#ficlet

You whipped your head around, eyes meeting brown ones. Gator leaned against his car. The one you didn't even hear pull up. A smirk pulled at his lips as his arms crossed over his chest, confident.

"I've got it." You grumbled with a sigh, straining as you tried to the bolts on some new thing your daddy gave you.

"Looks like it's havin' it's way with you." He chuckled, walking over. He stood close to you, smelling faintly of that cologne you loved so much. "Let a real man handle this, doll."

"I said I've got it, Gator." You scoffed, forcefully trying to wedge the wrench into place. "Never needed any help growing up. Don't need you swooping in now."

He didn't back down. Instead, he stood behind you, his body pressed against yours as his large, calloused hand covered yours on the wrench.

"Woah, easy there, mama." He whispered into your ear. "Ain't no one questionin' what you can do. But if ya force this, you'll ruin the whole bracket."

You froze. You hadn't known any of that. He noticed, chuckling lowly as he continued working the wrench with you. "See?" He said, realigning the bolt. "Gotta sweet talk it."

"I know how to sweet talk things." You grumbled, though your heart was doing tint flips in your chest, not from the heavy lifting. But from him.

Gator laughed, setting the wrench aside before spinning you around and trapping you to the truck. "You're stubborn." He said, looking down at you with soft eyes.

"Uh uh, I'm independent. They're different." You defended before poking him in the shoulder.

"Yeah?" He breathed out as his thumb brushed your cheekbone. He looked at the engine grease that now stained his thumb and smiled. "I like that 'bout you, sweetheart."

His eyes dropped to your lips for a split second before noticing you do the same. A small giggle slipped passed you lips and before you knew it, Gator closed the distance.

His lips were warm against yours, and without thinking, you melted into him. You parted your lips slightly, allowing Gator to slip his tongue in as he rested his hands on your hips. You completely forgot about the grease on your hands, letting them creep up behind Gators neck, pulling him closer.

He felt like safety, and as he pulled away, he rested his forehead against yours. Your chest heaved as you both caught your breath. Gator looked at you, a lazy grin plastered on his face. "Still want me to leave?"

You peeked behind your shoulder, looking at the open hood of your truck before looking back at his face. "You're mental."

"I take that as a yes."

"It's a process," he'd amended. A very generous description of how poorly Jack was actually dealing with his own demons - of how he was incapable of sitting still even for a minute at a time, of how he needed to have something to do with his hands, always, of how he needed to be on the move, of how he didn't dare face the stillness of his empty kitchen and the stillness of his empty couch and the still, dead silent, placid, disgusting serenity of his bedroom, lest he actually go clinically insane.

In the stillness, he could hear bullets and wounded cries of young men. In the stillness, the heat of Iraq was far too close on his skin, regardless of the season in Pittsburgh.

In the stillness, her laughter followed him from room to room. Her voice sought him out, called him out, told him to fucking grow up and move on and stop being such a sad fucking sack of shit, he had promised her he wouldn't be like this after she died, he had promised-

So no, Jack hadn't exactly dealt with his demons. But he was the very picture and poster boy of mental health compared to Robby - that fucker had spent his final pre-sabbatical shift all but handing out verbal suicide notes, begging for help, begging for someone to save him from his stillness. So Jack took matters into his own hands and promptly slashed both tires on that donorcycle death trap suicide machine.

And now, with Robby knocked out cold on some zolpidem and quetiapine, wrapped up tight in a blanket with the AC blasting freezing air into Jack's bedroom, the stillness isn't all that bad.

It isn't so empty. Robby's here, head on Jack's shoulder, face almost pressed into his neck.

It isn't so quiet. Robby's mumbling a little in sleep every now and then, but he doesn't sound distressed, so Jack leaves him be. (His words from earlier are still bouncing around inside Jack's head as well, like a ferocious little bouncing ball. Quiet and tear-filled, simply asking "Can I stay with you? In there?" Jack hadn't answered with words, had simply tugged him along into bed and into his arms.)

This stillness isn't all that bad. It has purpose. It has heart. It has Robby.

It’s the reason why you stalk through Soho singed and smoke-shrouded, as if you were just struck by lightning (and, unbeknownst to the human passersby, you are the keeper of the lightning by which you have been struck). It’s the reason why you drive your car dozens of miles above the speed limit, refusing to slam the brakes even for pedestrians. It’s the reason why you snarl at your plants until they tremble, frightened anew into growing better. 

