Work Text:
Tonight, Keith is going to kill a rapist.
Keith’s day, as always, is mundane. He dresses up in a black button-down shirt and bland gray tie, gets stuck in traffic on the way to his painfully boring job at a landscape architecture firm, suffers through the budget analysis and cost estimation he’s gotten stuck doing instead of the actual landscape design he thought he was being hired for, and eats a chicken sandwich at his desk in his stifling beige cubicle because he doesn’t have time to go outside for lunch. The spreadsheets of numbers he emails to his hypercritical boss receive replies full of scathing rebukes and demanded corrections, back and forth and back and forth until he’s ready to cry from the inanity of it all, and eventually earn lukewarm approvals that leave him feeling empty and unfulfilled. Then, at 7:00 PM exactly, Keith stuffs his few belongings into his weathered gray backpack and drives back to his apartment to change into his disguise and grab his gun and knife.
Lance is already waiting for Keith at the rendezvous point they chose, behind a closed mechanic shop a few blocks from their target’s house. The mark walks his dog around 9:00 PM every night, and that’ll be their chance. Lance has come armed with his favorite handgun, small and inconspicuous but more than enough for the sharpshooter to get the job done as long as everything goes according to plan. If it doesn’t, Keith will step in. But the setup of this job is right up Lance’s alley, so it should go fine.
“Hey, Mullet. Looking sexy,” Lance says, pulling out his favorite disparaging nickname despite the fact that Keith has tied back his shoulder-length black hair in a neat ponytail. “How was your day?”
Keith shakes his head. “Bullshit. As usual.”
“Everything is bullshit, isn’t it?” Lance lets out a quiet laugh, checking his burner phone for any last-minute updates or details. “Mine was too. My boss pissed off our rudest client, made me deal with it, and then when I was done getting yelled at by this guy, he made me redo the guy’s entire project. You know why? Because the so-called boss didn’t understand what the client was asking for the first time. Can you believe the nerve of that asshole? Some people just need to be shot.”
“At least we’re taking care of one of them tonight,” Keith replies.
Keith’s been ready to send this target to hell from the second he got offered the job. The commissioner is a woman in her mid-20s, and the man she wants dead is a middle-aged creep that molested her when she was a child and then popped back up twenty years later to kidnap and rape her on her way home from work. Keith doesn’t take every job he’s offered, because he’s not really a hitman - he’s more like a vigilante for hire - but he accepted this one before he’d even asked follow-up questions. His rule is to only take jobs he’d do for free, and this one fits the bill; due to the risk involved he has to take payment, but the woman who commissioned it has plenty of money. He’ll be getting paid well for this one, even with the reward split between him and Lance. Because these hits aren’t just Keith’s - they’re Keith-and-Lance’s. The two of them are a team, or at least, a package deal.
“Can’t wait. This guy should’ve been shot - how old is he? - fifty-five years ago. We’re handling overdue business.” Lance’s grin is more like a snarl. He swore viciously in Spanish when Keith told him about this mission, ranted for a few minutes, then asked if they could move up the timeline and kill him immediately. Lance reacts that way to all the jobs Keith accepts for them, since the targets are always people who deserve to die and Lance is a trigger-happy hothead with a moral compass. But once Lance is done trying to wheedle Keith into jumping the gun - literally - he’ll shove down his anger and begin putting together a comprehensive plan to get the hit done on a more practical timeframe. They’ll conduct investigations, scope out areas, draw sketches, and plot timelines. Lance will synthesize them, finalize a plan, and declare it foolproof. Keith will point out holes in the foolproof plan, list things that could go wrong, and Lance will come up with contingencies for them. They’ll do an inconspicuous practice run, and adjust as necessary. Then, according the plan, they’ll kill someone. Keith-and-Lance’s process works every time.
“We weren’t born fifty-five years ago,” Keith points out, biting his lip to clamp down on the smile it’s trying to curl into. He tries not to make it obvious how often he wants to smile or laugh around Lance, even though Lance has already caught on. “We probably could’ve done it thirty years ago. I assume you were born holding a gun.”
