if you ever want to write something for Protagoneil again I would love to request something where it's the Protagonist who takes care of Neil for the first time. Neil was always the one to save his ass and now it's time for John to do the same. Perhaps Neil got drugged on a mission and he's really out of it so John takes care of him while drugged Neil looks at him all lovingly.
I'm so sorry that this got buried in my ask box for 3 years, but thank you for your prompt and here's the finished fic! You can read it here or on AO3.
To Think That We Could Stay the Same
Earlier—later—in Neil’s other life, he was a little bit dramatic. A little bit cocky, a little bit of a risk-taker. But he was also careful and rational.
This later—earlier—Neil is reckless. Bold, bordering on stupid.
John blames it on Neil’s youth. Of course a fresher-faced Tenet has something to prove. He wants to be valuable, worthy of John’s praise, and first in line for promotions. John wishes he could tell him he’s already proved himself—will prove himself. That John already trusts him with everything he has.
He can’t, though. And it’s like Neil knows there’s some secret between them. Neil, before, he was so good at lying. Pretending at ignorance, feigning that he didn’t feel … whatever it was—hopefully is—that he felt, feels, for John.
Lying is standard operating procedure, and the policy is to suppress. Fine. John’s good at restraining his feelings, but not at burying or concealing them completely. It causes Neil to be desperate to be deserving of those secrets.
He recalls Neil in Mumbai. That’s not possible, he had said. But to this Neil, everything is possible. It scares the hell out of John.
They’re in Tokyo. John’s there to supervise the retrieval of a large inverted munitions shipment. Ives is there to run security. Dark suit, concealed weapons, beard shorter than it’s ever been, and hair longer than it’s ever been. John wonders when he’s going to shave it off.
Neil, of course, is bouncing between Ives’ and John’s teams. Ives has been teaching him the militaristic ropes. John has been preparing him for his inevitable leadership role. Between Ives and John, they should be able to keep track of one overly ambitious rookie.
As it turns out, they’re wrong.
“What the hell happened, huh? You were supposed to be watching him!” John shouts.
He bursts into the med room of their Tokyo base like a man possessed. It’s clean and white, bright and sterile. John hates it. He wants it to be as ugly as his mind right now. Uglier, actually—as awful as what he wants to do to the men who hurt Neil.
“He said he was on his way to you,” Ives replies calmly.
“And you believed him?”
Ives raises an eyebrow, and John knows he’s being unfair. He’s angrier than he ever has been with Ives. Even counting the time Ives let Neil invert himself and die for them.
John closes his eyes. Exhales. What’s happened, happened. Neil was going to, will always, die for him. And Neil was always going to wander off and get himself drugged by an idealistic bunch of thieves.
They’re Yakuza. And after the guns, nothing more, nothing less. Still, Ives has them all rounded up and is on his way to question them. He’s lost patience with John already, but he’s waiting, stiff and at attention, anyway.
Then there’s Neil, opposite at every angle.
The medical team told John that Neil’s been injected with a benzodiazepine cocktail, but John thinks Neil looks half-okay, considering the circumstances. He’s sitting in the corner of the room, wearing a light blue button-down, open a bit at the chest with the sleeves rolled up, and light gray pants. No shoes. One gray sock. His bare skin shines with sweat. There’s red high on his cheekbones and an uncharacteristic glassiness to his eyes. His head lolls as he tries to listen to John and Ives’ argument.
“I found them, y’know,” Neil interrupts. “Before I… Iv…” He gestures to his commanding officer. “He did. I wanna… wanted you to… know…” He trails over, looking confused. “Who put me on the floor?”
“Tell ya what, we’ll flip a coin,” Ives says. “For him or the Yakuza.”
John sighs. “That’s not really your call. I’ll take care of him. You’re dismissed.”
“Yes, sir.”
Then, John and Neil are alone together. John feels it in his blood, like a cord tied around his veins. It tugs at his heart until he can’t breathe. He thinks of the freeport, and inhales sharply.
“There you go, hiding things again,” Neil says. With his inhibitions gone, his accent is a little less refined. Posh but kind of sloppy, like how he dresses.
“I’m not hiding anything. Don’t get up.”
Although he’s tried several times by now, Neil never made it off the floor. Instead he’s now fully on his back, hair askew, shirt completely open. The fabric hangs by his sides and his hands slide from his ribs to that soft linen.
John envies those hands. He tells Neil, “You compromised the mission.”
“I saw something suspicious,” Neil protests, sputtering through the last difficult word. “I, I saved the mission.”
“You made a move on your own because you were trying to be a hero,” John hisses. “Look at yourself, Neil.”
John walks forward. He crouches, trying to meet Neil’s eyes. It’s difficult when they’re fluttering closed every second or so, but eventually John manages.
“How did a trained agent get jumped by a bunch of gangsters? Hm?” He doesn’t want to be cruel. He can’t favor Neil, though. Telling himself any other soldier would get the same treatment, John continues, “What if Wheeler didn’t find you?” Or.” John clears his throat, bombarded with memories of Stalsk-12.
Neil is beaming. His smile is beautiful, and it blindsides John like it always has.
“You were worried about me!” Neil yells. His joy ricochets around the room in cascades of laughter. “You care!”
John looks away. “You’re not sober enough to have this conversation.”
He attempts to stand, but suddenly there’s a palm pressing down on his knee. Reckless.
“Neil.”
“Wait.”
Against his better judgment, John does. He pushes Neil’s hand away, but he also sits on the floor next to Neil’s prone body. More than anything, he wants to draw Neil’s head into his lap. To brush that damp blond hair out of his face, check for a fever. To kiss it better.
John clasps his hands tightly in his lap. “Of course I care. Everyone on this team is vital to this operation.”
Neil shakes his head. After some flailing about, he manages to right himself, sitting with his legs crossed to match John. “No,” he says.
“No I don’t care? You just said I did, so make up your mind.”
“You… about me… differently,” Neil explains. “More…ly.”
“Wow.”
“S’not a word, is it?”
“No it is not. I’m not sure you’re capable of coherent sentences at the moment, actually.”
Despite the curt comment, Neil is looking at John with such adoration. Puppy love, that’s the term John’s heard. Utter devotion. As if John is Neil’s entire world. But when John insists that he’s leaving, Neil’s eyes brim with tears.
He lunges forward, wrapping his arms around John. Now he’s really putting some weight into it, holding John here. It’s John’s turn to be amused. Chuckling, he extracts himself—easily, with Neil’s drug-addled, pliable limbs and lean frame—enough to speak face-to-face.
“Let me go.”
“Okay,” Neil replies. Yet his grip doesn’t loosen.
“That’s an order, Neil.”
“Right.”
When John returns a few minutes later with food and water, Neil is slumped over on his side, asleep on the floor, an unhappy expression on his handsome face. John sets the plate and cup down on the nearest surface before walking gently over. He slides his hands underneath Neil’s knees and back, picks him up.
After putting Neil in the med room’s small bed—still on his side, facing the door like he’s always preferred to sleep—John pulls up a chair. He washes Neil’s face with a cool, damp cloth. He tends to the few cuts and scrapes Neil got fighting off his assailants. He brushes Neil’s hair, and buttons his shirt. Finally, John tucks a blanket around Neil’s shoulders.
“‘More-ly’ still isn’t a word,” John murmurs, thumb brushing Neil’s jaw, “but you’re right. I do.”
And then he leaves again, exactly the way he arrived: with a guilty conscience, carrying a love confession in his hands.