Archive of Our Own

You’d think, after how long they’ve been working together—after how many jobs they’ve done, how many close scrapes they’ve come through, how many times Bronco’s chest felt too tight when Sid got himself into more trouble than usual—that he’d have realized by now.

Maybe he should have known the first time they met and clicked instantly as they bonded over too many drinks and the fact that they were both ex-special forces from their respective countries, at loose ends now that they didn’t have orders to follow, looking for jobs and finding trouble instead. Or maybe he should have known in that Thai jail cell, when the first thing he’d felt after Rachel sprung them was relief that Sid would be ok.

Not himself. The only thing that’d mattered was Sid.

If he’s honest, he should have known a hundred times before this. There’s no reason why this revelation should be happening now, and frankly, it’s damned inconvenient.

But then again, there’s probably no convenient time to realize how fucking head over heels in love you are with your best friend, just because he called you husband in the middle of a fucking job.

On that note, Bronco thinks: Oh, shit.

Two Hours Earlier

There wasn’t supposed to be anything special about this job. Another billionaire with something that wasn’t his, a god complex, and enough muscle on the payroll to constitute a private army. In this case, it wasn’t cash they were after, but some kind of ancient, priceless Incan artifact that their target had absconded with. Of course, they weren’t working on behalf of the Peruvian government, or nobly to return the artifact to its rightful, indigenous owners, but rather a different, no less odious billionaire who had the benefit of having legally purchased the excavation rights. That was just how these things went, though—they weren’t really working for the good guys or the bad guys, just the guys who were paying them. And you could be sure that if there was any legal footing to stand on, Rachel would find it.

She’d already tied the excavations themselves up in court and seized a number of artifacts, but the big one, the one worth killing, lying, and stealing for, was still at large. Their target was gamely pretending that it didn’t exist, but he didn’t know they’d bugged the office of the shady professor who he’d gone to for information about the artifact’s value. The team had tracked its most likely location to a popular resort that their target owned on the coast of Belize, where he was holed up and sitting on his pile of gold like a dragon, or whatever the fuck billionaires did in their free time. Bronco sure didn’t know, not even with how many of them they’d screwed over at this point.

The plan was: Rachel would visit their target and give him the chance to come clean. When he didn’t—because they never did—the team would have a strategy in place to acquire the artifact by less… civilized means. They’d been setting things up for a few days: preparing infiltration strategies for their target’s stronghold at the heart of the resort, going over escape routes and extraction points, laying in the infrastructure they’d need to be sure they could pull this off. Having gotten all they could from building plans and aerial photos, that afternoon Bronco and Sid were set to case the resort from the inside in order to confirm the best points of access and also get a better idea of what kind of internal security they’d be up against. It sounded daring and covert, but really it just involved… going to a resort. This one happened to be pretty exclusive, nearly impossible to secure a reservation and especially not last minute, but Glover had worked his magic and gotten them in for a couple of nights.

Don’t tell anyone—certainly not Sid, who’ll give him no end of shit about being ‘fussy’—but Bronco’s most looking forward to the piña coladas.

Their suitcases are light on clothes and heavy on bugs, various scanning devices, and a few weapons, and they’re whisked away by resort staff the moment Sid and Bronco step out of the car. Fortunately, this is the kind of place that promises the utmost discretion for their guests, so they’re not worried about anyone poking around. They exchange the briefest of glances as Sid buttons the jacket on his linen suit—ready? ready—then Sid leads the way into the lobby.

Bronco is trailing a half step behind as his eyes flit around behind his sunglasses, cataloging every last bit of the space and the people in it, so he’s not really paying close attention to Sid’s part. Especially since Sid insists on conversing with the receptionist in rapid-fire Spanish entirely to be a fucking show off, the bastard. Bronco’s Spanish might be pretty shit, but he picks up enough to know it’s just basic check-in stuff—directions to their room, discussions of the amenities, nothing out of the ordinary. But then the receptionist asks a question he can’t parse, and Sid chuckles warmly and says something about ‘mi esposo,’ and Bronco’s brain comes to a screeching halt.