It’s the reason why you usually storm out of the bookshop at the first sign of trouble between us; why you tend to bow out of our disagreements before they can peak, and therefore before they can dissolve. It’s the reason, I think, why you wait until you’re loose-limbed and hazy-eyed with drink before you beckon me over to your perch on the sofa beside my bureau, legs spread wide and belt already undone. Why you polish off a few glasses of wine before tugging down your tight jeans just enough to ease your length onto my tongue, breath hitching as your fingers glide through my hair without gaining purchase; why you only urge me to press into the flooded heat of your cunt after a particularly long afternoon at The Ritz, with a deep flush dusting your chest and a glimmer in your eye. 

You must think you are doing me a kindness, in sustaining our intimacies not as an outlet but as something else entirely; a gentle thing, a thing painstakingly restrained. Meanwhile, I have been pondering the manner in which to reassure you that you need not restrain yourself on my account, that I can bear whatever it is you are so hesitant to unleash upon me. That you are truly beautiful when your temper ignites, and I would never attempt to dampen or shrink it; that I wish it was a sensation I had it in myself to nurture, too. 

So long as you believe that you must cradle your anger with my presence removed from you, you deny me permission to do what would release me temporarily from the writhing labyrinths of my mind – that is to say, you deny me permission to feed off it. You deny me the pleasure of empathising with you, of being counsellor to you, and most of all, of being had by you, being taken with a fervour that needs not hide all that makes it covetous and fierce.

Please intuit the weight on my mind somehow; grant me the listening ear required to tell you that, when you let yourself feel, you let me feel, too. Allow me and my bookshop to be the one place in the universe where you do not starve yourself of your truest, most secret wants, where you can be as angry as it takes for you to keep going with Hell underneath you, Heaven above you and the Earth at your feet.

Your anger is the most human thing about you, and therefore the one thing She cannot understand. I implore you not to smother it.

-

thank you so much for reading! reblogs and comments are much appreciated<3 here's the ao3 link again hehe

"You look happy."

Virgil lifts his head from his palms at Max's voice. He's standing in the doorway, damp hair pushed back by a headband, but he's wearing one of Rico's shirts, the same way Virgil is.

"Ah,"

Virgil leans back in his chair, flapping a hand towards the datapad on the desk in front of him.

"You want to handle it?"

Max wanders over, resting his arms over the back of Virgil's chair and looking over his shoulder. It's a disgruntled message about the crop output on a star system Virgil doesn't even remember coming under their banner— he hasn't figured out the best way to say sorry, who are you again? without sounding rude.

Max only skims half of it before giving up and huffing, leaning his head against Virgil's gently.

"No, I don't want to handle it. But if you need me to, I can go out there and start firing?"

Virgil lets his eyes drift shut for a moment, smelling the artisan shampoo Rico had found a few cycles ago that they've stocked their bathroom with. Max has the ever-lingering scent of fuel that means he's been messing with their ship, which is probably the reason he's not nagging at Virgil for working on what's technically a rest day— he's just as guilty.

"Not that kind of problem solving, babe."

Max sighs, equally as exhausted.

"Of course not. When did we even bring them in?"

He shrugs, twisting the chair so that he can tug Max closer, arms around his waist. His heartbeat is steady under his ear, metal palm coming to rest between Virgil's shoulders.

"I can't even remember. It's not that far from Rico's campaign, so it might be from him."

Max is quiet for a moment. Virgil can feel he's unsettled— they both are. Rico is too, he can tell.

"I don't like being split up, Virg."

Virgil scrubs his palm across his face, shoulders heavy. Everything's been heavy lately, always another problem to solve, another grievance to address, someone else trying to cut them off at the knees and put a bolt in their heads.

"I don't either. But we're only three, and we agreed on this."

It had only taken them a few cycles of near-constant arguing about who to send where, and how to prioritize— more important to have two at the front, where Rico is running a campaign, or more important to have someone else protecting Virgil?

"It'll wrap up faster if we both go out there."

...And so the current argument begins again. Virgil pushes up from his chair as Max crosses his arms, sending a mental ping to shut the door to his office and soundproof it. Max's eyes flick over as the door slides shut before narrowing as he looks back at him.

"You know I'm right."

Virgil pushes a hand through his hair, fingers skimming over one of the small braids.

"It's not about if you're right or not, Max. You are. It's about how it looks."

He feels Max getting defensive, their tie to Rico starting to stir slightly. He tries to push down his frustration with the situation— the last thing they need is to worry Rico while he's in a different system.

Max's mouth is downturned, gaze hard.

"It looks like we're pushing together as a team."

"Into where, Max? Largely occupied space? What kind of message does it send when all three of us go to the front for a combined push in that system?"

