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"Having a routine helps. It gives life a little structure and will help organize their minds. And ours!" A woman had once told Wolf that. His ex-wife, as they had put the girls to bed. When his business had closed, he had tried to keep routine. But then she had left. Life was in a blender, sliced and sliced and sliced into a blur of cuts that smeared into long, grey months.A woman had once told Wolf that. His ex-wife, as they had put the girls to bed. When his business had closed, he had tried to keep routine. But then she had left. Life was in a blender, sliced and sliced and sliced into a blur of cuts that smeared into long, grey months.
For every heist, there was a routine. They would gather at the safe house a week before the intended job. Blueprints would be rolled out over the table in the small war-room. Security routes and guard posts would be highlighted in blue. The location of management or people key to the job were in green. Loot was ringed in yellow. Dallas would lead the conversation. Chains would mark possible holdout spots for when the heavier police came in red. Hoxton occasionally added to the conversation. Wolf answered when spoken to.
For the next week, Wolf would visit the safe house to practice every evening. Shooting mostly but also reloading, packing bags quickly, unloading his sentry gun. He practiced often but the week leading up to the heist was most important. The others would visit too. Dallas would visit the shooting range and go for jogs about three days beforehand. Chains would come only the night before, spending the entire day at the safe house. Hoxton came every other day to prepare trip mines and hone his shooting.
After the heist, they would make their way to the safe house. Dallas would dutifully start splitting the money, if there was any, or make the arrangements with Bain to sort out their contact or the goods they’d obtained. Chains would stretch out and check their injuries before flopping down onto his chair. Hoxton would spread across the sofa, grabbing a beer from the tiny fridge and boastfully recounting their success. Wolf would find room on the sofa to join him, downing a beer. Sometimes they would sing together, football victory songs from England and Sweden respectively.
After spending the night in the safe house, Dallas and Chains would return to their civilian apartments. Wolf remained however, as did Hoxton. During the day, they practiced their shooting. As it grew dark, a different routine took over.
Post-heist jitters, Hoxton had called it. The feeling that the cops would come down on them just as it had looked like they were in the clear. Wolf always found himself nervous the night after a successful job, so much so that it was impossible to sleep or rest. He would pace, twiddle with equipment, shoot until he could barely squeeze the trigger; it wasn’t good for him.
Now he and Hoxton would lie on the old sofa that they had drunk and laughed on the day before, dressed in the casual clothes they had stored for returning to society. It wasn’t very roomy but they managed to fit, Wolf lying on his back with Hoxton half on him, propped on his side and using his arm to hold himself up. Hoxton led the routine by reaching into Wolf’s slacks, cupping him. Wolf returned the motion, hand slipping down Hoxton’s trousers to find his cock. Getting off, as Hoxton had put it, calmed nerves. And it’s no fun doing it alone, is it?
The touches were slow and deliberate, the comfortable familiarity coming with having worked together for so long, having done this before. Hoxton openly grunted, telling him he wanted to be touched and moaning when satisfied. The feedback eased Wolf’s mind. There were no coy games with Hoxton only blunt honesty, which made it easy to please him. And in turn Wolf found his own lips parting to coax Hoxton on, asking for certain touches, for more.
If they caught each others eye they would smile. Sometimes Hoxton would laugh a little breathlessly. Their heads would touch with a squeeze or a particular pull, Hoxton’s loose hair brushing his cheek. When Hoxton’s climax was approaching, he’d nudge Wolf in warning and mutter about a tissue. There was a box nearby. They waited until the end was near, every time. A tissue simply didn’t feel as good as a bare hand but they didn’t ant a mess on their hands (and in their pants) either.
For ten minutes or so they would lie on the sofa, panting softly together, letting the warmth wash over them. Until Hoxton would fidget and grumble.
"Why do we always end up on this sofa? It’s about as comfortable as a bed of nails!" To which, Wolf would always shrug.
"Routine."
"Right, and this is the part where we get up and have a proper kip on one of the beds, yeah?"
"That sounds right."
Staggering to their feet they retired to one of the beds kept for overnight stays in the safe house. Maybe they would touch each other again that night, maybe they would drop off to sleep immediately. Not every step of a routine needed to be set in stone.