Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Every minute of every day passed by at a snail's pace, seconds crawling by in solitude. Eight years ago- a day riddled with misfortune- Murphy’s law on full display- he saw his companion for the final time. On that late autumn night in early november, everything that could go wrong did go wrong. He supposed they could’ve been killed- but even that would’ve been a mercy compared to the agony he endured as the calendar pages flipped and flipped and flipped. Not once in these past eight years did he fall asleep without being haunted by what could’ve been.

Never once did he stop looking for his companion. Any time he had a lead- a whisper of a rooster mask at a massacre, a beaten and bloody mobster sobbing mercies to a man in a varsity- he would run after it. He never ran fast enough, never ever enough. He knew, deep down, that this was intentional- a part of him telling himself that he needed to keep his distance. That he shouldn’t chase after his companion- that he was better off without him. He always yearned for what could've been- what never was- between the two of them. But he knew he was bad news. Flighty and flippant, he hated commitment and his only dedication was to the next adrenaline high. He couldn't commit to him back when they traveled, his hesitancy to devote any real time to track him down only proved he still wasn't ready. He was always thankful that the man was good at staying off the radar- that he had this bizarre refusal to own cell phones. If he did, he would be just within reach- he knew his composure would break with the temptation.

They were always doomed to burn out together, a touch too many and wings of wax would melt away- sending them plummeting to their deaths. It was better off this way, never seeing each other again.

It was 2015 when his resolve finally began to crack. It was late March, spring finally beginning to take hold in Los Angeles. The beaches populated with tourists and locals alike- the nightlife more alive than ever. He always liked the spring, the bitter chill replaced with sweet smelling breezes. What was better than the weather was people spending more time outdoors. Taking a mark that didn't involve breaking and entering was always a joy. The elements would wipe away the evidence in just a day- spring rains washing away the blood and gore as well as the sound of their screams.

The rain dribbled on his helmet as he made his way in and out of the local bars and clubs. Skeevy places like this were hubs for the Californian underground, easy locations to gather hits, information, and scope out marks. He always felt right surrounded by neon lighting and swells of bodies, practically having grown up in places like this. The only thing he wished was for the numbness of alcohol to quell his urge to count every exit a dozen times over- to stop his eyes from scanning heads and figuring out how many are armed- how many pose a threat- the number- he always needed that exact number. His eyes roved over the crowd, letting it slowly tick up in his head. 

That's when he saw it. Places like these always had TVs hanging up behind the bars playing sports, running endless ads, or covering the news. This one was no different- but right there on the center screen was a DC news reporter. His blood turned to ice as the small picture in the corner of the screen blew up to cover the monitor- as if knowing he was staring. He shoved past patrons- uncaring- simply needing to get a closer look. To confirm what he already was certain of.

On the screen was a grainy CCTV still. Four men stood, armed to the teeth and surrounded by pixelated corpses. All of them had what looked like clown masks- except for one. That iconic rooster mask that he would know anywhere. The fucker was alive- kicking- still fighting and leaving a bloody carnage in his wake. And fuck with that mask on- he looked identical to the day they had been forced to split. He still had the same taste in shitty washed out denim jeans- ratted t-shirts, thrifted or probably stolen- and that unmistakable letterman. All the details were the same as he remembered, down to his knuckles wrapped in tape.

The TV’s volume was low- essentially inaudible among the rave of the club behind him- but the subtitles flicked across the screen.

In another series of robberies in the Washington DC area, the infamous PAYDAY gang strikes again. In the past few months, the group’s numbers have grown significantly as have the scale of their heists. The most recent face- or mask- to join their numbers is a strikingly familiar one to some. A man in a varsity jacket and rooster mask- much like the one you see before you- was well known in Miami Florida back in 2003. Is this new criminal the same as the sociopath who brought bloodshed to the streets of Miami twelve years ago? While we have no definitive proof- the carnage speaks for itself. Please be warned, the following footage is graphi-

Definitive proof? What more did he NEED. That was him- without a shadow of a doubt that was him.

He had no idea how to feel as the shock slowly began to subside and reality crept into its place. Fuck. Fuck! It had been years since he’d seen him- he was probably an entirely different person now and not the same man as before. If the fact that he was working together with some gang was any sort of indicator- when he had always worked alone- when they only worked together.

He found his gut twisting with pain, wondering if his companion had even remembered him. The man’s memories were fickle- full of gaps and blanks as if blasted by a shotgun. He hoped- fucking hell he would pray - that the man thought about him as much as he did. No matter how badly it ached.

Eyes slipped shut as he tore his gaze from the TV, ignoring the scowls and scathing looks of the patrons he had shoved aside. The other man was better off now- he had new friends- a gang he could rely on. They had notoriety and wouldn't be a liability. Because that's all he himself would ever amount to. A loose canon. An untrustworthy Liability. A loose end. 

He stormed out of the bar and hopped on his bike. He didn't dare turn on his playlist- certain that the shuffle play would betray him. 

The denial didn't stop him from thinking about his old companion-- Companion, just that and nothing more, perhaps even less. They were never lovers, never partners, just companions and colleagues. Days would pass and he would stay firmly in California. He would stay where he was- two thousand six hundred and forty miles away from Washington DC. He vehemently banished any thought of leaving the state far far from his mind. He knew the moment he stepped across the border- he would find himself halfway to DC and with no hope of turning back.

Every single time he passed by a TV running the national news or a newspaper left haphazardly sprawled on a public bench- he would find his eyes scanning its contents. He would idle for a moment, eyes roving ravenous for anything related to PAYDAY- related to the rooster masked heister. The mentions were rare- few and far between as March turned to April- but the temptation would never wane. 