The thing is, Bronco’s been putting some pieces together about this resort ever since they walked through the front door. The people walking around, chatting, drinking: all of them have something in common, and that is they all appear to be essentially attached at the hip to another person. Bronco is sure this fact was not in their intel on the resort, but someone must have known. Glover, at the very least. Gucci has been collecting background on this place for a while. Rachel, because there’s pretty much nothing she doesn’t know about her operations. Hell, Sid seems pretty damned at ease with the whole charade. Which leads to the uncomfortable realization that maybe Bronco is the only one who didn’t know they’d be pretending to be a pair of honeymooners on this.

It’s fine, it’s fine, it’s totally fine—he and Sid are close, they already know everything about each other, he’s got no fundamental problem with the cover.

But. He’d have liked to have had a heads up.

At some point during Bronco’s complete reboot, Sid had finished up with his conversation with the receptionist and gotten the key to their room, and the next thing Bronco is aware of is one of Sid’s large hands pressing against his lower back, guiding him toward the hall. It’s hot as hell here, and the sweat already sliding down Bronco’s spine has only been increased by this turn of events, so he wants to shy away from the touch but at the same time he really, really doesn’t. There’s a warmth in his chest that has nothing to do with the weather as the word knocks around in his head.

Maybe he misheard, and Sid said something else. Maybe his Spanish really is that shit and he completely misunderstood.

“So, uh, back there,” he ventures, his voice coming out less steady than he’d like. He clears his throat. “Just so I’m clear. You told her I was your…”

“My husband, yes,” Sid finishes when Bronco trails off. His eyes are hidden behind his sunglasses, but a single brow arcs over the frame. “Problem?”

“No, no,” Bronco says, too quickly. He can’t help but adding, under his breath, “Woulda been nice to know.”

Sid, of course, hears it. A smirk curls onto his lips as he pulls hand away from Bronco’s back. Bronco tells himself he doesn’t miss the weight of it. “Sorry, were you under the impression that this all-inclusive tropical resort was somehow not going to be a magnet for couples? That two single men wouldn’t stick out like sore thumbs?”

“Not like I’ve been to many of them, have I?” Bronco retorts, glaring at him. Unfortunately, he’s not sure how effective it is considering that his insides feel like they’ve been tied in knots. Turns out hearing husband in Sid’s accent is way, way worse than the Spanish version.

Of course, this just makes Sid’s smile widen. “You’re cute when you’re flustered.”

“Fuck off.”

“We must have played a couple for a job before,” Sid muses.

Bronco shakes his head with more vehemence than necessary. “No.”

“You’re quite sure?”

“I would remember.”

“Huh,” Sid says thoughtfully, tipping his head as he comes to a stop in front of a door. His expression is difficult to read behind his sunglasses, and Bronco can’t tell what kind of huh that is. Huh, I’m learning so much about you? Huh, I didn’t think it would matter? Huh, I’m already regretting this cover?

But he doesn’t elaborate, instead turning away from Bronco and toward the door. The key the resort had given them is old fashioned, worked in metal with a bulky wooden key ring in the shape of parrot dangling from it, and the lock clicks in a satisfying way when Sid turns it. Absolutely terrible for security, though, which you’d think would be good for them, except Bronco doesn’t believe for a minute that their target’s private areas have the same defenses. The door swings open into the room on well-oiled hinges, and the partial view afforded through the opening is enough to reveal the luxurious suite within—including, of course, a single, palatial bed.

There’s a bottle of champagne cooling in an ice bucket, and rose petals on the bedspread.

Fuck.

Bronco’s pretty sure he’s never hesitated in his life, but this, now, gives him pause. It’s just a cover, except it’s not, because he’s so mixed up inside he doesn’t know how he’s going to focus on the job. It doesn’t mean anything, except how the idea of Sid as his—his partner, his lover, his husband—makes him feel like he’s losing his mind.

Maybe that’s just it. A temporary moment of insanity. It’ll pass, and everything will go back to normal.