"Virg—"

"It looks like we're making a push for one of the Citadels. It already looks like we're making a push for a Citadel, no matter how many appeasing messages I send. If you and I go join, they will glass this entire system."

Max's frustration brushes against his own, a roiling and snappish thing. He and Rico are similar in that way, always wanting a target for their anger and anxiety, something they can kill to feel safer.

"But Rico is alone—"

He cuts off as Virgil folds a palm across his mouth, choosing to diffuse instead of argue. Sometimes it's easier with Max, especially when he isn't actually angry with Virgil.

"I need you here, with me."

It's the crux of the issue that the three of them had agreed on— Virgil isn't safe on his own without one or both of them around. There's too many threats, and he's too vital to risk. Max had eventually agreed with Rico then, and he'll agree again now, he just needs to be frustrated first.

His shoulder slump as he leans forward into Virgil, the sharp defensiveness receding and getting replaced with a soft worry. Virgil feels Rico brush faintly against both of them, a slip of reassuring presence.

They're all okay.

"I just wish I could do something about it."

Virgil presses their foreheads together, pushing a gentle swell of understanding.

"I know. I do too."

He can feel Max cooling down already. He's always easier to manage than Rico is with these issues, quick to anger but relatively easy to soothe.

Max takes a step back, tugging Virgil away from the desk, organic fingers wrapping around his wrist.

"Come on, you're not even supposed to be in your office today."

Virgil sends a ping to open the door, letting Max lead him by the hand out of his workspace, sliding his grip to twine their fingers together.

"You aren't supposed to be working either."

Max guides them to the left, further into their private space. The doorway chips twice as they pass through, confirming their biometrics.

"I have no idea what you're talking about."

Virgil squeezes his hand in a teasing reprimand.

"Oh, is that why you smell like fuel?"

Past the kitchen, past their hosting space, further back into the hallways.

"I always smell like fuel."

Something is off about Max still. It's subtle, but Virgil can feel it. Max takes them past the gym, past the pool, and all the way into the most fortified section of the base where their bedroom is tucked away.

"Max,"

The door slides shut before Virgil can ping it himself, and he feels Rico brush against their tie in question— just his tie with Virgil, a silent warning to check on Max. As if he could miss it.

"Sorry for arguing with you."

Virgil blinks at him, head quirking slightly.

"Sorry...? Max, that's fine. I appreciate getting feedback from both of you, I don't want yes men."

Max is shrinking away from their tie, trying to hide his emotions. It's futile and they both know it.

"But it's—"

He runs a hand through his hair with a sharp sigh.

"It's like you said, with the optics. We need to look united, we need to look more than united."

Virgil pushes a quick reassurance at Rico. He can handle this by himself, no need for a call. He's fairly confident he knows what it's about anyways.

"That doesn't mean you can't have a different opinion, Max. It just means we can't have any major disagreements in the middle of diplomatic meetings."

A small burst of frustration glances across their tie as Max's fingers tighten in his hair. It's his metal hand this time, the cold metal a hard contrast to the dark blonde.

"We're supposed to be one brain, we shouldn't be disagreeing to begin with."

There it is.

Virgil steps forward, curling his hand around Max's metal wrist, tugging it down and away. Max lets him, emotional turmoil evening out into a steady thrum of distress as he glances away to look at the wall. Virgil tries to push some of his own steady calm, coming into Max's space, making as many physical points of contact as possible.

"That bullshit is propaganda, Max. We share feelings, we can ping each other short messages, but those are all artificial enhancements— we're still human at our cores. We're not the same person sharing a brain, we're individuals. That's the strength."

The metal under his wrist flexes for a moment. Max's voice goes soft, quiet in the room with just the two of them.

"I don't feel very human anymore."

Virgil's hand finds the back of his neck, getting a gentle but firm grip and tilting his head up.

"What do you feel like?"

Max looks up at him, but at least it's not through him. They've had close calls before, worse with him than Rico or Virgil experience. He's leaning slightly into Virgil's hand, letting it ground him.

"I feel like an attack dog. When you tell me or Rico to kill someone."

Virgil doesn't let his feelings show on his face, watching Max's eyes closely, lowering his voice.

"Do you like it that way, when I order it? It absolves you of the responsibility."

Max's breathing is steadying, each breath a little slower, a little deeper, eyes darkening.

"Yeah,"

It's a soft breath, but Virgil doesn't miss how he's still tracking him. The awareness never really turns off with him and Rico now, always some part of their brain ready to launch directly into action.

