#gerrykecy

For a long time after, Yasmin sat in the bedroom, eyes fixed on the little bit of window not covered by the curtain. The pistol lay, empty and safety on, in her hand, almost like an afterthought. She hardly seemed to be breathing, which gave the room an eerie silence that Keiran's presence disrupted. She didn't react. She didn't turn around. She just sat and watched, unblinking. Unmoving. Unfeeling.

"Babe," he said softly. Nothing. "The officers said--"

"And you believe them?" It was the first time she'd spoken in--god, hours, probably. Her voice was rough from disuse. Made rougher by her offense at the idea that Keiran listened to a blessed the feds said. "I never took you for stupid."

He didn't answer that, though she heard his sharp exhalation. Outside, their neighbor with the yappy dog walked out and let the dog piss right on their mailbox. Bitch. Yasmin's fingers flexed against the pistol. When Keiran spoke again, he was closer. On the other edge of the bed, maybe. She couldn't look. It would mean turning away from her sliver of window. "They've increased surveillance. They are trailing the car we saw. We're--it's going to be okay."

His voice was so gentle that it made her sick. She couldn't stand it. It didn't belong with her, here, in this place. In this time, where the only way to keep them both alive was to hold her pistol, watch the window, and regret that she hadn't brought anything bigger with her.

He belonged with that other woman. The one she had to pretend to be, who smiled and made nice. She could have this man with his gentle, coaxing voice and his soft mannerisms and his trust in the fucking feds. She was welcome to it. All of it. Yasmin would keep her pistol and her watch and keep them both alive.

He continued to approach her slowly and when he was close enough to enter her periphery, she turned her head away. She couldn't see the window, but she didn't have to see him. At least, not until he came all the way too her, right up next to her, the side of his body lightly brushing the side of hers.

When he spoke, this time, it was only a whisper. The quietest sound. "Yasmin." It was that--the sound of her real name, even in the barest whisper--that startled her. His hands came to hers and she let him lift the gun out of her grasp without any fight.

Despite herself, a small sob escaped. It was hardly more than a hiccup, but it was enough. His arms came around her, pressing her gently but firmly to his chest, and the dam broke. She didn't weep so much as shake and sob. He cooed and petted her hair nonetheless, whispering sweet nothings into her ear.

"I don't trust them to protect you," she whispered against his shirt, hoping he could only feel the breath but not hear the words.

He rubbed her back. "It's okay. We're okay."

"It scared me. When I thought they were here, it scared me."

He just shushed her, tracing circles with his palm on her back.

He couldn't hear her. Or he wasn't listening to specifics. Either way, it made her next words safe. "I can't let them get you."

His hands stopped so abruptly, she knew she'd been wrong. He put his hands on her shoulders and pushed her away so he could look her in the eye. So she would have to look him in the eye, after that. "We're going to take care of each other. I won't let them get you, either."

She watched him after he said it, as his eyes seemed to be trying to drill into her. She watched, and blinked away tears as they tried to well up, and sniffled when her lungs wouldn't bring air in right. Twice, she opened her mouth, but she couldn't find the words.

"Are you sure?" he heard himself asking. Which, okay, was also pretty not-normal. But he needed some kind of grounding that the Ashton in front of him, real or not, knew what he was doing.

"Yeah, man, don't be weird." Unfair. Noah was acting like his normal self. "Just, c'mon. Dance with me." He moved his hand, as if to repeat the gesture of putting it out. And Noah, because he was and always will be an idiot, couldn't think of anything to do other than take it.

"Careful," she murmured. "Wouldn't want all those people outside hearing you." Alexa could feel Tegan react to that, fueling her fire even more.

"Shh," Tegan whispered again, the sound swallowed in another little moan. "Alexa." Despite her protests, she did nothing to discourage her from teasing. In fact, she arched her back, her shirt dipping deliciously, revealing the top of her chest.

"Do you want me to stop?" she asked, lips following the new skin her shirt had revealed. "Or do you want me to lick you until you can't help but cry out?" Alexa reached her hands up to skim the edge of the top. Tegan's hands met hers, and pulled it down. Alexa followed immediately, teasing at her nipple with her tongue. She pulled back, grinning up at the other woman. "Do you want me to make you come when all those people are just a wall away?"

