hi ok so kepcobi where kepler is the one who’s been pining for jacobi? idk I just love them so much and i think jacobi has this kind of worshipful way of looking at kepler so it would never cross his mind that kepler is 100% gone for him, just in his own way. ok thank you for your time
This is probably not the fic you signed up for. Um. /o\
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"Go on, then. Prove that he's not your spy."
Kepler steps forward deliberately, his back to the group. His eyes on Jacobi, cuffed to a heavy chair. "Who are you working for?" he asks, his voice calm. "Apple? Google? The Feds?"
Jacobi stares at him silently.
Kepler balls a hand and punches him, hard, in the side of his ribcage. His fist lands with a thud that knocks Jacobi's breath from him.
"Tell me," Kepler says.
He hits him again, on the other side. Jacobi takes it with nothing more than small, tight noises. He's trained to take it. Kepler trained him.
"Tell me."
He hits lower, bruising soft tissue, and higher. A bone cracks under his knuckle.
"Don't be stupid."
Jacobi half-smiles, and Kepler reads a thought in his eyes. This is a game. A game of getting under Kepler's skin. What makes it a challenge is the risk that the game's not real at all; that Kepler's the only one playing.
He lands two blows in quick succession. Another crack.
Tell me to stop.
No one does. Least of all Jacobi, whose head swings with each impact and then comes back up, locking his gaze with an intensity that sears.
"You want me to keep going?" Kepler growls.
Jacobi gasps, holds his head up, moistens his lips.
Kepler stores the image, just as he's holding in his memory every sound Jacobi's made throughout this.
"This is pointless," one of the men behind him says. "Just get it over with."
"I can do that," Kepler says. He wraps his fingers around Jacobi's neck. There's a pulse-point beneath his thumb. Jacobi tilts his head back, exposing more of his throat. His shirt pulls; the top sliver of a bruise blooms down his clavicle.
Kepler tightens his hands.
Jacobi gasps and jerks, mouth open, fighting for air. And he keeps looking at Kepler, winning the game right into unconsciousness.
Kepler breathes heavily. He lifts his hands slowly from Jacobi's skin. There's bruising underneath them, rising fast, darkening. He brushes along it with his fingertips.
And he wrenches himself brutally away. "It's taken care of," he says. "Let's go."
He doesn't look back, because he already knows Jacobi caught the lockpick flipped from his fist. He doesn't need to search for a telltale breath, or to see Jacobi's eyelashes stir.
He doesn't look back because, if Jacobi sees him looking, he'll know.