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It was 3:15 AM, and Merritt wasn’t exactly sure why he was up.
Because he wanted water, he reminds himself, but he can’t shake the feeling that there’s something else, too. He’s not one to brush off his gut feeling-- he’s lasted this long following it-- but he really can’t be bothered to indulge in whatever feeling’s pooling in his gut, either. He takes a deep breath, letting the concerns pass him by.
He enters the kitchen and realizes belatedly, that, like usual, he was right.
Daniel stood in the kitchen, the lights dimmed to just barely lit. He was slicing a bell pepper, his movements precise, robotic, and almost-- distant, the way his eyes didn’t quite focus on it.
He heard the floorboard creak. Merritt knows that he heard it creak-- but Danny doesn’t look up.
Merritt clears his throat. Danny doesn’t react.
Merritt considers just going back to bed. He’s tired, and not that thirsty, and Danny is an adult, for Christ's sake. Simply put, it’s just not his problem. Danny had been distant for weeks now, and Merritt has just about had it. He’s not making him a late night snack, too.
But still, the feeling in the back of his head returns, and he clears his throat one more time before speaking.
"What are you doing up?" It came out much harsher than he meant it to be-- he’s tired--but judging by his minimal response, Danny didn’t notice.
Daniel’s knife didn't pause, and still, he didn’t look up. "Making dinner."
Merritt said a quick goodbye to his sleeping schedule.
"It's three in the morning," Merritt finally settled on saying, shuffling into the kitchen. He was wearing a tattered T-shirt that looked like it had seen better decades, his eyes squinting against the single dim light Daniel had turned on. "That’s not a meal. That’s a pile of bell peppers."
Merritt knows he’s making stir fry-- the man only knows how to make, like, four things. Still, it’s fun to rile it up a little bit-- even if it hasn’t been working for the last few weeks.
"I’m making stir-fry," Daniel said smoothly.
Merritt leaned against the opposite side of the island, crossing his arms. He watched the way Daniel’s hands worked-- the way he kept his eyes fixed on the vegetables as if they were the most fascinating things in the world. "There’s a pizza in the fridge- Jack’s half has no olives. And whatever Lula got from that Chinese place by 8th. Just eat some leftovers and go to sleep."
"They aren't mine," Daniel replied simply. He slid the peppers into a pan with the flat of his blade, putting it on the stove and turning the heat to medium.
Merritt blinked, a look of mild confusion crossing his face. "So?"
"So, it’s rude," Daniel said. He reached for an onion, his posture stiffening. "I didn't contribute to the order. Therefore, it’s not my food to take."
Merritt let out a dry, incredulous laugh. "Did you forget we’re career thieves? That’s kind of our shtick. And you’re wearing Dylan’s sweater right now.”
Danny flinches at the mention.
Merritt, again, isn’t sure why he suddenly cares. It’s never been a big thing between them-- everything was either communal or stealing grounds. It’s hard to keep your things individual in a group of thieves, and they’ve all accepted it, by this point.
“Didn’t you take a sandwich out of Jack’s hand while he was eating it last month? You said something about “‘situational awareness?’"
"I was being immature," Daniel said, his voice quick and defensive. "That was unprofessional of me. And so is the sweater-- I’ll return that. Boundaries are important for the efficiency of the group."
The silence that followed was sharp, Danny pointedly ignoring the other’s piercing stare. It stretched for a minute, then two-- intentionally, Merritt knew, watching the younger get increasingly uncomfortable.
"It's rude, so I’m not taking their leftovers," Daniel stated with finality. “You can leave now. Goodnight.”
"Danny," Merritt said, his voice dropping a bit in volume. "Look at me."
"I'm busy, Merritt."
"Look at me."
Daniel finally looked up, but his eyes were guarded-- cold, professional, and entirely vacant. It was one he recognized, but only barely-- from the first day, he realized.
Danny’s looking at him like he’s a stranger.
Merritt felt a flash of genuine anger.
He doesn’t know why exactly he’s so angry, but something about it hurts, almost physically, and it feels unfair. They’re not strangers, and Danny has no right to look at him like that.