Tegan threaded her hands in the nape of Alexa's hair and pulled up. Alexa followed immediately, letting herself be pulled into a kiss. She ran her hands along her sides. Tegan's hands were everywhere, nerves and excitement making her near-frantic. Alexa was happy to match, her own hands wandering under the other woman's bottom, relishing in her curves.

When Tegan pulled away for air, Alexa chased her, peppering her jaw with more kisses. "Can I touch you?" she whispered. "Can I touch you while you promise to stay good and quiet for me?"

"Can--" Tegan gasped. "Can I touch you? Will you stay quiet for me?"

He'd patiently let her take a washcloth to his back, while she chattered at him about the lady she'd bought the soap and things from, the fake accent she put on and the way her store smelled so overwhelming that Yasmin was pretty sure she was doing something illegal in the back. And he hadn't said anything when she'd finished with his back and taken out the shampoo, slipping a hey, lay your head back, will ya? in among her story, like it was seamless.

She was careful around the bruises and cuts, and she knew she could wash hair as good as any spa expert, pressing firm with her fingers, just enough nail to give that good scraping feeling without hurting him more. And once he was relaxed into her hands, the lines of strain and ache easing a little, that was when she knew he was ready. Her hands kept the steady work, massaging his neck, and her tone kept its easy conversation. "Hey, y'know, that was so, so stupid of you, rushing in like that. Don't do that again."

Maybe, if his defenses were down a little, she could worm past them, try to get him to agree to stop. He would keep his word, and if he didn't, it would buy her moment's of hesitation here and there, so she could stop him from being an idiot. Or so she'd thought, and she'd thought wrong. His eyes snapped open, and he sat up, water sloshing around the side of the tub. "I have to," he said softly.

"You don't." She sat back on her heels, keeping her eyes pointedly fixed on his face. When she'd been washing him earlier, she'd been focused on her goal, single-minded. She should've enjoyed what little he'd revealed to her then; she certainly couldn't now. His puppy-dog eyes sharpened on her, and while he wasn't folding his arms over his chest, his body language said he might as well be. "Don't look at me like that. You don't have to jump into every danger you see."

"Yasmin." He sounded incredulous. Like she was the one being unreasonable. "It's my job to protect you."

Her eyes flicked off of him entirely. The water was mostly clean--he'd showered the grime off earlier, and the cuts were mostly on his face. Her washcloth was tinged pink, but it would come out in the wash. She had some experience with that kind of stain treatment. He was going to take her silence as agreement, which meant she had to say something. "Protecting me doesn't mean you have to get hurt."

He didn't tell her to stay inside. No one ever used to tell her shit like that, but after the fight on West 56th, after her short hospital stay, it seemed like everyone wanted her wrapped in bubble wrap. Her brother, Martin, got shot three times, and no one hired him a guard. And even though she'd learned he wasn't exactly what her brothers had probably wanted--he let her out of the house, he went dancing if she asked, he was fun--it still filled her with warm relief that he wasn't going to tell her to stay in so she--so they--could be safe. "Better me than you," he said instead. Which was so much worse, especially when he slid a dripping-wet hand up to her cheek. His fingers skimmed under the bruise she'd gotten a week ago, so careful even though she didn't feel it anymore. A droplet of water followed his touch and then slipped down her cheek, cool unlike the tears she'd come close to shedding earlier.

For a moment, it seemed like he was going to say more, but then, abruptly, he pulled his hand back. "I should let you--" She turned away, not wanting to have the option of reading his face, trying to figure out what he meant by that.

Their eyes flick to Oliver's lips even though they know they shouldn't--can't--possibly consider the idea. He's so much taller than them, a fact that's easy to forget when they're just texting. Him, sending Max pictures of them just missing him, always staying just out of reach. They're within fucking reach now, though. He's sitting in a way that folds his body down, eye level with Max, so close that Max can see how absurdly long his eyelashes are. It's a stupid thing to notice. So what if they're beautiful? A poison dart frog is beautiful, too.

Max has always lingered too long on the details. They're always just a minute too late because they're holding themself up with details. The store behind a visible address. The glossiness of eyelashes. The fullness of lips. They linger, there, picking up all the wrong clues, and then Oliver sees it. Max knows, because a flash of pink--of tongue--darts over Oliver's lips. Within reach, sure, but Max isn't going to fool themself into thinking they'll get the upper hand this way.