“After you, mi amor,” Sid says, still smirking at him. “Unless, of course, you’d rather me carry you over the threshold?”

Bronco’s stomach swoops, both at the pet name and the idea of Sid sweeping him off his feet. It’s utterly mortifying, and he thanks some higher power that Sid can’t read his mind. “Try it and see where it gets you,” he warns darkly, crossing his arms over his chest.

Sid just laughs at him.

It’s gonna be a long two days.

The most annoying part is that Bronco can’t seem to stop thinking about it. Having gotten his teasing in, Sid has apparently moved on—he’s all business as they settle into the suite and sets to work checking the gear they brought, talking through their strategy for the next two days in his typical dry, practical fashion. It should be comforting, this return to normalcy, and it is, but that doesn’t stop Bronco’s mind from helpfully conjuring images and scenarios that he’s never considered before.

Sid bends over the suitcase, open on the bed, and Bronco’s mouth goes dry at the shape of his ample ass in those linen trousers. Sid’s fingers curl around the barrel of a silencer, and a flicker of heat kindles low in Bronco’s gut. Sid goes to move past him and he grabs Bronco’s waist to steady himself, his body brushing close to Bronco’s, utterly casual and nonchalant—something that he’s done a hundred times, that’s a normal part of the way they interact, but now it contains layers and tones that haunt him. What would it be like to feel those hands on his waist with purpose, perhaps pinning him against a wall, Sid’s body pressing against his? What might it be like to put his hands on Sid, to find those soft places between the hard planes of muscle?

Sid is still speaking, but the words are muffled, far away, and Bronco hits a breaking point. He needs a breather, something to reset his brain, something to smother the building heat that’s threatening to suffocate him.

“I need a shower,” Bronco announces, cutting Sid off mid-sentence. A cold one, he doesn’t add. Sid’s brow furrows, no doubt confused by the abruptness, and Bronco plucks at his damp shirt. “This heat’s going to my head.”

“Right, sure,” Sid says, a little slowly.

Okay, it’s a weak excuse. They’ve worked plenty of jobs in hotter, far more uncomfortable situations. But all Bronco’s got are weak excuses or the truth, and he absolutely cannot let out the latter.

The frigid shower he takes does help, as does the time he spends clearing his mind. They have a job to do. This isn’t the time or place for whatever the fuck this is. He’s not sure what the time or place for it is, but it’s certainly not now. They can’t afford for him to miss something critical because he’s spiraling about feelings.

In an effort to convince himself that everything is excruciatingly normal, Bronco leaves the bathroom the way he normally would: with only the towel wrapped around his hips. Sid is sitting in one of the armchairs with his feet propped up on the coffee table, his glasses sitting low on his nose as he reads a local paper, and he doesn’t so much as glance at Bronco as he walks by. This isn’t the first time they’ve shared a room, or even a bed. They’ve been naked around each other by necessity and also just because it never seemed to be worth worrying about. Bronco absolutely knows the size of Sid’s—okay, no, not going there. Point is, it’s normal for him to pad across the room to his suitcase and retrieve some fresh clothes, to drop his towel with his back to Sid so he can pull on a pair of boxers.

As he’s bending to put them on, he glances into the mirror hanging on the bathroom door, which he left angled just so, and catches Sid peering over the top of his glasses at him. There’s something intense about his gaze, as if it has a weight Bronco can feel on his skin.

Has Sid always looked at him like that? Has he just never noticed? Or is he just reading things into this that aren’t there, now that he’s all in his head about his own feelings?

The latter is most likely. He’s pretty sure he’d have noticed before if Sid wanted him. Even more likely, if Sid had feelings he would have sat them down to talk it out, so that everything was on the table and Bronco knew about any potential liabilities that might arise on a job. Sensible-like.

Bronco will be doing no such thing. No one ever accused him of being sensible.

“So, what’s first?” he asks as he turns around, still buckling his belt.

Sid has returned to—ostensibly—reading the newspaper, and looks up at him over his glasses with a very different expression on his face. “So you weren’t listening, then.”

“I was listening,” Bronco protests. “I’m just making sure you were.”

