Work Text:
“Honey, I’m home,” Neil called out hoarsely, stumbling through the doorway. His hand was clutched to his side, the bullet wound still aching despite inhaling copious amounts of pain medication just half an hour ago.
It wasn’t his first wound and it wouldn’t be his last, but it was definitely the first time Andrew’d ever shot him. He knew it was Andrew because no one else on his team had a 9mm caliber, and Andrew had also shot Neil somewhere non-fatal, despite his perfect aim. Andrew always shot close: close enough to be considered a true attempt, but never close enough to hit.
Except Neil wasn’t always that lucky.
“You walked up the stairs?” His husband called out from the living room.
“No,” Neil managed, slowly pulling off his coat one arm at a time.
“Certainly sounds like it,” Andrew said, getting off the couch. Neil inhaled deeply through his nose, anticipating the argument. It wasn’t always easy, being married to a leading detective with the Baltimore police, as the boss of one of Baltimore’s most renowned gangs. They’d worked around those hiccups, but this was definitely going to go against rule three: Don’t talk about work.
“Neil,” Andrew said, arms crossed as he looked at a sweaty, pale-faced and hunched-over version of his husband. “What the fuck?”
“I’m fine,” Neil grit out, holding out his hand. Andrew immediately took it and pulled Neil’s weight against his side, helping him to the couch.
Andrew yanked off Neil’s shirt and surveyed Allison’s work—which was, as always, perfectly adequate—before getting up for ice, a wet cloth and new bandages, all with a concerned furrow between his brows.
“So,” Neil asked lightly, taking the bloody cloth and dabbing the sweat off Andrew’s brow. “How was work?”
“Other than the fact that I shot my husband?” Andrew grunted. “It was stellar. Best day I’ve ever had.”
“Andrew, it’s fine. It’s a hazard of the job. It’s a hazard of your job.”
“I can’t keep Wymack and the others off your tail forever,” Andrew snapped. “It’s dangerous as fuck.”
Neil sighed. “They won’t find anything, ‘Drew. You know this. There’s nothing to find.”
Andrew’s fingers brushed over Neil’s cheekbone. “There’s us. There’s information I’ve withheld from Wymack, unsolved cases that’ll stay open because I’m married to a mob boss.”
“One unsolved case,” Neil corrected him. “Spear was signing his own death certificate when he touched you.”
Andrew settled on the couch next to Neil and put his legs across Neil’s lap. Neil leaned his head on Andrew’s shoulder: it only twinged his side a little bit.
It’d always worked out fine: Neil was Andrew’s informant on gang-related behaviour and substance movement or rings for other factions in Baltimore. He made sure everything was on the strait and narrow and kept his own gang clean of bullshit like exploitative sex work and child trafficking rings. His resources were clean and his prices were fair: If someone owed him, they’d pay it back. The ‘or else’ was always left unsaid, but not unclear. It was just business.
So if the Wesninski gang was left alone and Andrew and the police were kept busy, everyone benefitted! Everything was fine.
Till shootouts in back alleyways happened and you accidentally shoot the love of your life. It was just a hazard of the relationship.
Neil would give it up eventually, when he’d paid off his father’s debts to the Moriyamas. He promised Andrew he would, so that he could go to Andrew’s work parties and dinner evenings and introduce himself as Neil Hatford, Andrew’s husband, even if they’d all know exactly who he was from Nathaniel Wesninski’s glamorous mug shots.
Till that day came, he’d just focus on what he already had. He smiled into Andrew’s chest and received a flick to his ear for the effort.
“Carry me to bed?” He inquired, resting his chin on Andrew’s shoulder.
“No.”
“You realise you shot me today, right?”
“Carrying you risks popping the stitches. You can’t guilt-trip someone who won’t feel guilty.”
Neil laughed. “I know you actually do, but I’ll indulge you just this once.” When Andrew stood up off the couch, Neil pulled himself up with fingers around his wrist. “You owe me.”
Andrew sighed, letting Neil lead him to bed. “I always somehow do.”
*