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Whoever said that being a spy was fun and cool was lying. It is not fun and it is not cool and it is especially cruel and dehumanizing because most of the time—despite being a field agent, mind you—Hal was never sent out into the field. Not anymore.
It had become routine, squirming in his seat in a worn suit with its collar soaked through with sweat, the mind numbing buzz of office workers as they filed past his cubicle, day after day. There was no mindless chatter save for the occasional sneeze or cough and when someone did approach him to talk it was all about making sure he sent some unnecessary email and printed some irrelevant thing out.
The place stunk of old oats and quiet desperation. Everyone in this office was pulled out of the field for one reason or another, whether that be because of their tendency to cause trouble or simply because they sucked at their job.
Everyday Hal would sit behind that historic computer in that stupid cubicle that barely fit him and he'd think: today is going to be the day they'll send me into the field.
With each passing day, that hope dies just a little more until after months of this same old routine, he becomes desensitized. Just as he predicts, that day does not come today and he's wasted enough of his hours sitting around and doing absolutely nothing that he clocks out just before the clock hits five, grabbing his bag and letting his feet carry him to the elevator.
He's already in a shit mood when he pushes the button but his entire day immediately sours as the doors open to reveal a familiar face he wishes had stayed unfamiliar.
"Hal," his coworker drawls, stepping off to the side Hal takes the opposite end of the tight space.
Hal has to physically hold himself back from making a face. "Barry," he greets, unable to hide the distaste in his tone.
There is no other word exchanged between them and the elevator stays silent save for the occasional thrum of cables guiding them down. Now, he could make conversation. Hal was known for his charms. He could be polite and strike up a conversation instead of ignoring the awkward air between them but he didn't feel like entertaining the sole person responsible for his current predicament. The only reason Hal was even working in this rundown office was because of Barry.
It's Barry who breaks the silence. "Joe wishes you well."
"Joe can fuck right off."
He closes his eyes as soon as the words slip past his lips, harsher than he intends. He doesn't actually hate Joe. Quite the opposite, really. Joe was one of the only reasons Hal even made it as far up the food chain as he did. He believed in him when no one else did; a father figure of sorts. That doesn't change the fact that he subjected the two of them to this place. Even still, Hal doesn't hold it against him. He's just doing his job, after all. What really pisses him off is that Barry is Joe's son. That's the real kicker in all of this.
Barry scoffs. "Asshole."
Hal counts the seconds until they arrive to the first floor. As it stands, they've only reached level six. At level five the doors open to reveal an old woman, slow enough that Barry beats him to holding open the elevator doors, inviting her in with a practiced smile. Hal wishes he could claw it right off his face.
The woman thanks him kindly before pressing the button to the fourth floor and Hal mentally berates himself for having chosen this moment to pack up and leave. He couldn't have waited a few more seconds to get up from his desk? Couldn't have struck up a conversation with some of the assistants on his way out? Maybe he could've gotten a number or two instead of having to endure this silent torture.
An eternity passes before the doors open to floor four. Hal watches as Barry helps the old woman out with a hand on her arm, glaring at Hal who rolls his eyes.
It's always Barry, helping those in need. He's the Golden Boy: the standard for this industry. A calculated, by the book machine that kills without mercy while also being the resident sweetheart.
Like that's totally normal for someone in their field of work when the only reason they can work this job is because they're all at least somewhat on the sociopathic spectrum.
Barry isn't a good person. None of them are. They spy on elites—they seduce and steal and make sure the right people are killed and put behind bars. You can't be a good person and a good agent. That's just not how it works. No one else seems to notice the mask Barry dawns, though. It wears thin when he's tired, falling just enough for the illusion of grandeur to fade. Hal doesn't know why no one seems to realize he's just as selfish and narcissistic as the rest of them.
"How's your desk job?" Barry asks, before the elevator doors have fully closed, knowing full well how much Hal despises the thought of sitting still.
He's stirring the pot.
"It's great." He lies. "I love how slow and monotonous everything is. Really makes life worth living." He thinks he sees a hint of a smile out of the corner of his eye. "How's yours?"
"It's great." Barry repeats. "It's nice having to work with people who listen. People who do their jobs well. By the book."
They've barely made it past the third floor and Hal's patience has already run thin. His lip curls into an ugly sneer before he can stop it. "Yeah, well, I'm just glad my team isn't made up of uptight pricks who can't tell their heads from their asses. I'd rather work in this hellhole than with you."
The elevator shakes before Barry can form a reply. Hard enough not to be normal. He instinctively reaches for the bars, keeping himself upright as the lights flicker off; the low thrum of the cables coming to an abrupt halt with a loud clang.
Hal has two seconds to breathe in an attempt to steady his beating heart before the monitor displaying the arrow down to the second floor turns black and Hal knows instantly that they're screwed.