“Listening to myself?”

Bronco shrugs. “Sure. Sometimes it seems like you must not be, given the bullshit you spout.”

Sid rolls his eyes, and Bronco grins. It’s good. Normal.

“It’s nearly dinner time, and our target has reservations across town,” Sid tells him as he neatly folds the paper. “We head to the lobby bar, further establish our cover here, and when he makes his procession to the exit—he likes to be seen in the resort, makes him feel important—we take the opportunity to scope out the security of his inner sanctum.”

“See, I knew you were paying attention,” Bronco quips, trying not to think about what ‘further establish our cover’ means. “Bugs?”

Sid pats his shirt pocket. “A few. But Gucci hasn’t cracked the cameras yet, so we’ll have to be cautious.” He says this last part with a pointed look at Bronco, who puts up his hands.

“You know me, cautious is my middle name.”

“Please. We both know your middle name is—”

“Hey now,” Bronco interrupts, “no need to get personal.”

He doesn’t let himself think about why Sid’s smile makes his heart beat just a hair faster. So he likes making his best friend smile. Who doesn’t?

As Sid crosses the room, the smile is replaced by one of those concerned brow furrows that Bronco both dreads and secretly treasures. “You’re doing okay? You were being a little… odd, earlier.”

“I’m fine,” Bronco says, though there’s still a strain to his voice that he can’t quite get rid of. “Told you, it was just the heat.”

Sid nods like he believes this lie, and his eyes slide down to Bronco’s chest. “New shirt?”

The shirt in question is tropical-print, just shy of obnoxious, with scarlet flowers scattered amongst a dense blue-green foliage. It was designer, and Bronco had spent too much money on it, but he couldn’t abide the tacky polyester things most guests were wearing.

“Yeah, I’m trying to blend in,” he answers, smirking. “You like it?”

Sid’s gaze lingers for a beat more—that intense, palpable weight again—before it lifts back up to Bronco’s face. “It sure is something,” he finally says. Then, just before he walks off, he tips his head like he’s still considering and says, “Brings out your eyes.”

Sid orders his customary Scotch, and Bronco a piña colada that comes loaded with everything including a little paper umbrella, for which Sid gives him an exasperated but unmistakably fond look. The drink turns out to be a bit disappointing—light on the rum, a little watery—but Bronco’s absolutely not letting that on. They chat about this and that as they wait for their target to make his appearance, catching up on little things. They don’t, in all honesty, spend that much time apart, tending to default to each other’s company even when not on a job, but Sid had been chasing something down for Rachel in Germany while Bronco was in Peru, so it’d been a couple of weeks. And maybe how itchy he gets when they’re apart for too long—and how good it feels when they’re reunited—should have also told him something, but he’s not considering that right now.

Eventually the man of the hour makes his procession through the lobby, pausing to greet guests like the beneficent dictator of this tiny domain, and when he’s finally gone Sid gets to his feet. There’s a band playing some kind of samba in the corner and a few people dancing poorly in the space in front of them, and Sid holds out a hand, palm up.

“Care to dance?”

Bronco valiantly ignores the way his heart stutters a beat at the thought. “I thought you’d never ask.”

Of course, Sid drops his hand almost immediately, and they don’t go to the dance floor at all, but deeper into the resort. They move purposefully, like they know where they’re going—because they do. That doesn’t mean they’re supposed to be there, but it turns out if you project an air of confidence, most people just let you do what you want. The resort is sprawling, with corridor after corridor of guest rooms, several bars, at least two pools, and various spa facilities. Bronco and Sid bypass all of these and head into the staff areas, through kitchens and laundry facilities. Occasionally someone glances at them, but no one stops them. Finally, they reach their goal: the rear access to a private villa at the heart of the property. The front entrance, more easily accessible from the main part of the resort, will be heavily guarded, but this has potential.

They step into an alcove, watching the staff bustle about. The gate to the private, walled garden behind the villa is monitored by a single guard, who only bothers to give the staff IDs a cursory glance as he waves them through.

“What do you think?” Sid asks under his breath.