And somehow, the certainty of the moment spreads through them, too. It's not that they would or wouldn't have the upper hand. They won't, but they will kiss Oliver anyway. Because they're smart enough to recognize the warning signs, but too stupid, too focused on the little details to heed them. "It might," they grumble, finally answering Oliver's teasing words. Their tone is resigned, though, like they've already had this conversation a dozen times.

Oliver doesn't answer, just waits, content and patient as Max lets themself trace the line of their eyebrows with their eyes before they lean in, closing their eyes so they can find other details. Oliver smells the same as before, but the club is a little too crowded, and now there's body heat and sweat bringing out different notes in the scent. Despite the noise--the untz untz music and general chatter--Max can hear the swish of fabric, sleeve-against-torso--as Oliver reaches up to cup their chin. He has to tilt their face down, a strange reversal of how it should be between them. Not that there is a should be. Max should be leaving. Max should be checking Oliver's bag for the van keys. They're not seductive enough to pull of a pat-down, and they won't delude themself otherwise.

The first brush of lips comes against the corner of Max's mouth, like maybe Oliver needs to test something first. Except, fuck that, he doesn't. He's taken their van and their peace-of-mind and all their free time, and he can't have whatever he wants to find. Their hands come up to the sides of Oliver's face, holding them still, and then they kissed him. Hard. Demanding. All rough pressure and scrapes of teeth, like Max won't go down without a fight.

For the first few days, they mostly ignored it, allowing him to assuage his guilt by picking up chores around the apartment that their still-tender side wouldn't allow them to do, letting him clean and fret over the stitches that they were perfectly capable of keeping clean. But it's been long enough that they no longer sting with every movement, and his kindness has become the source of a strange discomfort.

Theo isn't one of those my body is a machine, I am a slave to the job types. They do believe they will die on the job, but only because they can't imagine themself retiring to some safe boring life in the country. But even if they understand that they're human, they've always treated t heir body a a conduit for getting things done. The soft touches, the care Sasha takes not to sting or pull at the wound, it bothers them because it's more careful than they would be. They've told him as much--they've told him not to bother--so the fact that he persists is unnerving.

A week into healing and they're finally able to resume some normal function. They can't twist to the right without pulling on the stitches, but they can go to their cover-job and go out for drinks with the friends they're supposed to be working. Now, a sit-down bar or a sports bar would be easier, but even some mild clubbing isn't out of the question. The difference between sitting and clubbing, though, is entirely apparent when they return home, just shy of 3am, reeking of someone else's drink and several someone-else's sweat, and barely holding themself up for how their ribs burn.

They drop their bag right in the doorway, check that the blinds are closed, and pull their shirt up there in the living room, examining the angry red line of their cut under the gauze. Nothing tore, they don't think, but they'd best clean it. And themself. They pad over to the bathroom, quiet by nature but not worried about waking Sasha. His bedroom light is on, throwing strange shadows from the crack between the closed door and the floor.

The bathroom light is on too, but its door open. Theo doesn't bother to knock, just enters, resigned not to be surprised when they find Sasha waiting for them there. "They're fine. Just sore," they say before he can ask after them or--ugh--gently examine them himself. They can't stand the cool, delicate brush of his fingers when they're fine, let alone when their skin is red and throbbing from minor mistreatment today. "I was gonna take a bath unless you need the water." Sasha doesn't answer, but when they step passed him, they find a full, steaming tub. "Oh. Were you gonna…?"

"Nah. I thought you might." They watch him carefully, but the truth is, they're tired. They've been out far too long, and breathing is starting to hurt, and this kindness rubs on them in a way they do not want to examine. Sasha sees this--they are certain of it, without any proof, because they would see it if the roles were reversed--but he doesn't step gently to their side and ease them into the tub as he might have in the last few days.

Objectively, what he does is worse. He slides up to them all the same, but instead of stepping to their good side so as not to put pressure on the cut, he approaches head-on, fingers gently slipping under their chin to tilt their face up. His eyes drop; his voice drops. "You look flustered," he practically purrs. The hand on their chin slides over their jaw, cupping them, and his other hand dances over their cut, barely touching before dropping down to their hip. "Are you okay?"