"Fuck." He groans, sliding down against the wall. "Fuckkkk."
He just wanted to go home. Fuck, he just wanted to go home.
Barry pushes the button that's meant to be used for emergencies but nothing happens. No alarms. No lights. No nothing.
"Must be a power outage," he mumbles, pulling out his phone. The glow of his screen is cold and bright, making the sharp angles of his face sharper where the shadows make their home in the crease between his brows. "Do you have any data?"
Hal ignores the sudden wave of panic that hits him square in the face, turning his phone only to be met with what he already expects. No bars. He swallows and the phone turns back off, though he barely notices it, too focused on the cooling sweat at his temple and his frozen fingers.
He's hot all over. He's cold. He doesn't want to be here. It becomes less and less about being stuck in a tight space with Barry and more about being stuck in a tight space with no way out.
"Hal?"
"Nothing." He manages past the pool of gathering saliva. "No signal."
Barry lets out a groan of frustration, fingers tapping rapidly against the screen. "There's got to be something we can do."
They can. They're spies; they've trained for this. They've trained for everything. That doesn't make any of this any easier.
"The hatch." Hal offers, even when he knows he'll be instantly shut down.
Barry shakes his head. "We're not close enough to either floor to pull off a stunt like that. Certainly not without any gear."
Breathe, he tells himself, even as his bones chatter and his skin cools to an unreasonable degree. Breathe.
"We'll just have to wait it out." Barry adds, and Hal has to bite back a hiss of protest to keep from drawing attention to the fact that he is very much shaking.
It's dark enough without any of the lights that Barry won't notice. Dark enough that if he just bows his head and pretends—
"Hal?" His voice is softer now, uncertain and hesitant as he steps closer. Hal only looks up when he crouches down to meet his gaze, a worrisome frown etched into his face. "Are you alright?"
For a brief moment, Hal thinks he sees Barry's expression flicker with worry; knows it's just a trick of the surrounding darkness so he curls into himself further, remembering his instructors voice from all those years before.
"As agents," she had said, "you will experience all sorts of trauma. It is inevitable. What determined your worth to the agency as a whole is how you overcome that trauma. Doing your job despite your fear is what makes a true, commendable officer."
Maybe he deserved this desk job if he couldn't even fight off a panic attack in the face of a big metal box. He'd killed people. He'd almost died more times than he can count. He'd almost drowned and fell from incredible heights only to come back stronger. He was never afraid of anything else like he was of this tight space, and it was unusual to admit so.
"Breathe," Barry says to him, probably not for the first time. There is panic laced in his tone. "Breathe, dammit. Come on. Listen to me."
There are hands on his shoulders, moving him—shaking him. It's the only reason he hears his trembling voice at all.
He tries to say that he can't—that it's all too much when it comes out an incomprehensible mumble and in the split second that follows, Barry is no longer in front of him but instead replaced by the war general Hal never managed to catch the name of.
He's not in the elevator anymore, but a holding cell. When he tries to breathe there is a cloth over his face and ice cold water, suffocating him. He blinks and he can see again. When he looks down, his hands are tied to the wooden chair, his fingernails gone and the bed bleeding until his hands are an impermissible shade of red; too dark to discern.
He feels the sting of a palm against his cheek and he snaps immediately to attention, arms raised in front of his face in a pathetic show of self defense.
"Hal," the voice pleads, and he is instantly reminded of where he is.
"Barry," his voice doesn't sound like his own. It feels raw and jagged, heavy with something he can't name. It feels like he's been screaming his throat raw for hours, just like he did in that holding cell. It was weeks before someone rescued him, though he can't recall the better half of it. A simple scent or minute detail is enough for the rush of memories to come back, only to be forgotten once more when his mind realizes he is not in any real danger.
That happens now as the memories surface and fade as quickly as they came, though fear clings to his bones and his teeth chatter from the cold.
Barry's shoulders visibly slump with relief. "You're okay," he says, more gentle than Hal knows what to do with. It's only then that he notices the hands gripping his wrists, firm but not unkind. "You're going to be just fine."
Hal is not okay, and he certainly is never going to be just fine.
He rips his arm out of Barry's hands, shoving him back with a hand on his chest. "Go away." He doesn't like Barry seeing him like this—at his most vulnerable.
They're both field operatives. They've worked together before. Hal knows Barry has his fair share of trauma but it's a different thing altogether to see a man fall apart—to witness it with your own eyes. It's humiliating.
Hurt flickers in Barry's eyes before he settles himself comfortably across from Hal, refusing to move from the spot he was pushed into. "Okay," he says, hands dropped uselessly in his lap. "I'll back off."