Bronco frowns. “One guy? It can’t be that easy.”

“We need to find out what the security is like on the house from inside the garden.”

They need to get in there for that, and sure, they could probably come back and lift a waiter’s outfit, sneak in, but it’d be better to reserve that play. “You thinking what I’m thinking?”

Sid gives a short nod and slips away. Bronco remains in position, watching the guard. A minute passes, then two, then there’s a small commotion from the kitchen. Someone calls out to the guard, who sighs, glances around, then deserts his post.

Seconds later, Sid reappears.

“What d’you do?” Bronco asks.

“Paid a kitchen boy very well to pretend he saw someone stealing a bottle of champagne.”

“But it’s an all inclusive resort.”

Sid gives him a look. “It worked, didn’t it? Come on, let’s go.”

They move quickly and cautiously toward the gate, but everyone else is too busy with their own tasks to pay them any attention, and they slip through without incident. The garden is carefully manicured, with enough leafy tropical plants to provide decent cover from the obvious cameras that they spot—there may be others, better hidden, but it’s a risk they’ll have to take. Fortunately, there are no guards at the back doors of the villa itself, but the French doors boast impressive electronic locks, and the approach is so heavily covered by CCTV that they can’t get closer without raising alarms.

“Not bad,” Sid mutters. “A little tricky, but doable.”

“I’ve got a few ideas,” Bronco tells him, his mind already working the problem. Once Glover gets into the security feed and can control the cameras, it should be gravy.

Sid gives him a small, pleased smile that Bronco feels absolutely nothing about. “Good. Now, let’s get out of here.”

From their position in a blind spot, Bronco can see the shadow of someone standing by the gate again. “Guard’s back in place. You got an exit strategy that doesn’t involve champagne theft?”

“I might.”

“Wha—” Bronco starts, but Sid shoves him backward, across a path, until the back of his calves hit something low and he collapses onto a lounge chair.

Sid doesn’t stop there, though—he proceeds to climb onto the chair after Bronco, on top of him, his thighs parting as he straddles Bronco’s hips, and Bronco loses his tenuous grip on his psyche for the second time in as many hours. If he had any doubts about his feelings for Sid, about how much he wants the man currently sitting on top of him, they are very thoroughly dashed by the very visceral reaction he has to this turn of events.

Oh, shit, he thinks, his concern for the guard and the job, and literally everything that’s not Sid, simply slipping away from him. Then, somehow, it gets worse, because Sid says, “Shhh, baby,” too loud, as he leans in, and for a split second Bronco’s heart fully stops. Because Sid’s weight is heavy on his lap, and their noses are almost brushing as Sid’s lips get closer to his.

God help him, Bronco almost surges up to meet them. He almost gives in and slides a hand behind Sid’s neck to drag him down. He almost does something he’d really, really regret, but someone up there must be watching out for him because before he can be an idiot, the guard shouts at them.

“Hey! How did you get back here?”

Sid sits up, pulls away, leaving an absence behind like a vacuum, and every molecule of Bronco’s body screams at the loss of his proximity. He barely hears Sid say, sounding slightly drunk, “We just came in? The gate was open.”

The guard frowns at them, but seems to take this at face value. “You are not allowed back here. You have to leave.”

“Are you sure? It’s ever so lovely,” Sid gushes.

Bronco finds himself wondering, deliriously, what would happen if the guard said they could stay. Maybe Sid would lean down again, and they could finish what they started.

Obviously that was never going to happen. For multiple reasons.

“Go on. Out,” the guard insists, jerking his head toward the gate.

Sid climbs off his lap, peeling himself out of Bronco’s grasp, because at some point apparently his hands had found Sid’s hips and are still holding on rather securely. Then he pulls Bronco up behind him, and Bronco gives the guard his best dazed, drunken smile. It’s not really that hard to pretend.

“Sorryyyy,” he says, stumbling along as Sid tugs him by the wrist.

They keep up the inebriated act until they’re out of view of the guard and back in the guest areas of the resort, though it takes Sid a moment longer to realize he’s still holding onto Bronco’s wrist. When he does, he drops it like he’s been burned.