He would spend long nights sitting on the Los Angeles beaches, watching as the setting sun bled into the horizon and set the Californian palm trees ablaze with its light. So much of LA reminded him of Miami that it was almost painful. He could almost imagine seeing a gator milling about out of the corner of his eye, or an iguana basking in the sun or dropping from a tree as the temperature turned chill. He had loved Miami, and as painful as the similarities were- its why he was here. He was always a creature of habit, falling back on anything that was familiar.

It was that craving for familiarity that made soft and quiet moments like this one so painful. He loved the familiarity of it all- but he hated that things were missing. Leaning back against the side of his bike, he sat upon a hill overlooking the sea with his helmet held in his lap. His own reflection gazed back at him from the visor- reminding him painfully of how many things were different and missing. 

He wasn't the same man he was when he first met his companion, twenty two- young and reckless. Thirty four now and time hadn’t been entirely too kind to him, his stubble crawling across his face as it curled into a mockery of a beard. 

As much as he forced himself to try and shove his companion to the back of his mind- he was always just there. Sitting in the back of his mind and reminding him of the seconds minutes days weeks months and years they had been apart- but also that they had been together. 

He would never forget sitting on the hood of their stolen SUV, drinking the night away on the Fourth of July- forgetting about the world around them. He would never forget that night in March- their first tirade into intimacy. He wouldn't forget when he handed the man a new mask, how they donned their disguises and hit the town. How beautiful he looked in a violent frenzy, baseball bat smattered in gore that clung to both their clothes and skin. He wouldn't forget how every year on April Fourth, the man’s entire demeanor would shift- closing up as a shell of himself. 

He had never been good at letting time slip through his fingers, each date clinging hard to his memory. He could remember exactly how many days they spent together, how many days they’d been apart. He could remember the numbers clearly as if they were written on the back of his eyelids. With every day- every calendar date- sticking so close to his skin, he often tried to shove them as far off as he could. Despite that- he would never shrug off three specific dates. 

Every January 21st he would spend alone in bed, counting the seconds and minutes from midnight to midnight. His chest would pang with hollowness- screaming to be filled with something- something- anything. More often than not he would fill the gaping hole with enough alcohol to make himself sick- fending off the urge to spill blood- swallow pills- to drive top speed and release his brain of every angusing thought that plagued it. On the anniversary of the start of their time together, he desperately tried to forget about him.

Every April 4th- a date that meant so little to him twelve years ago- he would rise up early in the morning. He always left this day entirely clear- no plans or schedules to get in the way. He would hop on his bike and drive to the liquor store to buy a six pack of a brand he never drank. He would drive the five hours or more down to ground zero in San Francisco. He would stand off to the side, idly watching as others left incense and flowers and teddy bears at the hundreds of plaques in the field. When the crowds would thin, he would let his feet follow the familiar route to the third plaque in the second row. He never knew which name he was supposed to be looking at, that he should be greeting. He would just set down the six pack, warmed from the April sun, and walk off. He would only ever whisper four little words- the only ones his companion had ever uttered in his presence.

The very last date though- fucking hell. Ever year November 5th was supposed to be the same as January 21st. He was supposed to drown his sorrows in alcohol, drink himself stupid alone in his room. He never lasted past noon though- the boiling feeling in his gut- the unending rage spilling over the top. He would clench his machete in hand and make bloody carnage of the first mark of the first contract he could get his hands on. He would count and count and count until the numbers faded to background noise. One two three knives thrown- four five six heads smashed- seven eight nine ten limbs severed.

He would find his way down to the beach afterwards, a secluded area where no one could question the pools of red left in the wake of his boots. He would find himself here- staring back into his helmet, wondering where the years had gone when he had counted them by so restlessly. 

Among the garbage and refuse littering the span of beach, he would slip on his headphones and listen to his oldest playlist. He didn't own the cassette it had originally been housed on but the songs were all the same. 

He would feel the heavy weight of wood make his shoulders slump with exhaustion. The baseball bat ever present- strapped across his back as a constant reminder. The old thing never got much use- worn and old- lacquer weathered with age and dried blood seeped into the fading wood. 

The sun would set lower, turning the bleeding red skies to a fading purple. He would move his helmet from his lap off to the side, and replace it with the baseball bat. His fingers traced idly along the etching near the handle, nails dipping into the jagged grooves he had carved there eight years ago. NOV 5 ‘07. His frown deepened painfully, heat welling behind his eyes.

The song ends, and the final one on the playlist begins to play in his ears.

“ If I could turn the page

In time then I’d rearrange just a day or two-”

He isn't able to choke back the strangled cry he lets out. A monstrous amalgamation of a sob and a yell he didn't care to stifle. He resisted the urge to chuck the bat and headphones down the hill and across the sand. Instead, he grips the weapon like it's a lifeline and lets himself curl into a ball.

No matter how hard he tried, he would never forget about him. Every time he tried to, every time he told himself he could live without him, he was just lying to himself. The past eight years were a messy blur of emotions and turmoil, dates flipping by one at a time, one by one. If every year- every January 21st, April 4th, November 5th- he was a complete wreck dwelling on what could've been… would he ever move on? Honestly- it was a miracle he had made it this far. Staving off every urge to chase down the memory of the russet letterman jacket and those faded blue eyes. 

He was sick of wasting time. He’d wasted so much already- thinking of what wasn't- what could've been. Eight years spent in a futile attempt to get over it- when he should've been making ‘what could've been’ into ‘ what was ’.

He stood up much too fast- but ignored the nauseating dizziness as he strapped the bat onto his back. The familiar weight was a comfort against his spine. Roughly- he slid the helmet onto his head- punched in an address- and got on his bike.

He was sick of wasting time.

Los Angeles, California → Washington, District of Columbia
39 hours

Go now?

