull-in-a-china shop intervention.
It had amused Chan, back then, when he'd decided to pair them up. Out of missions, Kinn is self-possessed, dominant, controlled and controlling in turn. He is not any less of these things when he is on the field, but he becomes a blunt force. Plenty of times he'd elected to throw the strategy out of the way if he believed a show of aggression would be more efficient.
Porsche is meant to complement him: his reckless, devil-may-care attitude, guns blazing and stubbornness winning over logic. Back when they were uniform-wearing trainees he would rank last in attendance but somehow, almost infuriatingly, top in practical exams and combat. When his name had been called with Kinn's, he'd read it the same way he'd been sure everyone else in the room had: Kinn would keep him in line.
He would have never thought he'd have a part in keeping Kinn in line, his self-preservation slotted up against the single-minded will of an individual who was allergic to disobedience. Typically, it was Porsche in danger or having to play mediator that would snap Kinn out of going rogue, and only then Porsche suspected that part of it was Kinn being subconsciously affronted by Porsche being the sensible one, all of a sudden.
Perhaps Chan had predicted that, too. Perhaps he'd picked him out for Kinn, and not the other way around. There's a feeling Porsche always gets when they're reporting in and Chan's attention snags on the little skips and beats he winds around Kinn's rogue moments, but he never pries. He just lingers on Porsche's face then makes a note in red ink on the report that Porsche tries his best not to squirm at.
He wills his focus back on the task at hand. He'd played bait undercover for this scheme, because the target had a propensity for "pretty, lithe, tanned men," in Arm's intel briefing, and somehow Porsche had fit the bill. It's also because he has a talent for looking like "the most enticing yet vulnerable person in the room," as Tankhun had put it, though Porsche maintains that this is untrue. In training, he'd had the highest scores for going undercover and assuming identities. The majority of the others couldn't act or look less paranoid even pinned to the wall with a knife held to their throat, but in Porsche's past he'd worked in bars. He knows how to blend in, and stand out. He can pinpoint the ways to capture anyone's attention. He's mastered the art of charming and seducing his patrons, and these are all the reasons he'd yelled back at Kinn during that planning session, because Kinn had inexplicably decided to veto Porsche taking on this role.
Not that it had mattered, because Chan had the last say on the strategy. Kinn may be the director's son, next in line, but he wasn't at the helm yet. He was in the ranks to build strategic experience – which Chan had reminded him of, in level tones, and then laid down the final cut: "Porsche is your partner but both of you are still under my command."
Kinn had stormed out. Porsche had left to go undercover without speaking to him at all, not sure if Kinn would get over his fit in time to join the ambush, or if he'd come back to no partner. That had caused a small bloom of hurt in his chest – surely, no matter what Kinn's reasons were for dissuading Porsche from being the bait, he'd still be at Porsche's back in the end?
Their partnership was not a smooth one. It had plenty of sticking points, at times. But they'd learned to trust each other, had leaped over broken fences to mend them, had whispered secrets while tied down and handcuffed… Whatever was on Kinn's mind, surely he would come back.
Part of Porsche had doubted that, while he'd spent his days slipping into the target's ranks, catching his attention, luring him in with glancing kisses. He'd dreaded the possibility of it, even as First had curled a hand around his waist and filled his ears with filthy, abhorrent promises, that Porsche had swallowed down bile to smile at and encourage. He'd been almost sure of it, not even ten minutes ago, when First had turned on him in the warehouse, a hand on his throat and gun to his forehead, pressed up close with his rank breath in his face.
Porsche had closed his eyes, surrendering to the inevitability of his failure. He'd mourned the day Kinn had turned his back during that briefing, after Chan's remark, because if Kinn had not walked away then he would be here now , somehow always able to sense when Porsche was in trouble and ready to overhaul the plan to save him.
He'd tried not to think of that one night he and Kinn had been tipsy, fresh out of an exploding warehouse with a trail of dead drug lords behind them, sitting by the riverside on a moonlit night. He'd thought – maybe he could have tonight, with the excuse of alcohol singing in his veins, to lean over and have a taste of Kinn's lips. It would be everything to him; it would be nothing at all to Kinn, who used to have a stream of elfin-featured men warming his bed even during their trainee days. Porsche had gone from wondering what they saw in him, to wanting to have even just that – a small thing, really, a spark in the stream of everything he'd begun to desire with Kinn. It had built from the flare of spite-filled sparring sessions they used to have when they'd first been paired up, so that they could get their animosity out of the way of their responsibilities. It had turned into trust on those initial missions, when they couldn't stand each other but always came back to the other's side. Then, one day, Porsche had rolled over to Kinn's side of their shared room, in a highway-side motel where they were spying on their mark, and realized he'd found someone other than his brother that he wanted to protect.
More frighteningly: someone, against all of his instincts and expectations, that he wanted to keep .
It had seemed, on that night, that the world had collapsed in on him. He'd fought to make it appear that it hadn't.
