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Out of their current and humble group of four, Sanford figured he didn't have much to worry about when it came to Deimos.
The two of them have already been partnered up multiple times before, and their recent string of missions only sealed the inevitable: they were a duo of kickass that fit together like airtight puzzle pieces.
Do not separate.
With said pre-established bond, he didn't feel as urgent of a need to confess any time soon, after he realized those fiery butterflies that erupted in his gut whenever Deimos neared him more than necessary were, in fact, not indigestion troubles.
He realized this roughly around the time Doc joined up their travels, not too long after Hank did and had apparently gained a new lead on yet another side objective to tackle (AKA, base to massacre) before taking it all straight to the auditor.
But he didn't act on it. And while that was partly out of the typical apprehension one might have for rejection, it was also a tad bit out of cockiness.
Sanford felt they were pretty darn good at their jobs.
Enough so, that he decided to just take it slow, maybe wait for any concrete signs of reciprocation before hurriedly blurting out his feelings as if they hung in the balance of death every second (which.. they most certainly did, but again. they were good).
There was no rush, and Sanford was perfectly fine with taking his sweet time with Deimos.
Fine with lazy mornings of waffles and hotdog lunches the two would idly share, fine with whirling back to bloody back whilst shooting down agents by the dozens, fine with their long drives between bases, Deimos often taking to being behind the wheel, windows rolled down to let him sneak a smoke while Sanford would listen to him ramble on from the passenger seat, dozing off to husky, calming words...
It was all fine.
Until it so very suddenly wasn't.
All because of Hank.
Now--Hank and Sanford weren't on bad terms or anything.
They treated each other as typical colleagues, but being one of the better skilled members of the rebellion (moreso than the average grunt anyway), Sanford's interactions with him would be in no way obsolete.
In fact, the more missions he and Deimos had to work with Hank, the more the cold, killing machine began to shed a few layers of actual personality (yea, he was shocked too).
For one.. he began to speak with them in more than just complete-the-mission terms.
He'd remark on things to their notice, prod at them for whatever he figured they were lacking in, even sardonically gave Sanford some applause after he swerved their truck into a building after an ambush (so he wasn't the best driver, sue him).
For another.. he apparently really, really liked cats?? Deimos was never one to deny anyone the pure joy of cat memes, so that's how he found out.
Painting also wasn't out of the question (albeit, it was oft done in blood), and neither was playing guitar now and again--which had started the day they broke into an outlet of shops to clear it clean of A.A.H.W. goons; one of them just happening to be a music store.
It added a guitar to their ever growing ensemble of gear... a guitar that Deimos had notably encouraged Hank to play on one campout night, clapping along to whatever tune Hank had begrudgingly made up with on the spot (then later repeated for the rest of time).
..Come to think of it... with all that in mind, maybe Sanford shouldn't have been so surprised Hank would've ended up warming up to Deimos more than anyone else.
Out of everyone, he was definitely the more amicable one, ready to haphazardly break down walls with a wrecking ball of untimely dark humor and incessant poking inquiries and such.
Kind of like how he did to him.
Except, the only difference here was that Sanford knew when to goof off and all. He wasn't above getting involved with Deimos' tomfoolery--much to Doc's grief.
Hank, on the other hand, didn't goof off period.
The most he's ever indulged Deimos was when he strummed that guitar, so there was still reason for surprise when Sanford spotted Hank and Deimos practicing shots in the early morning; the two being far closer together than he'd have ever expected (or liked).
And the view didn't get much better the closer he got to the shooting range--Hank being sidled up right behind Deimos, hands on top of his in an altogether too snug of an almost-hug.
Yes, he was likely just adjusting Deimos' grip on his gun, but the sudden invasion of boiling feelings striking his gut at the sight had him startled.
Had him confused on what the actual fuck to do.
Because--he's never prepared himself for something like this.
Why would he!
And even if he had.. Hank? Hank--of ALL people, him??
A literal psychopath who's spilt more blood that what the Nile river could possibly ever fit, and enjoyed every drop of it (he was never shy about the fact that he really, really liked killing)--HE was the one to also like Deimos???
Or, at least, that's what Sanford assumed. Wasn't entirely sure if the guy was even capable of love. Not in the way Sanford wished to have with Deimos anyway.
In any case, that's what it looked like to him at first. And by the time he reached the line dividing shooters and passerbys.. could you really blame him? Hank did not need to be pressed up against Deimos' back like that.