Yes

The moment he arrived in some crummy DC motel, he collapsed. The past couple of days were a delirious sleepless blur- making the nearly forty hour drive in under three days. He wasn't prepared for how cold Washington DC would be in late autumn, and found himself yearning for the sweet March breeze once again. He let the warmth from the raggedy shit motel blankets seep into his skin, allowing himself to sleep like the dead. 

When he awoke, it wasn't morning- but late into the evening. As he staggered around the motel room- it hit him like a sack of bricks how wildly unprepared he was for all of this. Not only had he ditched Los Angeles with nothing but his bike and the clothes on his back- but he had no idea where to really go from here.

He knew the PAYDAY gang- and his companion by extension- was situated somewhere in DC, but other than that he had nothing. DC was a big area- an absolute mess of a city that left so many places to search. The first day he was in DC was spent wracking his brain for solutions. 

With the bitter winter chill creeping closer- he was wildly unprepared for his usual methods of prowling. The weather alongside the fact he was in an unfamiliar city made that idea completely nonsensical. He was likely to run into the business of an unknown gang and wind up dead before he even got a whiff of the PAYDAY gang.

He considered hijacking one of the gang’s heists midway through- but he swiftly discarded that idea as well. He wasn't all too fond of becoming a ballistics target in the crossfire. That and the fact he didn't bring any guns with him? Yeah fat chance of that working out in his favor. 

Unfortunately- that left the boring and tedious approach. Surveillance. He glued his ears to police scanners, and kept his eyes on news sites. He reacquainted himself with the feeling of all nighters and sleeplessness. From dawn till much past dusk, he would be checking local crime fanatic blogs, forums, and other sources for updates on the gang’s activities. Locals under the guise of online anonymity were always a better source than public news. So much more could be said when you weren't silenced by news outlets and politicians trying to ‘keep the peace’ or push an agenda.

He started off knowing next to nothing about this gang- but that swiftly changed. This PAYDAY gang had apparently been operating since 2011, but had been recruiting new members throughout 2015- and even breaking an old member out of prison in late 2014. It was an impressive ledger, only made more so by their connections. 

While it took awhile for him to find a true source, dozens of internet theorists and rumor mills spoke of “Crime.net”. Supposedly this was a place where criminals of all kinds could find contracts or hired hands. The whole thing was run by a singular mastermind- and PAYDAY seemed rather close to the top of this Crime.net food chain.

He held no grand hopes that he could infiltrate Crime.net. It was a much larger fish than he had ever attempted, and when he failed he knew he would leave a trail of blood in the water. The sharks would be after him before he would get a chance to hightail it out of DC. Most of November he spent just gathering bits of information- but getting absolutely nowhere. Crime.net was an absolute gold mine, and it was downright fucking infuriating how close he was to it- but just out of reach. 

His lucky break came though. In late November- if only for a few dozen minutes- Crime.net was completely compromised. Malicious excitement swelled and he thanked whatever hacker did this, allowing him to slip in like a grouper under the belly of the shark. He absolutely did not stay for long- grabbing whatever few morsels of information he could before getting the hell out of dodge. 

Though they were just morsels- tiny bits of information- it was absolutely the breakthrough he needed. There was a main safehouse- somewhere within Washington DC. It was small- but fuck if it was exactly what he needed to keep going.

December was spent in a complete haze. What little sleep he got in November was the most he was going to get for some time. He spent hours on end, gaining access to security drones, traffic cams, satellite imagery, and whatever else he could sink his fingers into- anything to inch him closer and closer to this elusive safehouse. 

He tracks their escape vans and choppers on the cameras- but their drivers are nothing but the damned best. Knowing where cameras start and stop- how to ditch the cops on their tail but also the watchful eye of a lens. While it was goddamned infuriating- he had to give props to these guys. Professionals at their craft that he was thrilled to meet.

Unfortunately for the drivers, he didn't need to be led directly to the safehouse. All he needed was a map- all the points of data sending his eyes in one direction. That's all he needed. Direction and ruthless perseverance would take him the rest of the way. 

On the fiftieth day since he had arrived in Washington DC- December 28th- he hit it. A beautifully perfect and even number- it was like a damned miracle. There- on some grainy satellite imagery- is a warehouse. It's completely innocuous- an average site that could so easily be looked over by anyone. He certainly would’ve skipped it by- if not for a silver vehicle parked outside. He didn't know a single soul in this day and age who drove that excessively eccentric gull-winged vehicle other than the one and only. Outside the warehouse sat his- HIS- Acado GT. It likely wasn't the same one he drove back in 2003, as that one had been trashed and vandalized while the man was in a coma. 

None of that really mattered in the slightest though- that was his car. 

He had Found him.

He had only spared time for a shower and and basic grooming- when the fuck did his beard get this long- before hopping on his bike and speeding to his destination. The gentle snow flurries that fall from the sky bite painfully at his exposed forearms- but he can't find it in him to care. Beneath the visor of his helmet is a look of sheer determination and an elated grin. 

The roar of his bike’s engine was muffled by the snow dunes that began to pile at the sides of the forested road. He slowed as he saw the structure peeking over the trees- nearing closer and closer- enough to see that iconic Acado- before speeding into the premises. The rumble of his bike didn’t go unnoticed as he came to a stop outside the garage. The door was wide open, letting in the winter chill to these maniacs who wouldn't understand what good weather was if it hit them. 

He doesn't get to fully dismount his bike or get both feet on the ground before he had three guns trained at him. Now- he wasn't stupid. He was smart as fuck- thank you very much. He knew this would happen when he drove up unannounced to a notorious criminal gang’s primary safehouse. That didn't mean his fingers didn't twitch as he raised his hands in surrender, desperately wanting to reach for his throwing knives.