“Right, sorry about… all of that,” he says, gesturing vaguely back the way they came. “I didn’t intend to take it so far, but needs must, you understand.”

“Yeah, yeah, of course,” Bronco says. He waves off Sid’s apology like every word of it didn’t feel like slivers of metal shoved under his fingernails—and he’d know. “Needs must.”

After that, Bronco keeps his distance, within reason. No casually affectionate touches, no flirting—because he’s been flirting shamelessly with Sid all this time, how did he not see it before?—no letting himself contemplate what it would be like if their cover wasn’t a cover. He doesn’t blow it, he’s not an idiot, but he is more careful about how he acts and what he allows himself.

If Sid notices, he doesn’t say anything. The job goes off without a hitch; they pull off the heist and steal the artifact, and the target can’t even accuse them of theft because doing so would be admitting he had the artifact in the first place. Rachel is pleased. Their client pays them handsomely, and the team scatters for a little R&R until the next job.

The break helps. By the time Rachel calls them for another job, Bronco feels like he’s come to terms with this new reality. Alright, so he’s in love with his best friend, who definitely doesn’t feel that way about him. Not exactly what he would have chosen for himself, but it could be worse. What he doesn’t want is for this to change anything between them. Fortunately, now that he’s not just been blindsided by feelings, he finds it’s easier to act like he always has. So yes, he flirts and makes dirty jokes, and Sid variously rolls his eyes or laughs or tries not to laugh, and things are good. Normal.

And if Bronco’s chest aches every time he’s around Sid, that’s neither here nor there. After all, the alternative is staying away from him, and that ache is far, far worse.

It’s two months before Sid surprises him again. They’re briefing the ground team—Baker, Gucci, Moreno, and Dunne—for a job on a shady real estate developer, and Sid is explaining how they’ll get access to a multimillion dollar penthouse in a new construction that their target has been using to hide some of his considerable assets.

“We need a good look at the building, and the best way to do that is to get them to show us,” Sid says, gesturing to a glossy brochure laid out in front of him. “Bronco and I will pose as prospective buyers—”

“As what, roommates?” Baker interrupts, frowning skeptically across the table.

Sid looks up at him, blinks, then says with utter matter-of-factness, “Of course not. He’s my husband.”

It’s the way he says it: not “he’ll pose as my husband” or even “he will be my husband,” but he is my husband. Like it should be a foregone conclusion. But even though the words still have the ability to throw Bronco for a loop, it’s easier to recover this time.

Sid’s eyes flick up to Bronco’s, a silent query written all over his face—okay?—and Bronco gives a little nod.

None of the team look particularly surprised. Bronco’s not going to contemplate that. They have a job to do.

The next time it happens comes not even a month later. Rachel’s dragged them along to some fancy party, where they have to be her bodyguards without looking like bodyguards. That means Bronco has to be subjected to Sid in a tuxedo all night, which is categorically unfair. Sid in a tux is lethal. They’ve been milling around separately on Rachel’s periphery, watching her and the room all while making small talk with the other guests so they blend in. Mostly boring, except Bronco has spent the last fifteen minutes being aggressively flirted at by an older woman who either can’t tell or doesn’t care that he’s not interested.

Just when he’s contemplating feigning sudden illness to make an escape, Sid steps up beside him so close their shoulders brush.

“Darling,” he says in a posh accent so brittle it’s like cut crystal, “who’s your new friend?”

“This is Countess Baresi,” Bronco says dutifully. “She was just telling me about her castle in the Italian Alps.”

“Several castles,” she corrects, looking down her nose at Sid. “And you are?”

“Jack Deveny,” Sid answers, giving his cover name. Then he slides an arm around Bronco’s waist and smiles so wide it looks more like he’s baring his teeth, sharp canines on full display. “His husband.”

After the Countess has excused herself and wandered off to seek other quarry, Bronco finally lets out the laugh he’s been suppressing. “I thought we weren’t supposed to know each other tonight?”