He didn't need to lower his hands to his sides, didn't need to tug him in a scooch closer, and he most certainly didn't need to lean his masked face in to mumble ticklish directions to Deimos' ear, who had snickered at the squeamish feeling despite his headphones still being on and--
Yeaaah look.
No.
It was a death wish, but Sanford stepped into the range and promptly stuck an arm in between their snug fixture to separate them because, no.
No this was not going to be a thing. Not if he could help it. There was already enough shit out here to worry over, and Hank somehow swooping Deimos the fuck away before Sanford could even tell him his feelings was NOT going to be one of em.
..That and, Sanford had absolutely no idea how to respond to jealousy.
Not like anybody around here was going to give him any kind of lecture as to how to properly cope with it--it's the bloody apocalypse. Worse yet, a Nevadan apocalypse.
All he knew, was that any problem they had ever faced was always done away with by pure, brute force alone.
And so, it was only perfectly natural for him to then abruptly shove Hank and Deimos away from each other, standing in between them with his arms up like he were some boxing ref.
"Sanford-?" Deimos nearly dropped his gun from the sudden push, confused, and Hank apparently was too, cocking his head in silent inquiry. "Hey, what's goin on?"
Now that Sanford had let impulse take over and run, he was left flailing on how the hell to explain himself without letting it slip that, he was just being petty as fuck over a stupid bleeding crush.
He turned to Hank, mouth opening to try and deescalate the situation, or give some reason at all for his sudden interruption.
"Fuck off."
Hm. Yep, yep that was elegant.
Hank didn't react much to the response, but Deimos did.
"Whoa whoa man, what happened? There a problem?"
Yes, but Sanford would really rather not go into that here. Instead, he simply crossed his arms, still looking at Hank.
His eyes searched for any sign of agitation over him separating them, but.. well, it was nigh impossible to tell with the all encompassing goggles and mask.
"No."
"You.. sure?" Deimos idly reached for a cigarette, the addict.
"I mean... we were sort of in the middle of something and-"
Sanford turned to Deimos, grimacing at the wording, but before he could explain or poke at exactly what was he interrupting, Hank actually began to walk past them, toward the exit.
He pointed at them, blunt as always.
"Sanford loves Deimos."
In a very clear, annunciated quip that literally put together every worst possible thing Sanford could've ever wanted Deimos to hear, Hank had squeezed it all into the shortest and simplest phrase nobody could misunderstand to boot.
Because of course he did.
"Hey-!!" Sanford began, beyond offended that the man would just.. upend months worth of effort in making sure his secret feelings stayed a goddamn secret. But Hank ignored him.
And then the motherfucker just left.
Like he hadn't just casually dropped a nuclear bombshell on the two.
The two stood cemented to the spot, unable to move or talk for a good minute or so.
Then, because the world liked to be very funny with their timing, Sanford bolted the exact second Deimos opened his mouth.
"You--oh no you don't, get back here!" Deimos was now running after Sanford, and the idiots delved into a shortlived chase across the range.
Shortlived because, while Sanford was no doubt stronger, Deimos was faster, and he tackled the dumbass down into a tumble.
After a brief roll or two, Deimos managed to pin Sanford down, sitting on his abdomen.
"You.." Deimos huffed from the sprint, "You seriously gotta explain a few things for me."
Sanford closed his eyes, cursing to whatever gods out there would listen, "Just forget it Deimos."
"Uh, how about no? Cause I'm pretty sure what just happened here was--"
Ohh for withering goodness' sake, fuck it. "I got jealous, alright? Now get off'a me-"
"I was gonna say 'upset', but sure. And.." Deimos regained his breath from the run, just so he could hold it again. "..this is because..?"
Sanford glared at him for making him spell it out. "Because, like Hank said, I-"
And then he bit back his tongue, recalling exactly what Hank did say, and he groaned, crumbling.
"...Please Deimos, just.. get off and drop it, okay?"
Deimos' brow furrowed, thinking for a bit.
He tsked, "Fine. But on one condition."
This son of a gun. "What."
Deimos let go of Sanford's arms, moving so that he stretched out like some sort of lazy cat, and lowered his chest down till Sanford could smell the recent, ever familiar flavor of smoke. His lips curled up, "You have to give me a kiss. Sound fair?"
Sanford blinked, eyes visibly flitting through all the thoughts, before finally smiling back.
Suffice to say, when the two returned from the shooting range, all dopey eyed and stupid, Hank couldn't help roll his eyes.
Chuckleheads.