But sometimes, with the right encouragement, Virgil can get them to slow down.

"You like doing what I tell you to do?"

Another slow breath. Virgil can feel the distress starting to ebb, replaced by the bone deep loyalty he knows is constant. Max's eyes are half lidded, but he's still watching Virgil, waiting for a cue.

"S'easy."

He's slowing down.

Virgil tugs them both backwards, letting himself fall onto the bed and pulling Max down with him. Max lands the way he always does— one arm at the back of Virgil's head, body over his, metal hand by his thigh in case he needs to manifest one of his guns.

He keeps one hand squeezed at the back of Max's neck, gaze steady as he looks at him.

"Take my shirt off for me."

Max blinks, his tie to Virgil settling easily. He wants to listen, wants to do what Virgil wants, he always does— but sometimes Virgil needs to ask him to do easy things.

He's careful as he gets Rico's shirt off, his warm palm resting against Virgil's sternum, feeling the rise and fall of each breath, waiting patiently for his next direction.

Virgil slides his palm from the back of his neck to his mouth, pressing one thumb past his lips, running it along the tops of his teeth.

"Bite me."

He doesn't need to say it twice— Max drops his head down, teeth grazing across his collarbone, sinking in just enough to sting. Virgil can feel him start to settle into contentment, mouthing along his shoulder and down his chest, sometimes taking extra time to nip at the skin. He keeps one hand at the back of Max's neck still, a solid grip, a reminder that while he may be letting Max do what he wants, Virgil is in charge.

He leans his head back with a soft groan when Max bites a little harder, testing the waters. His fingers tighten, but he lets the pleasure flicker across their tie lightning quick, smug as he feels Max lean into it.

"Harder."

The next bite draws blood, a sharp sting that switches to a dull throb across his side as he sucks in a sharp breath. Max licks across the bite in apology, drifting away into the familiar place that Virgil likes to keep both him and Rico in when they're stressed.

They listen better with blood in their mouths and his hands on their skin, guiding them where he wants him. It used to be more difficult to get them here, back when they still tried to feel their own guilt, but he's mostly broken them of the habit.

He'd taken on responsibility for his own actions, he's currently taking responsibility for humanity as a species— what's the guilt of two more people in the face of that? Especially when the two people are his Soul Ties, the other pieces of him.

He pets across the back of Max's neck, always sure to keep as many points of contact as possible.

"Again."

He expects Max to pick a different spot, and it leaves him unprepared for him to sink his teeth exactly where they'd been a moment ago.

"Fuck—"

He tries to arch up into it to get away from the sensation, but Max keeps him down even as Virgil tightens his grip on his neck, starting to squeeze. It's a small battle of wills, Max testing his limits.

He needs to trust that Virgil will keep him in line.

Virgil breathes through it, focusing on staring at the ceiling and not the ache in his side. He doesn't yank Max away or scold him, just lets him take what he needs until Max figures out that he's not getting a reaction.

A moment later, Max lets go. There's warmth dripping down the his side, and the air feels cool against the bite, but Virgil's point is made. He'd maintained control over the situation the way they both knew he would.

He doesn't mind giving reminders. He can feel the skin repairing itself already, muscles weaving back together, and he drags Max up to lay more solidly on top of him. His eyes are half lidded, blood smeared across his lips, and Virgil can feel deep contentment through their tie.

Virgil licks his thumb before brushing it across some of the blood, wiping it away as Max settles even further, limbs heavy on top of him. They won't be leaving their room for a while, but that's fine— Virgil has a datapad tucked under the pillow he can use once Max is asleep.

Normally it's a bit messier when all three of them are together, since it leaves one set of hands free to hold someone down, but Max hadn't needed all of that, just a gentle reminder.

Virgil runs a hand through his hair, scratching across his scalp. It's getting long, and while he knows Max doesn't mind pulling it back for a few cycles here and there, he's sure there's a hairdresser somewhere in the system that he can ask to come visit them.

Rico brushes up against him again in their tie, and Virgil sends reassurance. Rico likes to worry, and they'll be getting a call later, but Virgil knows if he'd thought there was truly an issue, he'd be taking the first flight back.

In the meantime, the Soul Tie is an easy way for them to check on each other, even if one of them is in the different system. Virgil presses up against his tie with Max, feeling him drop off into sleep, his prior discontentment nowhere to be found.

You pulled back to look at his hair. It was long, slightly dishevelled. But hey, don't get me wrong, you loved Steve's long hair but you didnt want him upset about it. Suddenly an idea popped into your head and you quickly snatched the bag from the floor before leading him upstairs.

