#dreamswrite

"Real nice, mate," Lemon said, his voice low and sharp. He lowered his comic and sent his brother a scolding glare. "What the fuck is wrong with you?"

Still surprised by your reaction and frozen in the middle of his movement, Tangerine frowned, his grip tightening on the cloth in his hand. "What the heck? It was a joke." "Did it sound like she laughed?" Lemon shot back. "Nah, right? Then maybe it wasn't funny." "She knows I didn't mean it like that," Tangerine argued, but there was a hint of doubt creeping into his voice. "The fuck, you two are always fucking around." "Because we know the limits!" his brother sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose.

Tangerine blinked, the weight of Lemon's words sinking in. His mind replayed the moment, and something sharp twisted in his chest. "You're a right bloody idiot," his brother said, voice laced with disappointment. Tangerine frowned, leaning back in his chair. "It was a joke," he repeated mechanically. "It wasn't funny." "She knows I didn't mean it like that," Tangerine shot back more forcefully, though his voice wavered, betraying his doubt. Lemon shook his head, standing. "She doesn't think it's a joke, mate. She thinks you think she's ugly, yeah? That you're embarrassed by her." He paused by the bathroom door, his voice dropping. "And you're too thick to see what's right before you."

You joined them again eventually, talking about a new lead your contact found. Still, your smile didn't reach your eyes, and every word between you and Tangerine felt clipped and careful, like you were navigating a minefield. The next few days passed in a haze of awkward silences and cautious avoidance.

Tangerine was not the most perceptive guy when it came to human interactions. According to Lemon, he was actually the worst. It was good that he was at least an excellent fighter. However, even Tangerine couldn't miss how you no longer reached for snacks when you thought he might see you, how your plate barely had a dent during meals, how awfully quiet around him you were, mostly keeping the conversation work-related. You didn't tell him about a funny thing you saw on TV or the new book you wanted to read. It was all strictly professional, all work-related. Meals together were strained—your portions smaller, your snacks nonexistent.

Each observation landed like a gut punch, and guilt clawed at him in ways he couldn't shake. Lemon’s earlier words gnawed at him like a splinter. He fucked up, and he didn't know what to say or to do. Fuck that shit, Tangerine thought more than once, trying to tell himself it was not a big deal and you'd eventually get over it. He would never admit it to anyone, but the worst part, aside from realizing he had been a true asshole, was that he fucking missed your chats and the easy familiarity you two previously shared. He wasn't one for apologies, but by the third day, he couldn't take it anymore.

That evening, as you sat curled on the couch pretending to read a folder one of your people sent you with details about the target and Lemon was in his bedroom snoring soundly, Tangerine pulled up a chair and dropped into it heavily. You glanced up, startled, but your expression quickly shifted to wary neutrality. "Something wrong?" "Yeah," he said bluntly, running a hand through his hair. "This." "This?" "This," he repeated, gesturing between you. "You, avoiding me. Not eating. Acting like I think you're… like I've got a problem with you." The slight pause didn't last because you didn't move or say anything, and he couldn't bear the silence. "Is this about the shitty joke I made the other day?" he asked, his voice sharper than he intended. "Because if it is, you need to tell me." "It's fine," you muttered tiredly. "I'm over it." "Don't," he snapped more at himself than you, leaning forward. "Don't tell me it's fine when it bloody isn't." Your heart clenched at his words, but you stayed silent, letting him stumble through his thoughts. He murmured something with an angry voice, dragging a hand down his face. "Look, I know I said something stupid. And maybe I've said other stupid things before—I don't bloody know. But I didn't mean it like that. Not the way you've taken it."

Tangerine avoided saying the rest aloud: he wasn't just some random bloke barking an offhand remark—he was someone you trusted, and he'd chipped away at that, albeit by accident. You were part of the team, and he had kicked a trustworthy ally in the face. He would shoot at the small voice, saying he didn't usually have wet dreams about his allies. "I know you didn't mean it; really, it's fine." You interrupted him quickly, desperately wanting to avoid the conversation. Funny, you were usually the one affectionately forcing him to open up a bit. "It's not fine," Tangerine snapped, his frustration bubbling. "Because I can see how much it hurt you. I'm not blind." You flinched at his words, but when you glanced at him, your eyes were kind. Kinder than he deserved. "I didn't think you'd even notice," you said quietly, your voice trembling. "I just…" You hesitated, your voice trembling. "I thought maybe… maybe you think I'm ugly because I'm not the kind of beautiful woman you'd usually…" "Stop," he said, his voice low and almost desperate. "Don't say that. Don't bloody think that. Ever."

When you finally looked up at him, uncertainty came off you in waves. The tentative, almost fragile smile you gave him was so full of gratitude it made his chest ache. You were thanking him—for what? For not thinking you were ugly? For doing the bare minimum trying to apologize for having been an asshole? There wasn't much that could make him feel guilty, but damn if the way you were looking at him didn't do the trick.