Keith retrieves his black ski mask from the pocket of his pants and reaches up to pull it over his head, but Lance stops him with a hand on his. His blue eyes are filled with a dark kind of mischief that makes Keith actually pause instead of smacking the hand away. Lance leans in and kisses Keith, an abrupt and blunt kiss that quickly turns deep and passionate. When he forces himself to pull back, because they’re operating on a strict timeline, Keith smiles at his husband. Despite himself, and in spite of their semi-ongoing five year long enmity, he likes looking at Lance and thinking husband. Keith and Lance got married solely because they need the spousal privilege that allows them to avoid revealing incriminating information or testifying against each other if one or both of them gets caught by the police for the admittedly serious crime of assassinating people, but with every passing year, the original reason matters less to both of them. There’s nobody Keith would rather be married to and murdering with, and he knows Lance feels the same way.
“You caught me. I was born holding a gun, and I’m ready to use it.” Lance sneaks another kiss from Keith, then puts on his own ski mask and gestures for Keith to do the same. “Hurry up. My finger’s been itching for the trigger since the second I heard this bastard’s name, and it’s time to scratch it.”
With that, Keith and Lance head off to do something they’ll have to hide from Hunk, their boyfriend who’s waiting for them at home.
The next morning, Hunk makes breakfast. 7:00 AM, just like usual.
“You two got home late,” Hunk says, swirling the scrambled eggs in the pan with the practiced expertise of a chef - which he is. The sunlight coming through the open kitchen window lights up Hunk’s face beautifully, and his smile looks the way the birdsong coming from the park across the street sounds. There’s something almost cliche about how adorably domestic Hunk looks among the cooking dishes cluttering the countertops and the framed beach photographs on the wall of his favorite room in their cozy apartment on the quiet outskirts of the city. “Did you do something fun?”
“My car broke down.” Keith’s morning voice is raspy, and he clears his throat as he reaches across the small kitchen table to take the bright yellow mug that Lance is holding out to him. Strong, rich Cuban coffee, so dark and bitter that Hunk still hasn’t acquired a taste for it despite Lance brewing it for them every morning and offering the traditional café con leche option with milk to soften the taste. But Keith has been in a relationship with Lance for longer, so unfortunately, he’s come to enjoy the abrasiveness of both the undiluted coffee and its provider. “It’s fine now, though.”
“Good as new, because of yours truly. I jumped the battery, found a mechanic open late, and heroically resolved the predicament of our mulleted damsel in distress.” Lance grins, gracefully setting himself down on the chair across from Keith and tormenting him by stretching in an exaggerated fashion that highlights the curve of his waist and the definition of his abs. He’s shirtless, because when the weather is nice, he refuses to get dressed until it’s time for him to head out the door for work; he’ll spend the entire morning wearing loose gray sweatpants with nothing else above or beneath them, in an attempt to seduce one or both of his partners into “starting the day in a sexier way”. “Using my bountiful charm and charisma, I got the mechanic to fix it the same night. And, in the meantime, I took Keith on a very romantic date to the greasy spoon diner across the street. He has yet to thank me for any of that, by the way.”
“You’re my boyfriend. You’re supposed to do those things,” Keith grumbles into his coffee. It’s too hot for immediate consumption, but he took several gulps of it before processing that, so he’ll be spending the next three days wincing at the irritation of his mildly burnt tongue.
“Aww.” Hunk finishes swirling and cooking the eggs, turns off the stove, sets the spatula down beside the pan, then comes over to put his hands on Keith’s shoulders and press a kiss to the top of his hair. Keith openly smiles, because Hunk deserves to be smiled for, and can’t help but smile a little wider as Hunk kisses Lance’s hair as well. He’s willing to smile around Hunk. “You should’ve called me. I would’ve - I dunno, done something to help. Or just hung out with you guys.”
That, right there, is why Keith and Lance fell for Hunk. It happened about a year ago, and it happened fast. They stopped into the Samoan restaurant that had just opened a few streets down from their previous apartment about an hour before it closed, trying to fix their strained romantic relationship with something like a date night, and then halfway through their meal the chef came out to ask them how the food was. With everything going on there - Hunk’s laugh, his awkward but witty banter, his unexpected past as an aerospace engineer, his extensive knowledge of Cuban cuisine, his bulging biceps, and his incredible Samoan cooking - Lance was instantly hooked on him, and Keith quickly followed. Hunk took them out for a drink after the restaurant closed, and after that point, the three of them were just a thing. Somehow Hunk missed the fact that Lance and Keith were in a relationship until they officially asked him to join it, and his word-for-word responses were oh, whoops, didn’t catch that and then well, if you’re down for it, the more the merrier. Lance and Keith did not, however, disclose to Hunk that they are actually married or that they occasionally kill people for money.