The three gang members in the garage regard him with suspicion- undoubtedly unhelped by the helmet covering his head and concealing his identity. Meanwhile their faces were on full display. In the further back is an older man with grey- no that was very much white hair. He hovered next to a motorcycle of his own, one that he had to admit was pretty damn cool. On the other end of the garage was a woman with a fruity ass haircut, shaved and dyed blue. Her arms were covered in tattoos, likely designed by herself if the art station behind her was anything to go off of. In the center, with a deep scowl and taking the lead on the situation, was an average looking blonde man. His hair was cropped close to his head, and his body made of lean muscle, hands steady as the gun leveled at his forehead.

“Get the fuck down,” came the blond’s harsh voice, accent clearly northern. 

He doesn't move for a moment, letting his eyes rove over the situation and taking counts of everything in the area- “Hey- Hey Easy now~” He placated with a smooth tone. The blond’s eyes hardened- he took note of the safety on the gun being switched off- and he slowly got down to his knees. 

“Who the fuck’re you?”

“I’m just some guy-” he automatically responds, not even thinking before the auto piloted response flows out. “Just a guy here to visit a friend.”

The blonde’s expression doesn't ease, staying hardened and cold. He nods his head back to the woman behind him without letting his eyes leave their target. “Sydney, go get Dallas. Tell him we’ve got a pest problem.” 

Behind him, the woman- Sydney- gives a curt nod and races inside. He follows her with his eyes, swallowing thickly as tension begins to build in his bones. He couldn't stop his traitorous brain from taking constant note that the gang members present went from a dangerous three to a manageable two- and that wouldn't last for long. If he was going to act he needed to act now- Fuck fuck! What if he wasn't here? What if he was wrong? Maybe he should’ve scouted more- thought this through for longer than the ten minutes it took to shave and shower.

Above his head, his surrendered hands shook with the barely restrained urge to reach for his weapons. An urge that only grew stronger as Sydney returned with several gang members in tow. Three went to two went to four five six seven and there. That unmistakable shock of blonde hair, blue eyes and russet brown varsity. Their eyes locked from behind his visor and time seemed to stop entirely. The man was barely into the garage when he stilled, eyes widening and color draining from his features as he took in the sight of his own trademark helmet and vest. 

While their eyes locked, time didn't actually stop. His attention diverted, he didn't notice the graying man approaching his front until hands made contact with his helmet. In an instant the bubble popped and he snapped. “Back. The FUCK. Off-” he snarled, his docile hands turning violent- lashing out. He didn't punch, but rather clawed at the man in front of him like a wild animal. Dull nails bored into the man’s cheeks, leaving red marks in their wake as the man recoiled. 

The two leapt apart and his helmet clattered to the ground with a hollowed noise, revealing his frenzied eyes and feral snarl. His hands shot for the first weapon within reach. The old wooden bat was torn from its place on his back and fit comfortably in his clenched fists.

Though he doesn't get the chance to attack- to follow that primal urge of defend yourself- before fire ripped through his shoulder. The unmistakably familiar sensation of lead tearing through flesh- in one end and out the other. He acknowledges the pain with a deep hiss, stumbling backwards from the force of it. The bullet wasn't enough to send him to the ground, but the knuckles slamming into his jaw- a body crashing into his own- forced him to the pavement. Without his helmet, his skull smashed into the concrete with a painful- ccrACK- as his vision went white. 

“Fuck- Jacket!” a voice called through his haze, “we need that fucker alive!”

Nothing happens though as he blinks the stars from his vision- white fading away to reveal blonde hair and piercing blue eyes. Time stood still once again as tension swelled between them- because he was right there- alive, real and touching him. Tape wrapped hands had him pinned to the ground by his arms- he ignored the bruising grip in favor of soaking in the sight above him. 

His companion looked much the same as the day he lost him- but so different at the same time. The man’s complexion had never been perfect- but he looked almost like a corpse now. Suitcases hung underneath his eyes and weary lines etched into his forehead and around his eyes. His hair was darker than he remembered, likely due to the filth clinging to the shaggy self cut strands. On closer inspection, he could still see that familiar scar peeking through his bangs. 

He wasn't sure what his companion was going to do- kiss him, hit him, kill him- fuck he didn't even care at this point. He was right here and he was real. His dry mouth opened with a weary smile, words slipping out as his filter slipped away. “Am I dead meat?”

In an instant, the sharpness and disbelief coloring the man’s expression faded into warmth. It was nothing but blissful relief when those hands went from pinning him to dragging him upwards into a bone shattering hug. His breath hitched against his control at the unfamiliar but so so familiar closeness. Fuck- the gentle but crushing hold made his chest ache with longing. When was the last time he had felt a caring touch- when hands had made contact with his skin without the intent of ripping him open?

He was never a crier- the weakness had been beaten out of him decades ago- but neither man would point out the growing wet spots that gathered where his face pressed into the varsity. Their shared grip made his whole body ache- far too much but far from enough all at once. It was sweet relief, the first friendly touch in more than eight years. 

The two men were entirely oblivious to the onlookers' shock and surprise, only separating when someone clears their throat. The two broke apart as fast as they came together, sobering in an instant as the pain throbbing in his shoulder- blood oozing from the wound- became all too apparent. It only took his companion a short moment to find a cloth, applying pressure and stemming the bleeding. The thing looked ratty and was probably used for wiping sweaty hands, but he didn't really give a shit at this point.

His companion clenches the hand of his uninjured arm in his own, helping him stand and pulling him to his feet. He becomes painfully aware of the crowd that had watched that whole scene, seeing defiance flicker in his companion’s steel blue gaze. 

“Jacket- you clearly know him,” came the voice of the graying man from before. Deep red lines scored across his face, not bleeding, but surely stinging. “You will explain all this later- but for now we’ll get that wound dealt with.”