They knew what he's doing. They've watched him flirt with enough marks to fill a book. What they don't know is why. "I'm fine and you know it," they answer, the snap in their voice habitual and effortless despite the bone-deep exhaustion. "What do you want?"

He leans in, like maybe he is considering a kiss. "What I want is to watch you bathe," he tells them, voice heavy with whatever he uses to make it sound like seduction. Theo was always insufficient as a honey-trap; they don't know how to pull this trick off. He steps back, pulling away with a touch that borders on lingering. "But I want to stay alive more, so I'll leave you to it."

He reaches down into the water with a cupped hand to help the shampoo lather more on the nape of Nico's neck. His hair is longer than Knox's, and he wants to be thorough, but he also knew Nico would enjoy this--and, hell, he does too--so he means to milk it a little. Nico's eyes have long since fluttered shut, his head resting its weight in Knox's, allowing itself to be turned side to side as Knox works. Knox's eyes have looked their full of Nico, whatever he can see through the sudsy water, but they keep tracking back to the careful bandaging on Nico's arm. It can't get wet, so they've had to be strategic about how Nico sits in the bath.

Knox has inspected the stitches himself more than once, cleaned bandages on a schedule and applied a painful but effective-seeming ointment to help the skin heal more quickly. And it's not like he could have done better stitches. The doctor was faster than he would've been, and the result is even and tiny. It might not even scar enough to notice.

And, no, he's not going to let it haunt him forever. He didn't slip up. His planning and drills all worked and they apprehended the would-be assassin and Nico is fine. A cut on the arm is not death. He spent some time yesterday brooding over how he could have avoided it but today, he started the day with a vague sense of satisfaction that his team was prepared. He was prepared, and he can accept that this is one version of job well done.

He gently lowers Nico's head to the lip of the tub, where he's folded up a towel to make a cushion. There's a bucket already between his legs, directly under Nico's head. The cup is by the faucet so he can get clean, warm water to rinse. But when he lets go of Nico's head, the other man makes a sound and he pauses. "What?"

It might have passed if he weren't watching Nico's face in good, solid light. A quick flush down the column of Nico's neck. Knox knows, from some experience, how far down that flush goes. He doesn't have to say anything; Nico knows he's seen and fills the empty air. "It felt good. I--" It's clear he isn't sure what he wants. Not to have a slice down his shoulder, probably. It's what Knox wants, even if he can see this as pretty good case scenario. He was enjoying what he was doing, but not so much that he'd trade it for Nico's independence. It isn't so much that Nico resigns himself to one decision or another. Or, if he does, he doesn't show it in some obvious way. But he clears his throat before he finishes his thought. "I was enjoying myself, was all."

He lets Nico's head settle on the cushion anyway, and slides back carefully to extract himself from the stool he's on. He pours a cup of warmer water and returns to gently rinse out Nico's hair. Nico sighs, a pleasured sound at the way he massages the soap out of the hair. Then he pours out a measure of conditioner, and slides his fingers back into Nico's hair, repeating what he just did all over. It's not until he's fully occupied his hands in that task before he speaks. "You're just trying to say I give good head….massages."

The space above Ashton's head doesn't react. Ashton also doesn't react. Noah lets out a relieved breath--too weak to be a sigh--and shifts into a more comfortable position. Every time they do this, he finds himself torn between physical comfort, and closeness with Ashton, and every time, he chooses closeness.

He wouldn't normally say that every time, he regrets it, but, well. That's sort of what he said, isn't it? "I mean, I can," he responds to himself, out loud, because if he's going to make some of it real, he should probably make all of it real, right? "I can, and I probably will. But I dunno if I--I dunno."

His hand, which had been resting on Ashton's back with just enough firmness to wordlessly communicate don't leave, drifts upward, over the other man's spine. His shoulders. On top of his head, where Noah can't help but toy with a cow lick. He's always loved Ashton's hair, for as long as he's loved Ashton, because he's horribly stupid.

"I do know, I think." It's in response to the himself that said he didn't know, and it's true. He does know. "I'm definitely going to keep doing this, but I know I shouldn't. And--hey, if I'm being honest--I can't say I'm going to try to stop. But I have to stop pretending that he's--" This part, he can't say out loud. Because he knows he can't make it--what Ashton isn't--real. That would be too painful. "So maybe. Y'know. Back to dating? Yeah, that'd probably be good."