He was not a good man; it was laughable notion to think that someone who killed for money would have a regular moral compass. Yet, he prided himself not to be an asshole with innocent people. He could kill in cold blood and fucking go to a club to dance after. He would not even consider not assessing the situation or not answering in kind if provoked, but he was not cruel, in his opinion. He didn't attack without a cause. He doubted you had the same feeling after what he said.

"Fucking hell," he muttered, his voice rough. Bracing his elbows on his knees, Tangerine looked you straight. No excuses this time. "I'm an idiot, alright? I make stupid jokes because I don't know how else to… I don't know. But you—" He stopped, his jaw clenching. "You don't deserve that. Not from me, not from anyone." The air in the room was thick with unspoken words.

The way you smiled so gratefully, like his apology was some rare and unexpected thing you'd learned not to expect, twisted the guilt more profoundly into his chest. He realized then that you hadn't been simply hurt—you were used to being hurt—by men like him, by careless words, cruel laughs, and thoughtless dismissals. Tangerine felt sick. "Don't smile at me like that," he said, his hands curling into fists. "Like I'm some hero for apologizing."

Your brows furrowed, but you nodded, straightening your pose.

"Okay," you said softly, your voice barely above a whisper. "Okay," he echoed, his lips pressing into a thin line as he stood abruptly, nodding. "Good. That's good. Now, let's grab some dinner, alright? On me."

"Thank you," you said quietly, the sincerity in your voice cutting through him like a blade.

He swallowed hard, his jaw tightening. "You don't have to thank me," he muttered. "Not for apologizing for being a bloody idiot."

Your lips quirked into a true smile "I was thanking you for the pizza you are going to buy me."

He smirked "You're bossy, you know that?"

"Yeah, well," you replied with a sincere laugh. "Somebody's got to keep you on your toes."

For now, it was enough. But as he looked at you trotting to wake up Lemon and ask him what pizza he'd like, he made a silent promise to himself: he'd do better. He had to.

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Even if he sometimes struggled with voicing that sentiment, it was there and Tangerine held it close to his soul. When she hugged Lemon, not protesting about him crushing her in his arms, Tangerine felt the bubble in his chest darting and twirling, seeing the two people he loved the most joking and chatting about the food that was waiting in the oven. It was a lovely evening. While they were in their respective bedrooms showering and unpacking their luggage, Dove finished up the dinner she had planned, even making sure Lemon had his favourite Thomas the Tank Engine plate and Tangerine's favourite beer straight out of the fridge. Tangerine asked her to stay, and Lemon asked them to try being quiet because he was tired, which earned him a vulgar gesture from Tangerine. Seeing her so at ease in his house, all soft and kind, sensing her body so close to him made him ravenous for something different than food. It had been too long since the last time he felt her, in any sense. The end of the meal did not arrive too soon. Even when they were finally alone, and her naked curves were pressed against his skin, she insisted on taking care of him. He truly did not deserve her. He probably let it slip out loud when his head was thrown back in ecstasy while she rode him hard and fast, exactly as he liked – as he needed. When he fell asleep, he was still wrapped around her, not ready to let her go. He wanted to tell her so much, but words were a fucking mess, and he felt half of them choking in his throat or coming out wrong. Dove had told him she knew. She understood. She really was too good for him.

He supposed it made sense, though. As a Scout, you were rarely involved in direct action, and as yourself, you seldom had your plan going tits up. There is a first time for everything, he sighed, pinching his nose. It'd be better not to tell you that right now, though. Standing a few feet away, Tangerine watched you like you were some kind of bomb he hadn't figured out how to defuse. Damn it, why didn't he insist on being the one to go fetch the car?

Lemon would have known what to do and what to tell you. Crying people didn't make him squeamish.

"Fuck, you're really goin' for it, aren't you?" he grumbled, his voice gruff, almost annoyed, after a particular heartfelt sob.

You sniffled pitifully, shoulders shaking as you evidently tried—and failed—to pull yourself together. Tangerine shook his head, "Look, I ain't trying to be a right fucker here, but this isn't the time for a meltdown".

"My informant is dead, the file with the bank account number is gone, and you are bleeding", you replied bitterly, glaring at him. "This is exactly the time for a meltdown."

"Sorry for the poor bloke, but people die in this line of work, yeah? That's just the way it is."

You flinched at his words, and Tangerine immediately regretted them, though he'd rather stab his other shoulder than admit it. He took a step closer, decisively pulling a handkerchief from his suit pocket and holding it out to you.

"Here," he muttered, thrusting it toward you like it might burn him. "Use this. Can't bloody think straight with all the snifflin'."

You stared at the elegant piece of cloth and then at him as if trying to understand a foreign language.