The man beside him characteristically said nothing, replying only with a curt nod before they were led to a medbay of sorts. From there, a hulking military looking man- a pure wall of muscle- sewed up his arm under the watchful gaze of some other heister. His grip wasn't gentle or kind, making his brain scream with the urge to lash out. His companion’s presence being the only thing keeping him grounded. When the man was done, he cast him a suspicious look before leaving the three men alone in the room.

He was painfully aware of the stare the third man in the room had been giving him. His steel grey eyes brimmed with suspicion and a hint of curiosity. He hadn't spoken a word the whole time, and he had simply assumed he was some sort of supervisor. That assumption was swiftly ruled out when the man’s gaze moved to his companion. The suspicion was gone in an instant, replaced with a look of soft fondness and exasperation- a look he couldn't help but recognize as something more. 

“Jacket,” came the man’s low but gentle voice, an unmistakable russian accent lacing his tongue. “Behave. We talk later, okay?” His hand was outstretched, offering up his cellphone to the blonde beside him. 

The look that they shared, the silent communication, was intimate and short. Despite the fact that the Russian man was the one leaving, he couldn't help but feel as if he was the one intruding on the situation. WIth his departure, the silence between them grew loaded and heavy. He desperately wished for that familiar weight of wood on his spine, but the weapon had been left out in the garage, likely confiscated by now. Looking to his companion, he could tell the man was feeling the same pressure, with his hands idly fiddling at the gifted cellphone. 

“So-” he began, refusing to let the tension grow thicker, “‘ Jacket’ huh? ‘S real original.”

And that was really all it took. The tension in the air melted away and the blonde got that familiar and tired look of humor behind his blue eyes. His compan- no, Jacket- Jacket gave him a playful shove on his unwounded shoulder. He was the same as before, but clearly different with time. In a good way it seemed. That lazy half smile came to his face easier than it did before, and that mirthful light behind his eyes stayed for longer.

Things were different- but the attraction he felt was wholly the same. Looking back into the light from those gentle blue eyes- he knew it for sure. He was always drawn to him, like a moth to a flame.

Chapter Text

Afternoon bled into evening as the soft blue sky shifted to a warm orange. Jacket was wholly unprepared for seeing his friend again. How could he have been? The whole situation just felt jarring, terrifying, and unreal all at once. His mind had violently screeched to a halt the moment he saw that iconic puffer vest and teal helmet in the garage, backed by the flurries of late December snowfall. He was certain for more than a few moments that he was hallucinating, another horrid cruel joke played by his mind. But the ghost had kneeled before him, and everyone else saw him as well. He wasn't a hallucination- he was very very real. 

For a portion of their years apart, he had convinced himself that those days spent on the road were nothing but a dream. Even nowadays he still caught himself thinking it to be true. That none of it had ever even happened, that his friend wasn't even real. He feared that he had been alone the whole time, slowly going mad- that he conjured up the image of the man he had killed and molded him into the shape of a friend. He always pulled himself out of it though- forcing himself to look at the evidence. The notched cleaver he had been given as a parting gift shining his reflection back at him. It was real- It was all real.

The swirling tsunami of emotions inside of him-foaming frothing broiling and threatening to spill out of his eyes- as he clutched the ghost to his chest and felt the gesture returned. After Chains had led them to the medbay and patched up his friend’s shoulder, the two were left alone. Jacket clutched his partner’s phone tight in his fist while the heavy weight of his cassette sat in his pocket. Neither communication method felt like enough to shatter the weighted silence growing heavier between them. Thankfully, he didn't have to.

“So- Jacket, huh? ‘S real original.”

The tension snapped in an instant, the bubble popping without ceremony. He was the same as before, teal hair and stupid sense of humor. He gave his old friend a playful shove, earning a smile from the man. Conversation came easy after that.

When the evening red sky began to glint through the windows, they called it a night. Though Jacket didn't miss how his friend’s smile didn't reach his eyes- how his gut warned him that it would disappear completely once his back was turned.

When the medbay door shut behind him, the anxiety churning in his gut returned. As he walked through the safehouse, out in the open under everyone’s piercing stare, that anxiety morphed into something else. He wasn't unfamiliar with being stared at, fear, suspicion and unease came so easy to anyone who met him. He was used to dealing with those types of stares. But now, it wasn't suspicion but a prying curiosity, unspoken questions lingering on their tongues. 

Jacket's teeth clicked together as he clenched his jaw shut. His fists are clenched and his eyes hard as steel when he meets the gaze of others. Try me, I fucking dare you. Jacket's hands shook with violent tremors of rage that he desperately tried to quell. 

He wasn't paying mind to where he was walking or what went on around him- thoughts buzzing elsewhere. So the moment he felt hands on him, he snapped like a rubberband, lashing out with those bloodthirsty fists of his. They never connected though, piercing steel blue eyes met calm storm grey- his tension melted.

“Hey- cool it.” Sokols voice was cool and flat, his hands clenched around Jacket’s trembling fists and slowly sapping the fight from his body. His grip remained firm even after Jacket inhaled and the sharpness left his eyes. “Good?”

He held the breath for several long seconds, closing his eyes. Was he good? Sokol’s hands gently squeezed his fists. Yeah- yeah he was good, he would be good.  Jacket slowly let out the breath he was holding and let his fists drop with a short nod of his head.

“Good.” Sokol’s expression lightened, a small smile as he let go of one of Jacket’s hands. The other hand he kept hold of in his own, lacing their fingers together and rubbing a thumb along the back. “Come, you need some rest, you look like shit.” Much to Jacket’s amusement, Sokol didn't let go of his hand as he led him down the basement steps and into the privacy of Jacket’s neon lit room. Once the door clicked shut behind them, Jacket all but melted into the plush cushions of the couch. He tugged on Sokol’s arm and the man happily followed, settling in beside him. 