But by that riverside, he'd wanted, so badly, just to have something to call his own. That spark had been there. He knew he'd held Kinn's interest, even if it had always just been physical. He'd resisted giving in because it would always be an unequal exchange. If Kinn had uncovered even just a fraction of it, he'd realize how much Porsche was willing to give over of himself to him, even before he'd even thought to ask of it. That had always rankled: Porsche would never have that from Kinn, but Kinn held it all in the palm of his hand. Keeping him unaware of it had been the only recourse.
It was irrelevant. He needn't have worried. He'd swayed towards Kinn, eyes on his lips, and the sirens had blared. The moment had shattered, like all it would ever be to Porsche was a mirage out of time, and Kinn had instantly turned watchful, awake; he'd shouldered Porsche aside and threatened to dunk him in the water, and Porsche had breathed through the ache that was always in him when he was with Kinn, and they had stumbled away.
So in what he thought were his final moments, he'd regretted. He'd mocked First. "Your technique could use some work," he'd told him, inhaling the threat of a bullet between his eyes, wanting to rile him up so that his death could come quicker. "I've had better kissers, certainly more proficient lovers –"
And then the gunfire, Kinn blazing out of it with his face in a rictus of fury, shooting First down before the man could pull the trigger.
It does bewilder Porsche, though. It always does. There's a mystery to how Kinn always seems to work out when the mission is on the brink of failing, but he's chalked it up to Kinn's deeply-buried need for perfection. Probably couldn't stand losing, even from a distance, the bastard.
In any case, that instinct has saved his hide again, so he's as thankful for it as ever. Chan and Big are rounding up the remnants of First's human trafficking ring. Pete has herded Porsche over to the vehicles, where he gets checked over by an agitated Tankhun: "Aiya, Porsche, you said you were good at this!"
Porsche snorts. "I am good at this," he says, defensive. "First only started suspecting me because none of you thought to maintain my profile at the pimp you said I'd come from." He's still annoyed by that. It's basic work, to keep the lies steady, but whoever had been in charge of Porsche's fabricated background had dropped the ball on that one.
Tankhun's grip on his collar tightens. "That wasn't our mistake," he says. Porsche's frustration dissipates in an instant; he peers into Tankhun's face and finds a hardened look in his eye. "Arm wouldn't be that sloppy. A lot happened while Kinn, and then you, were away." He frowns. Porsche means to follow up on what the hell Tankhun means by "a lot happened," but Tankhun has moved on, snapping at Pete, "Where's that brother of mine anyway? You'd think wrangling this one would be his job." He gives Porsche a little shake.
"He's with Pol at the moment, Khun Nu," Pete says, mild as ever. "They're scouring the records from the target's office."
Porsche tries not to feel the sting, but it comes as always. This is the thing about Kinn that he despises and craves in equal measure: his ability to make Porsche feel important and cared for one second, and then moving on in the next. He brings Porsche to the hospital but doesn't stay by his bed. He's possessive of Porsche on missions, and then Porsche hears from the never-ending whispers about the men he fucks in his bed. He's used to it, and this is still a mission so he understands why Kinn is not by his side, but – it still stings. He can't help it. He's not even sure if Kinn and he are still partners after Kinn storming out on Chan; he's afraid to ask.
He doesn't let it show on his face, though. Tankhun huffs, swears and pouts, and then decrees that Porsche has done all he can for the night, anyway. "Let's get you back to HQ," he says, flouncing over to the passenger seat as Pete escorts Porsche to the backseat, which Porsche only allows because he's so tired and First had nearly cut off his air. His hands still shake when he remembers how close he'd come to dying tonight. It's not the first time, but it's certainly the only time he'd felt so sure there would be no one coming to his aid.
Check-up at HQ is quick.
Tankhun gets that look in his eye that says he's contemplating making Porsche stay the night in the HQ suites, but Porsche, abruptly, feels like he's vibrating out of his skin. He usually prefers to decompress at HQ, shedding off the remnants of the mission in a halfway place surrounded by people who understand how much of their work can take away from their sense of self. Porsche doesn't like dragging the memories of carcasses home with him to his apartment and his brother.
This time, though, he feels… rubbed raw. Perhaps it's all the touches he's had to permit. A large part of it reminds him too much of his back-alley excursions as a bartender in Hum Bar, before he'd been recruited by Kinn and Chan into the agency: the engineered flirting, the brief flashes of intimacy parceled into monetary transactions, and the drive into sexual pleasure as a balm to how lonely he'd often felt. He is good at playing honeypot, but this is the first and longest period he's had to go as one, nestling deeper into the organization and even the intimate acts.
Porsche doesn't believe in being dirtied by it. He does feel displaced by the new skin and habits and personality traits he's had to pull over himself. Wolf in sheep's clothing; sultry promises curling into First's lap with a knife tucked into his waistband. He wants all of that gone, now.