Your tear-streaked face made Tangerine shift uncomfortably. He waved the handkerchief impatiently, the soft silk almost shining under the lampost. "Go on, take it, love. I ain't got all night."

You accepted the handkerchief with shaking hands, gently dabbing at your face. "Thank you. It's that... I didn't think a simple retrieving task could go so wrong. I thought—"

"Well, there's your first mistake," he cut in, adjusting the temporary bandage you've clumsily wrapped around his shoulder after fleeing the crime scene. "Never assume things'll go according to the plan. Most of the time, plans are for idiots who've never had a bullet in their necks or a target beating the shit out of them."

"I thought you liked plans."

Yeah, he used to. Before Tokyo, his near-death experience and the massive scar on the side of his neck.

Before the nightmares and the forced year of hiatus he had to take and the guilt for having left his brother alone for a bit.

Not that he was going to say any of that shit out loud to anyone.

Lemon didn't need to hear it to know—and he pretended for months that his brother didn't wake him up screaming in his sleep; he was already up at 3 a.m. Did Tangerine want to watch some TV?

That bastard Ladybug suggested only once to consult with his psychologist before Tangerine threatened him, pointing a gun at his forehead, literally foaming with rage.

You... well, you didn't need to know all of that about him, even if you were sweet and understanding and would probably try to make some fucking nice gesture of support that he so did not deserve.

Maybe especially for that.

He still had to understand how someone so caring and, in a certain way, innocent like you got tangled with their underground world.

He scoffed, chasing away those cumbersome thoughts. "What d'you want me to say, huh? 'Everything is fine'? 'We did the best we could'? That's not how this works. Somehow we fucked up, but this is the way it is."

You let out a heavy sigh, crossing your arms over your chest, his handkerchief tightly in your hand. "No need to use that tone, Tangerine. I know all that stuff! I just didn't think I'd feel like this. I thought I could handle it. I thought... I covered everything."

He talked again, softer this time, "You're not the first to feel like this after a job. And you can bet your ass you won't be the last. Everyone can have a bad day every once in a while."

"Not in this line of work," you murmured, gaze fixed somewhere distant. Tangerine was no match to Lemon when it came to reading people, but he started to suspect that your past wasn't as normal or smooth as you wanted to sell.

A tear was still mid-run on your cheek, and he had to restrain himself from passing his thumb on it. Or giving you a kiss.

What the fuck?, he baulked at the thought.

Unaware of his internal struggle and confusion, you chewed your lip. "I'll do better next time. If you two will have me."

"Of fucking course we will. It's either you or nobody else."

You blinked at him, surprised by the uncharacteristic sincerity buried in his gruffness. He rolled his eyes, gesturing vaguely with one hand. "Don't get all starry-eyed about it. I'm just sayin', next time, you'll handle it better, and it makes more sense to have you around rather than an unknown moron who could do worse."

"Well, how could I decline after such heartfelt praise?" you chuckled.

He tsked, checking his phone. "Lemon is close, let's go."

A small smile tugged at your lips, and you nodded. "Thanks, Tangerine."

"Yeah, yeah," he muttered, looking away. "Don't go makin' it a habit, alright? I'm not in the business of consoling people. That's Lemon's territory."

You chuckled softly, and his eyes darted back to you, pleased. "About bloody time. Now, c'mon."

He reached out, hesitating for just a second before putting a hand on your shoulder. It was awkward, but the intent was there. "You good?"

You nodded, the weight in your chest lifting just a bit. "I'll be fine."

"Good," he grunted, stepping back and straightening his jacket. "Now, keep the handkerchief. And don't even think about givin' it back. I don't want it after… all that."

You smiled, tucking it into your pocket. "I'll buy you another one."

You have become quite proficient in postponing questions and worries until one of them is ready to talk, which inevitably happens the day after their return, while you all are watching the telly, and Lemon graciously pretends not to have heard Tangerine fuck you silly before breakfast.

The three of you sitting together while sipping tea and nibbling at scones is quite a domestic scene, and even if Tangerine never explicitly told you that, you know deep in your bones these moments are precious for him as well.

Home, safety, love. Lemon and Tangerine are mostly tight-lipped when it comes to their job - The less you know, the less you risk getting involved in this shit, is what your beloved Tangerine told you once during one of your crazily expensive dinners.

When it comes to their childhood, though, they are even more reserved. Your respect that boundary, but from how much they crave the domesticity you provide, you can take a pretty confident guess about some aspects of their past.

It fills your heart with tenderness and pride to think your tiny home has become a safe space for the two of them, and you make your best to let them know, in no uncertain terms, that the door is always open. Tangerine silently wraps his arms around you, pressing your body even closer to his. You kiss the tip of his nose, making his lips tremble with a silent laugh, and you smile back.