A lot of this was oh so very new to Jacket. Intimate- but nonsexual- contact was something he was still getting adjusted to. He always had to resist the urge to jerk back when Sokol’s gentle hands found their way onto his body. Only after a few seconds of stilled contact would his nerves fade and he would ease himself into the man’s touch. After the man had initiated, it always became easier to reciprocate, not having to fear his own touch was unwanted. Jacket wasn't used to being the smaller partner- but he had learned over the past few months how nice it was. The comforting feeling of being enveloped in Sokol’s embrace. 

“So, who is he?”

The question was gentle. Posed in a way that was curious, but not probing or invasive. Anxiety had always swelled in Jacket’s gut whenever someone dug into his past. It terrified him to his core that others knew things about him that were gone from his mind. The idea that someone could ask an innocuous question, making it glaringly obvious that there were massive holes in his memory, had always sat wrong with him. Those empty spots gaped back at him, black holes that he could never fill nor see. 

This question, however, was easy to answer. Jacket leaned out of Sokol’s grasp and hooked a finger in the neckline of his own shirt. Pulling back the varsity and collar, he revealed a long familiar scar underneath. With one finger, Jacket tapped twice on the mark- recognition flashing across Sokol’s eyes.

“And this one?” It was a deep cleave where his shoulder and torso met, as if someone had tried to remove Jacket’s arm from his body. The thing had to have dug in at least an inch or maybe two with how far down it went. 

He hadn't expected Jacket to reach up to brush his fingertips over it, a soft and gentle smile rising to his face. 

“A gift from a friend…” Sokol found himself repeating Jacket’s words from before under his breath as the pieces began to slip into place in his mind. “So that's him.”

Jacket shrugged his shirt back on and gave Sokol a gentle nod. He reached into his pocket for his partner’s phone, knowing he wouldn't have the right lines on his limited soundboard to convey his thoughts. He took his time typing, starting and stopping when he wasn't sure what to say or find the best words. All the while, Sokol pulled Jacket back into his embrace. He waited patiently, curled around his back like a weighted blanket.

“After everything in Miami, I wasn't the same. I don't think so at least. I was arrested after all of it and was in prison for awhile—“ He didn't see the shocked expression that flashed across Sokol’s face, his eyes focused down on the phone. “Don't know how long I was there, I don't really remember much, but there was a riot I think. He was there. He broke me out. The rest is history.”

Finishing his thought, Jacket discarded the phone and the obligation to speak. He leaned back into Sokol’s chest, soaking his heat up like a sunning cat. When Sokol’s arms wrapped tighter around his middle and his face buried in Jacket’s neck, he let his eyes slip shut in the blissful atmosphere. They stayed like that for a while, Sokol pressing tender kisses into Jacket’s neck.

“It scared me,” Sokol confessed. The words were muffled by skin, but so close to Jacket’s ear that he could hear him clearly. “You froze, pale like you had seen ghost. For a moment there I was certain you were to kill him.”

A small frown creased into Jacket’s lips. Had he really looked that way? Did his friend fear for his life as well? Was that why he asked if he was going to die? He swallowed thickly, deciding there wasn't much use dwelling on it now. With the cellphone far out of reach, body trapped in Sokol’s hold, Jacket fumbled for his cassette. “The biker— is safe.”

“Okay, I trust you.” Though Jacket knew this already, the soft but raw honesty sent a rush of warmth through his chest. The feeling of fondness only grew more with Sokol’s lips pressing once more into his neck. “If you trust him— Sokol does too.”

The warmth faded fast, words freezing like ice in Jacket’s veins- sending his mind screeching to a sudden halt. That wasn't what he meant- was it? He wouldn’t hurt his friend, that's all he meant- he didn't trust him. Did he? Jacket’s body screamed at him to say no- deny it instantly. Trusting others is what got bullets shot through your skull and your heart shredded out of your chest with a bare hand, leaving you a shell of your former self. 

“Jacket?” Sokol’s face lifted from Jacket’s neck. He had stilled for too long. Gently, the russian turned him around so they sat chest to chest- eye to eye. 

Sure it was hypocritical of him- thinking all of this when he trusted Sokol with his very life. The matching scars on their abdomens only proved this, aching from the barely month old injury. But he didn't trust easily- he shouldn’t.

“Do you trust Biker?”

No. No he doesn't trust the man who was little more than a stranger to him. His friend who could be a completely different man now, no longer the friend from eight years ago.

Then warm gentle hands cupped Jacket’s cheeks, greys pouring into blues as their eyes locked. Windows to the soul. Jacket nodded his head.

So few hands had ever held him this tenderly before. So few people had gazed into his very soul with that look. Jacket knew it would be stupid to lie to himself. How could he not trust his friend? His friend who had once, so long ago, held him just like this, with love in his eyes. 

Chapter Text

After everything that had happened today, it was no wonder that Jacket was beat. When their conversation faded, Jacket was quick to fall asleep with his forehead resting against Sokol’s shoulder. He couldn't help but find the man cute in moments like these. Even if his mind was riddled with holes, violent urges, his knuckles stained red with blood, Jacket still managed to soften and melt under Sokol’s hands. It really was a marvel how far they had come in just half a year.

As much as Sokol wanted to let himself doze in his lover’s embrace, he wasn’t quite finished for the day. With gentle hands, he pried Jacket’s vice grip off of him and let the man rest on the couch. He gave the sleeping man a soft and loving gaze, pressing a quick peck to the top of his head before making his way out of the room. 