The other part of it is the crash-high-crash of Kinn appearing out of the blue, once again. It's his crucifix: Kinn caring enough for him to always, always protect him and get him home in one piece, then just a cursory check-in on his status after. A reminder that he's important but not in the all-consuming way he wants Kinn to feel.
There's an idea he's been entertaining for a while. He hasn't brought it up, because he and Kinn together are a well-oiled machine and the other partnerships in their trainee group are similarly entrenched. But as the days pass, Porsche feels as though he's closer to the point where being around Kinn hurts more than being detached from him.
He pushes the thought aside. He's too drained to properly examine the idea, untangle the pros and cons; he might feel better in the morning with some sleep and sun in his face. That motherfucker, First, had had an obsession with mood lighting and an aversion to windows in his main compound.
Chay calls him as Pete drives him home, and Porsche spends the entirety of it reassuring his brother that he's fine and to stay put at Kim's place. That's another thing he tries to not think about too much either: the fact that Chay is in some sort of… situationship? Relationship? With the youngest Theerapanyakun brother. At least Kim works behind the scenes, so there's little chance of Chay getting dragged into anything too dangerous.
Porsche is toeing out of his shoes into his empty apartment by the time Chay is satisfied enough to drop the call – which is why he's so distracted that he jumps out of his skin when he finally notices Kinn seated on the sofa, watching him with dark eyes.
"How are you?" Kinn asks, no preamble, head tilted as he considers Porsche. He's holding a glass with a finger of whiskey that Porsche specifically keeps for when Kinn comes over because he's picky about his alcohol. His shoes have been toed off to the side of the sofa, the one he'd bought the Kittisawasd brothers as a housewarming gift.
If Porsche looks around, he knows he'll find mounting evidence of how much of Kinn lives here despite him only sleeping over a scant few nights.
"Good," he says, instead of grabbing Kinn by the shoulders, and… He doesn't know. He never knows. He averts his gaze and heads over instead to the open kitchen, looking for food though he's well aware Chay hardly stocks the place when he's out. It's to give his hands something to do. He still doesn't quite feel settled and there's no chance for that as long as Kinn is here. "Doctor checked me out, nothing serious. Thought of asking her if there's a way to get rid of what I remember from the past weeks," he half-jokes.
There's silence. It unnerves him enough that he stops pretend-rummaging to look at Kinn who, for whatever reason, suddenly appears closed off. He's wearing the expression that arrests his features when he has strong, often negative, feelings about something, but his uptight upbringing won't let him honestly express it.
Porsche quickly runs through the last five minutes. They've barely exchanged words. Surely Kinn can't be pissed off by the doctor saying he's fine? But who the fuck knows what goes on in Kinn's mind sometimes.
He's exhausted. Not quite himself. Certainly he's not in the right frame of mind to translate Kinn's issues and then navigate them. He sees Kinn's left hand flex and clench into a fist, and decides changing topics may be a better move.
"Tankhun said something about a lot happening while I was away," he says. "Any chance you know anything more than I do? Which is nothing, by the way, because they whisked me off before I could be debriefed."
Kinn doesn't soften, exactly, but he does relax somewhat. "The op got compromised halfway through," he says. He passes a hand over his face, and Porsche sees banked anger, the kind that he's almost sure means Kinn had been in a shouting match with whoever had presented him the news. "You know how we've had a run of close scrapes?"
Porsche nods. Leaked documents, blown covers: the mission with First had been contentious in more ways than one, considering how it followed a string of unlucky ops. They'd weighed the risk as a team. Kinn had been insistent on contingencies and increased security clearance levels.
"It was Ken. Arm intercepted him when your profile was pulled, Pol and Pete caught him in the act. He shot himself before they could bring him in for questioning."
Ken.
He and Porsche had never been friends; had in fact, been at odds all the way through training, and Ken had implied more than once that Porsche was being shielded by Kinn's reputation and had no merit of his own. Still – they'd backed each other up on missions. He's Big's partner; Big, who had grown up with Kinn, and who is loyal to the Theerapanyakun agency to a fault.
Porsche tries to absorb this, but feels numb instead. Feels dizzied by it: that someone he'd eaten with in the cafeterias and run obstacle drills with had just been halfway successful at killing him off. Ken , who is now dead with his secrets buried where they cannot chase.
"So we have no idea of his motive, or his employer."
Kinn shakes his head. He stands, hands in his pockets and brows furrowed. Porsche is thrown, at once, at how much space Kinn just seems to fill: in Porsche's home, in Porsche's life.
They look at each other for a moment. Kinn makes an aborted movement – to reach out a hand, to take a step forward; Porsche doesn't see enough of it to be able to tell. His breath is crouching in his chest, anticipatory but not certain what for. Whatever it is, Kinn doesn't go through with it, and he turns deliberately to the door.
"You're fine," he says, slipping into his shoes. His eyes stay on Porsche. "That's all I wanted to check on. I'll see you at HQ tomorrow."
Porsche doesn't respond. He watches Kinn until the door clicks closed behind him, and then he puts his head in his hands and exhales, somehow feeling bereft.