"Can you just cut the bullshit?" Merritt forced himself to keep his voice low. "Can you stop treating me like a goddamn coworker? I’ve spent the last year and a half of my life running from the law with you. I’ve jumped off buildings with you. I didn’t sit in the back of cramped vans listening to you complain about the thread count of your hotel sheets to be 'associates.' I’m your fucking friend, like it or not."
Daniel didn't flinch. He just stared at Merritt’s hand on the counter. "Macau was a mess."
"Macau was weeks ago." Merritt shot back without missing a beat. He’s not entirely sure where Danny is going with this-- he thought the whole ordeal had been sorted out-- but if there’s new information, he’s not exactly excited to hear about it.
"I almost got you killed," Daniel’s voice finally cracked, just a tiny bit, like he was desperately trying to hide it. He was, and they both know it-- but there’s still some comfort in pretending, so neither acknowledge the fact. He put down the knife with shaking fingers. "I spent so long wanting to be the one in charge. I wanted the Eye to see me. And because I wanted to be something- something special, I walked us right into their trap. I let Mabry play us like we were amateurs."
He looked away, his hands trembling slightly before he shoved them into his pockets. "I’m not the leader, Merritt. That’s Dylan. I’m just... here. So, excuse me if I want to keep some distance. Excuse me if I don't want to eat your pizza because I haven’t earned my seat at the table back yet— which I will- but- just- Goodnight."
Merritt stared at him. He only saw it then-- the guilt that Daniel had been trying to hide for weeks. He’s good at hiding it, he thinks fleetingly.
He doesn’t know why it takes so long to click.
That’s started to become a pattern here.
"What- you think you’re only here because you’re perfect?" Merritt asked softly.
Daniel didn't answer.
"Danny, listen to me. Jack looks up to you so much it’s genuinely annoying. Lula thinks you’re an asshole but she listens to you anyway because she respects you.”
”And you?” Daniel questioned, hesitant.
“Don’t worry about it.” Merritt responded, smiling slightly at his own joke. He can only be so sappy before it starts to take a toll on him, but the way Daniel’s eyes widen felt like a kick in the ribs. "I didn’t mean that,” he adds quickly. “Just- look-- the only person who thinks you failed us is you."
Merritt walked around the island, stepping into Daniel’s personal space. Merritt was testing his limits, but Danny stayed rooted to the spot, and that was as close to allowance as he was going to get.
"We’re a mess, Danny," Merritt said, putting a hand on Daniel’s shoulder. "We’ve always been a mess. If you start treating us like coworkers, we’re dead. Coworkers don't break laws for each other when we fuck things up."
”You’d break laws anyway. You do that on the regular.”
”That’s not the point.”
Daniel looked up, his eyes finally losing that distant, glassy sheen. He looked exhausted, and Merritt felt bad for welcoming the rush of relief when he saw Danny’s tired eyes staring back at him. "I- I don't know how to do this,” he muttered.
"Then don’t," Merritt shrugged. He’s not sure what exactly Danny is referring to, but he’s sure it can wait. "Just steal some leftovers and go to bed. You burnt your peppers anyway."
Daniel looked at the sad pile of blackened vegetables on the pan. He let out a long, shaky breath that seemed to deflate his entire posture before heading to the fridge and pulling out a pizza box.
"The pizza is cold," Daniel muttered.
"That's what microwaves are for, genius," Merritt said, patting his shoulder before grabbing the knife and cutting board and putting them in the sink. "Try the crust, it’s good. We went to some fancy takeout place."
Daniel watched him for a moment, the tension finally draining out of his limbs. He didn't say thank you-- he wasn’t a fan of the phrase-- but he moved away from the island and pulled two plates out of the cupboard.
"I’m still not the leader," Daniel repeated absentmindedly, watching the pizza spin in the microwave.
"Good," Merritt called out over his shoulder. "It was going to your head anyway. You were starting to use too many syllables."
Daniel felt the corners of his mouth twitch. It wasn't a fix, not really-- the guilt of Macau would stay with him for a long time-- but as he sat down at the table and shoved a plate of leftovers toward Merritt, the house felt a little less distant and a little more like home.