The red evening sky was long gone, the burning oranges replaced by the lazy and cool hues of midnight navy and violet. At this hour of the night, most heisters had found their way out of the safehouse and to their beds or out to their own private homes. Very few heisters actually lived here at the primary safehouse- only those who had nowhere else to go, no legal identity to fall back on in America. He wondered if Jacket’s friend were to stay, if he would become a resident as well or find home elsewhere. 

It was too early to think about that.

Sokol trusted Jacket entirely and without a shadow of a doubt. If Jacket trusted this Biker, then he would as well. The stranger and Jacket clearly had a long, intimate history, if coming back after so many years was any indicator. He was overwhelmed with curiosity, intrigued by what he believed to be the only living soul to know Jacket before he joined the gang. What did Biker know about Jacket- and why was he here- why now?

When Sokol stepped into the medbay, illuminated by dimmed overhead lights, the man was there. He didn't look up at Sokol when he entered. His eyes were glazed over as they flicked over the glass doors of the cabinets, muttering something under his breath. He listened closer for a moment, making out that the words were numbers, slowly counting up up up until dropping to zero and starting over. 

It was a peculiar habit, but Sokol dismissed it for now, announcing his presence by knocking on the doorframe with an outstretched knuckle. Two taps was all it took to snap him out of his daze, head swiveling in an instant as their gazes locked. Neither man said anything, simply assessing the other through a prolonged stare. Sokol nods his head towards the door and Biker follows without hesitation. 

They step outside into the brisk night air, flurries of snowflakes having stopped hours ago. Snow crunched under their soles as Sokol watched the other man rub at his arms to fight off the biting winter chill. 

Sokol breaks their prolonged silence first. “So… Biker, huh?”

“Is that my name now?” Biker’s eyebrow raised with an expression that read confused, but not objecting. 

“Got another one? That is what Jacket called you.”

He huffs around a smile, “Figures that's what the guy would use. I don’t really do names, so I suppose Biker’s good as any.” 

Similar to Jacket then, in that regard. Sokol really didn’t know any other heister’s full names, but he knew for certain that they had them and used them in private. Jacket- on the other hand- never mentioned another name or offered one. A criminal’s alias was just as good as their personal identity anyways, for members of the gang it was like a second skin.

While Sokol’s own personal identity was well known if anyone bothered to look, no one ever referred to him by it- for which he was thankful. Sergei Kozak was as good as dead in the eyes of those who knew that man. Abandoned by his old team and family once he chose adrenaline and the thrill of a heist over the skates on the ice. His new identity was who he truly was now- “Sokol. Is good to meet you, Biker. I never thought I would meet a friend of Jacket.”

Biker’s tension eased with the friendly tone, but it didn't melt away completely. He never expected it to. “Likewise, I s’pose. Though I never thought I’d see the day he’d get on with a rusky. How’d that happen?”

“Neither one of us knows when to pull a punch,” Sokol laughed, remembering the dozens of fights they’d gotten into. While Jacket may have started out genuinely despising Sokol, the both of them took great catharsis in their bloodied noses and slit lips after a fight. They both lived for that raw adrenaline, seeking out the other like magnets when they needed that sweet rush. “Took a while to get here, but well worth it.”

“So- you two are a thing? That look you gave him before- little more than I would give to a friend.”

“Partners,” Sokol replied, nodding, “We work well together, on the job and out.” It was the best word he had to describe what their relationship was. Sokol and Jacket had similar mindsets, able to understand the other deeply in ways most others couldn't. That insatiable need for thrill and blood, but also the yearning desire for friendly touch and closeness. He wondered if Biker was ever the same. “You? He mentioned a lot of time together, breaking him out of prison. You must know him well.”

The question made Biker frown, that complicated expression returning. “No. No we never really were anything- nothing… serious at least,” He lets out a strained laugh, pain hidden behind the exhale, “I may’ve spent forty six months with him- but that was a decade ago. I really- I don't know all that much about him honestly.” Biker kicked at the snow idly with his toes, wetness beading against the leather of his boots. “Dude’s dated dozens of skinny blondes, but never really cared much for them. He was in the military, Soviet-american war, and he lost his people. His memory’s shit, ripped to shreds, but he’s haunted by the people he kills. But his favorite food? Color? Hobbies? I don't know any of it.”

Silence stretched between them for a moment as Sokol absorbed what he had heard. It was interesting- yet sad- how they both knew Jacket well, but not well enough. Sokol didn’t know anything about the man’s history past the bloodshed he left behind in Miami, but history seemed to be all that Biker knew. 

“Banana chips.” Biker’s eyes lifted at the sound of Sokol’s voice. “His favorite is Banana chips. Almost certain he has a bag in his room now, half empty. He loves retro games, cassettes- anything vintage. I’m not certain, but I believe his favorite color is hot pink.” Sokol smiled and let out a small chuckle, realizing what that meant when he looked at Biker’s vest. “I suppose it reminds him of you.” 

Sokol watched Biker’s throat bob at that, swallowing thickly around some stifled emotion. “He still uses the cassette?”

“Always,” Sokol confirms, “Jacket rarely touches anything else, though there are much easier ways of speaking.”

 It was always a point of curiosity for Sokol, the cassette and his voice. While the muteness wasn’t unusual persay, he wondered if Jacket could speak- could ever speak. When he first met Jacket, he had thought it was just him being a jackass, then he thought that maybe it was that he was just quiet, and then he found the scar. Really, seeing that scar on Jacket’s forehead changed a lot. He wondered when lead tore through his brain, what it took along with it. 

“He’s stupid stubborn,” Biker responds, bringing Sokol from his thoughts, “When I met him, he was content to just… Nod and shake his head. Until that cassette, he never communicated any other way. Wrote a note once or twice, but his hands shake so bad a chicken might as well’ve written it.” Biker leans his back against the wall, looking up at the stars with arms crossed. “I doubt he knows any sign, he never used it at least.”