Hal takes the silence as opportunity to even his breathing, pulling a blank mask taut over his face. He refuses to let Barry see more of what he's tried so hard to keep locked up and away.
"I didn't know you were claustrophobic."
"Fuck off."
Barry hesitates, but only for a split second. "Our last mission—I heard about the torture. I was part of the team that got you out but I didn't think—"
"That I could be affected?" He laughs, running a hand over his face. He catches tears he hadn't realized were there, mingled with the sweat. "I've got news for you, sweetheart, I'm more human than you think."
The silence settles over them again, thick and heavy before Barry breaks it again. "I'm sorry."
Hal blinks. He doesn't think he's ever heard Barry apologize, much less to him. "Pardon?"
"I said I'm sorry," he says, a little louder. "I didn't mean—I didn't expect you to get caught."
Hal scoffed. "No, you thought I could weasel my way out of this one too."
"If you had just listened to me—"
"And aborted the mission when we were already too far in it?"
"When Command tells you to stand down, you stand down. Barry grits out, letting his frustrations slip through his careful mask of calm. "When they tell you to roll over and die, you do it without question. That is the first thing we learn."
"I was in direct contact with the target." Hal snaps. "If I backed out the mission would've been compromised. I would've—"
"You wouldn't have been imprisoned if you'd just listened to me." He sounds less angry and more desperate, now.
Hal scoffs, the anger giving way to something else. Something like defeat. "I wouldn't have ended up imprisoned if you just trusted me."
Barry does not make to argue. They both know he's right.
"Just now," he whispers, and Hal knows he's not going to ignore the elephant crammed into the tight space between them. "When you were begging to make it stop—"
"No." Hal looks down at his hands, shaking from that bone deep chill of fear.
"You weren't claustrophobic. Not when we were on that job in Geneva. You got locked in a supply closet and I had to finish what you couldn't. You were angry, sure, but you weren't scared."
Hal stews in the bitter silence. He knows Barry won't just let it go—especially not now that they're stuck with nothing to do but to sit and stare.
"What did they do to you, in there?"
They don't know. No one knows, past the basics. His fingernails were gone and he hadn't eaten in days. That was the only thing they could see. The general was disposed of and Hal—Hal hadn't remembered enough of what they did to reiterate it.
"Does it matter?"
"No," he whispers. "No, I guess it doesn't."
There is shame in his voice. Shame and guilt and pity and Hal can barely stand it. He doesn't have to for long, thankfully, before the lights flicker back on and the ground trembles as the cables above drag them lower and lower.
He barely registers Barry's hand on his arm, hoisting him upright, too focused on holding onto the metal bars to pay him any mind. It's not until the door chimes open to reveal a group of men in firefighter uniform that Hal finally feels the fear ease slowly away.
They ask him if he's okay—if he needs any help. He mutters something and shoves his way through them, wanting nothing more than to go home. Because he has the best luck in the world on this particular day, he hears a voice call out his name just as he starts his car, Barry's ugly mug appearing in his rear-view before he can hightail it out of there.
Hal sighs. "What."
It doesn't sound like a question. It doesn't sound as angry as he wants it to either, just cold and tired.
Barry either doesn't hear the exhaustion in his voice or he doesn't care. He jogs over to the driver side window, tapping on the glass in a silent plea to be heard. Hal rolls it down with a muttered curse. He knows if he doesn't Barry won't stop bothering him until he gets what he wants. "If you tell anyone about today I will not hesitate to ruin your entire career."
Hal is dead serious but Barry doesn’t seem to care. No, he moves on like Hal hadn’t even said a word. “Sure, what do you think about working with me again?” That's the last thing Hal expects to come out of Barry’s mouth and the unexpected lull that follows allows him to continue, this time with conviction. "We won't play by every rule, but we're not going completely off the books either."
"I don't compromise."
He blinks, then with a cold smile he says: "Then have a nice day at your office job."
"Working with you is the reason I'm here, dipshit."
"Yeah? Well working with me can get you out of it."
He knows that. Of course he knows that. One word from Barry and Joe will put them back where they belong. The only reason he hasn't yet is because of Hal. Because of Hal's refusal to work with Barry after what happened last time. "I don't want to." He says eventually. "But if you want me to—if I'm such a crucial member of this team—then you have to prove it."
A pause. "Dinner at my place?"
"I've seen too much of you today, Golden Boy."
"Tomorrow then." He smiles like he knows he's won. "That way you can sweet talk my dad into putting you back into the field."
"You think you can buy my favor with food?" Hal scoffs but he can't help the way his lips pull into a smile.
"I know I can." He winks, pulling away from Hal's car as he backtracks to his own.
He huffs, shaking his head disbelievingly before pulling out of the parking lot, his mood exponentially improved.