So the thing is, Keith and Lance are living a massive lie. To the entire world, but to Hunk in particular. Ending the lie isn’t an option; they kill in the name of enacting justice and revenge upon those who belong in the deepest circles of hell, and the best way to ensure they’ll never have to reveal legal evidence about it is to remain married until death do us part. So it’s inevitable that the house of cards will come crumbling down, but in the meantime, Lance and Keith are comfortable in it. They’re happy, they’re well-fed, and their relationship with each other has never been better. Hunk is the crucial piece in their lives that they didn’t realize they’d been missing, so it’s a shame that, sooner or later, they’ll lose him.
“You need your sleep,” Lance replies, reaching up to squeeze one of Hunk’s big hands. “Keith and I don’t. We’re rebels. Creatures of the night. We live on the edge. Sleep? Not a chance.”
“Says the guy who bites off the head of anyone who disturbs him before 1:30 in the afternoon on weekends,” Keith mutters. Lance reaches over and smacks his arm, and Keith smacks him back; he sloshes hot coffee on his hand in the process, which should teach him a lesson about acting like the grown man that he is, but it doesn’t. Lance takes Keith’s hand and sensually licks the coffee off it, smirking in the most obnoxiously smug manner, and Hunk rushes back to the stove and quickly but meticulously assembles two plates to intervene with before Keith can decide whether to kill Lance or kiss him. Hunk’s appearance in their lives one blissful year ago is probably the only reason that both Keith and Lance have made it into their third decades.
“You two be good,” Hunk says, as he places the plates down on the table. He usually eats breakfast at his restaurant with his staff, because he feels the need to show his appreciation for them by cooking them meals several times a day, but he makes sure to feed his boyfriends before his departure regardless. It’s yet another reason he’s so, so perfect, and yet another reason it will hurt so, so much when he finds out the truth about Keith and Lance and everything falls apart. Hunk kisses each of them in turn as he asks, “Lance? Keith? Be good?”
“We always are. Perfect angels,” Lance says, with a winning smile. Keith rolls his eyes, tentatively sipping the too-hot coffee again. Lance is very good at living a lie.
After Hunk puts the cooking dishes neatly into the dishwasher and leaves for work, Keith and Lance eat in comfortable silence. The scrambled eggs are seasoned with the perfect salt-and-pepper balance, the crispy tostada is decadently buttery, and the bacon is coated with the ideal amount of grease. The intimidatingly strong coffee has cooled to a pleasant warmth that matches the feeling of their quiet apartment’s kitchen, reflected in Lance’s soft smile as he takes his first bite of café con leche-dipped toast. Hunk’s presence lingers in the form of the lovingly-crafted food and the photographs of his island home. Before Hunk, when it was just the two of them, Lance ate a lazily thrown-together breakfast alone and Keith skipped the meal entirely. Things are so much better this way - the way Hunk does them.
Lance gives Keith suggestive looks while running his tongue obscenely over his fork until Keith sighs, swears, surrenders, gulps down the last of his coffee, and drags Lance into their bedroom by the waist of his sweatpants. The sex is rushed and low on enthusiasm, too conscious of the clock on the bedside table and the impending drudgery of the world outside the salaciously opened window curtains, but good nonetheless. It doesn’t hold a candle to that October evening four years ago when Keith and Lance passionately and desperately consummated their marriage in the alley behind the county courthouse directly after picking up their marriage certificate, but nothing ever will. When they’re done, they forgo the bliss of the afterglow and roll immediately off the mussed-up bed; Keith is still a bit dazed as Lance smooths down his equally mussed-up hair with his slender and multi-talented fingers, but Lance pivots with practiced ease and pulls on his tight jeans and blue blazer just as fast as he yanked off his sweatpants. In one minute flat, Lance looks like he and Keith never laid hands or lips on each other.
Keith watches Lance sprint for the door, feeling oddly off balance at his husband’s near-instantaneous departure. Then Keith throws on an outfit that’s not too different from yesterday’s - bland gray button-down shirt, black tie - and picks up the beat-up work backpack he never unpacked. He gets stuck in traffic in the car that’s worked perfectly since the day he bought it, drags himself into his suffocating beige cubicle late enough that his inflexible boss will scold him for it, and once again confronts the death of his landscape architecture dreams in the form of cost estimation and budget analysis spreadsheets. It will be another boring, mundane day.
And then, next week, Keith and Lance will kill a domestic abuser.