It draws a lighthearted laugh from the russian. He’d seen Jacket’s horrible handwriting often enough. And he received an offended slap from calling it chicken scratch to his face on more than one occasion. It’s amusing how that hadn't changed over the past decade. 

As Sokol continued to talk about Jacket with the man’s old friend, he does begin to notice a certain trend. They’ve been speaking for more than an hour, but Sokol couldn't count a single time Jacket was referred to by name. Biker hadn’t used it once. 

When he brings it up, Biker waves his hand dismissively. “Nah- he didn't go by Jacket back then. Picked that up somewhere after I knew him. It was always ‘you’ ‘dude’ and ‘hey man’ with us- well with me. I’m not sure if he ever had a name for me- It’s not like he could’ve used it anyways.”

“So… you just spent four years with him, never asking his name?”

“Oh no- I asked,” Biker said, his face scrunching into an unreadable expression. “I don't recommend it. He completely freaked out when I asked. He was just- he… I'm never doing that again.”

It was an answer Sokol didn't expect. He had never asked Jacket about his name, and he wasn't expecting Biker to have either. “Did he attack you over it?”

“No. Not that- no he just. He had this terrified look on his face, white as a ghost. I don't even think he realized it before then- that he doesn't even remember his own name.” Biker slumps, letting his arms fall from their crossed position, raising his palm to cover his own face. Whether he wiped his eyes or or just rested his hand there, Sokol couldn't see. “It's… WelI I figure whatever we don't know about him, he just doesn't know either.”

Sokol inhales sharply through his nose, unable to stifle the shot of pain the simple statement had delivered. He remembers back to that first night he had spent trailing his hands over Jacket’s body, fingers dipping into the ridges of his scars. So many expressions had crossed Jacket’s face, clearly remembering the emotion he associated with each and every mark. He remembered how the details were vague and blurry when Jacket recounted them.

The fear when Sokol’s eyes locked with the bullet hole in his head. The sorrow when reminded of the man who saved him from the explosion wound wrapped around his shoulder. The vindication at the molotov burns racing up his legs. The joy, familiarity, the smile that rose to his face when his fingers traced over the twin scars he and Sokol shared. The same expression that he would see when remembering the scar on his shoulder. Biker’s mark. 

“He never stopped caring about you,” Sokol says after a prolonged moment of silence. A simple statement of fact.

Biker says nothing, only huffs. His eyes don't meet Sokol’s as he pointedly stares away from him.

“Jacket trusts you Biker.” He repeats.

That word garners a reaction out of Biker- similar to the one he earned from Jacket earlier. A reaction to the word Trust. Biker's whole body goes rigid, his head drops and his hair falls to obscure the man’s entire face. “He shouldn't.” The voice is harsh and cold, the pleasant tone from their earlier conversations having vanished entirely. “He’s a fucking idiot to trust me. I wouldn't trust me. After a decade? He doesn't even fucking know me anymore.” Hurt and betrayal bleeds through his tone.

Sokol swallows the hostility that rises in his throat. The instant Biker’s tone turned harsh, he had to hold back that sudden spike of emotion. Anticipation before a fight that he needed to stifle. “He thinks he trusts you. He wants to.” The hostility isn't fully absent from his tone, words biting out like an accusation. Sokol doesn't miss how it makes Biker flinch back in the smallest way. “He could know you, if you gave him chance.”

“And you want that?” Biker’s voice comes out much smaller now, smaller than he would've liked. Sokol could hear the pain and hint of hope hidden behind the lightly venomed words.

Sokol responds with the truth. “I want what makes him happy.”

Instantly, Biker’s walls return. He clicks his tongue sharply and sneers, “Good luck ever finding that.”

Sokol’s jaw clenches, teeth creaking together at the gall of the man before him. He knew this fucker was being intentionally difficult. There was no other damned explanation for it. Even so, Sokol was pissed. An angry noise rumbled out of his throat as he shortened the distance between himself and Biker. He towered over the smaller man, six inches of height difference becoming all the more obvious.

 Any softness that had been in Sokol’s voice had completely vanished. “Jacket trusts you- whether you like it or not. And you? You clearly want to trust him too. You wouldn't drag yourself across America, track down a gang, and get yourself shot if you didn't.” His voice was harsh and sharp- hardened steel eyes boring down into defiant teals. “Jacket has a new life here- he may not be happy all the time- but it's damn better than whatever shithole he was in before.”

Sokol can see Biker twitching beneath his gaze, thoughts racing behind his eyes as he weighs the option to fight or flight. Sokol let out a sharp huff, backing off and putting distance between them. He was fucking pissed at Biker, and knew he wouldn't be able to stop a fight if one started- no matter how upset it would make Jacket. 

Silence had stretched between the two of them numerous times, but none as heavy and stifling as the current. When it drags on too long, Biker not saying a word in response, Sokol turns his back to leave. He makes it several yards away and to the door of the garage before Biker raises his voice. 

“What makes you think that’s possible?” Biker’s raw and pained tone hid that same hope from before. 

Sokol stops in his tracks, inhaling but not turning around. “Tell me. In hockey, do you know what a grinder does?”

Confusion flashes across Biker’s face. “Hit me.”

“Tempting,” he scoffs, “A grinder isn't the star player. A grinder doesn't score all the goals, make all the points. But what he does do? A grinder puts his fucking back into it, doing what nobody else will do.”

A pause. Silence. “Cool… What's your point?”

“My point,” he drags out, finally turning to face Biker and looking him dead in his eyes. His gaze was full of fiery determination. “You might have given up. Perhaps so has everybody else. But Sokol? Sokol has not.”

With those parting words, their eye contact broke and Sokol left Biker alone to the silence of the snow. When morning came, Sokol would have his answer.

Are you a quitter, Florida boy?