"Oh?" He smirked, following after you.

Once you were in the room, Steve immediately closed the gap. His lips latched onto yours while his hands tried to get rid of your towel. You were caught off guard but to Steve's surprise, you started giggling.

You pulled away, pushing his jaw to the other side playfully. "What're you trying to do?"

His eyes narrowed as he cupped your cheek. "Isn't this why you brought me up here?"

"No," you smiled, ruffling his hair. "I brought you up here to fix your hair."

Steve sighed dramatically, dropping his head onto your shoulder with a groan. "Come on, please? My hair has been trapped in prison since we started that job."

You chuckled, gently pushing him till the back if his knees hit the bed, forcing him to sit down on the mattress. "Let me guess, that sailor hat is the prison?" You teased, standing between his legs before picking up the comb he had on his bedside table before gently sliding it through his hair.

"It's annihilating me." He complained, looking up at you with those wide, puppy eyes you loved so much. "It's July. The heat is already turning the mall into a damn swamp and then I have to cram this hair under a hat? Full blown tragedy, baby." He pointed up at his hair. "Remember when I brought you in last time and Robin made fun of my hair for half the shift? She kept calling me 'Captain Flattened'."

"Aw, poor Captain." You teased, running your fingers through his hair to lift the roots. "I'm sure you still looked cute behind the counter."

"I looked ridiculous." He hummed, a small smile tugging at the corner of his lips as you gently massaged his scalp. He relaxed against you completely, his hands coming up to rest on your hips, pulling you closer. "Look, I'll let you be my stylist. I'll even let you test the hairspray. But it's gonna cost you."

"Hm?" You leaned down slightly, pulling the can out from the bag and holding it infront of him. "Really?"

"Yeah," He breathed out with a smirk, tilting his chin up, eyes landing your lips for a split second before meeting your gaze once more. "One real kiss. Right now. Otherwise this tragic hair is coming back to work tomorrow."

You hummed, pretending to think as you looked down at his smirk. "Fine. One kiss. As long as it means no more flat hair."

Before he could open his mouth to defend himself, you leaned down and caught his lips with yours. Steve's eyes fluttered shut instantly, his hands tightening on your hips as he hummed into the kiss. He tilted his head, his lips parting slightly to take it further, but just as he started to, you pulled away with a soft pop.

A smug grin spread out on your face as you pretended you didn't know what happened.

Steve blinked, his lips slightly parted as he looked up at you with half lidded eyes. He let out a small frustrated groan. "Hey! That was like half a kiss. False advertising."

"You said one real kiss, I gave you one." You defended, walking towards the bathroom to get scissors. "The rest of the package is rewarded after I fix your hair. Take a chair outside so I can do it."

Steve mocked you, but the threat of going back to the mall looking less than perfect was too high. He was self conscious about what others thought about him and he really didn't want Dustin or Robin to joke about him anymore. So he finally complied and headed towards the garden with a chair.

You followed him out after getting dressed, towel in hand along with all the tools you needed. Steve was sat on the chair, watching as you wrapped the towel around his shoulders as a makeshift gown.

"Just a trim." He warned, looking at you over his shoulder with narrowed eyes. "Dont go crazy. If you mess up my layers I'm doomed."

"Trust me, Harrington." You soothed, turning his head back gently.

You ran the comb through his thick hair, careful not to pull any tangles. Snip by snip, you cleaned up the dead ends around his ears and neck, keeping the length up top just how he liked it. Steve sat like a statue under your hands, his shoulders relaxing slightly as he watched you stand infront of him to fix the front.

You set the scissors down in Steve's lap, swapping them with the hairspray. You shook it before parting his hair and sprayed four precise puffs, using the comb to lift his roots back into their usual voluminous look.

"All done." You said, running your fingers through it to feather the sides out before you brushed the hair off his clothes and wrapped up the towel. "Go look."

Steve didn't waste a second. He scrambled inside before rushing upstairs and to the mirror in his room. You followed, giggling to yourself as he leaned in closely to inspect his reflection from every angle. He ran a hand through the side and a slow, genuine grin spread across his face.

He turned around, eyes finding yours with a confident spark as he walked into your space. "Okay, I love you." He said, resting his hands on your waist. "You're doing my hair all the time."

You couldn't help but laugh, looking up at him as he towered over you. Your hands came up to rest on his chest. He looked so incredibly handsome that your heart flipped in your chest like how it did when you first met him. "I love you too."

"Now," He started, eyes returning to your lips as he smirked. "I want my reward."