Sid has the grace to look a little abashed by that performance, but he juts out his jaw stubbornly. “Just providing an exit. You looked like you could use one.”

“Or maybe you just blew up my plan for an alpine vacation after this job,” Bronco counters.

“Not— You didn’t—” Sid starts and stops, looking slightly stricken.

“Hell no,” Bronco laughs, and doesn’t miss how the tension in Sid’s shoulders slackens. “To be honest, I wasn’t sure your little gambit was going to work. She was definitely looking for our rings.”

“Hmm, good point,” Sid says, but doesn’t elaborate.

Admittedly, Bronco feels like a bit of an idiot for not realizing that Sid would show up for the next job and hand him a fucking wedding band.

The ring is an unfamiliar weight on his finger. He’d hoped that he’d forget about it after a little while, but no such luck. Its presence lingers at the periphery of his mind at all times, not just the feeling of it, but also in moments where the gold catches the light just right and the sight of it on his hand makes him feel like he’s just missed a step.

It’s Belize all over again, but worse because the reminder is all the more tangible.

Maybe that’s why things go to shit. Or maybe it’s just bad luck. Either way, they find themselves on the back foot as they scramble to make their escape, out manned and out gunned. Normally, that wouldn’t be an issue, but this particular job seems to be cursed—there’s a new wrinkle at every turn, and each of their carefully planned exit routes has been compromised. It’s come down to this: sneak Rachel onto a departing train while using themselves as bait to draw their pursuers away. But first, they have to get her to the station.

They’re drawing heavy fire as they careen through the narrow streets, the open sided Jeep doing little to provide any cover from the bullets whizzing past them. Rachel has the most protection, curled in the footwell in the back, but they can’t keep this up for long. Sid swears as he jerks the wheel left and then hard right, sending them into a drift around a corner, and Bronco only narrowly avoids being flung from the car. He’s standing up on the passenger side, using the roll bar for support as he fires back at their pursuers. The cobbled streets make aiming something more like wishful thinking, but he steadies himself as much as he can and focuses on his targets.

Two trucks following. At least three motorbikes, though god knows where they’ve gotten to. Presumably they’re trying to cut them off ahead, though Bronco doubts they’ll guess where the Jeep is headed. A bump threatens to jar him from position, but then, in the split second of stability that follows, he fires.

The high-powered bullet finds its home in the windshield of the first truck and, presumably, its driver. The truck veers wildly and crashes into a car parked on the side of the road, its momentum carrying the back end sideways and throwing it into a roll. It comes to a rest sitting completely athwart the narrow street, blocking the second truck’s progress. Its occupants fire past the wreck at them, but the Jeep rapidly puts a good bit of ground between them.

“We’re clear,” Bronco reports, because they’ve lost their current pursuers, even though the motorbikes are still at large.

He shouldn’t have jinxed them.

The roar of a small engine announces company before the motorbike appears, but not early enough to do anything about it. Seconds later, the bike rockets out of a narrow alley they hadn’t seen on the passenger side of the Jeep, and Bronco doesn’t have time to respond before the gunfire starts. The semi-automatic in his hands is too unwieldy, and before he can draw a pistol, bright, hot pain blooms in his side.

In the rush of adrenaline, it’s almost white noise—but not quite. The force of the bullet throws him off balance and makes him drop his gun, where it bounces down onto the rear seat. His vision blurs momentarily. Sid yells his name. The Jeep swerves, and when Bronco blinks back to the task at hand, he sees the biker aiming the pistol at him again.

A blast sounds from below him, and the plastic faceplate on the biker’s helmet explodes. He topples over and crashes, and Bronco looks down to see Rachel clutching his gun. A moment later, she seems to realize what she’s just done and drops it, her hands shaking violently.

The Jeep turns another corner, and Bronco lowers himself—okay, collapses—into the passenger seat, his left hand automatically finding the wound in his side.

“How bad is it?” Sid demands, able to spare only the briefest glance sideways as he drives.

Bronco looks down at himself, a large part of his white shirt now a lurid red, and peels his hand away gingerly. A concerning amount of blood surges out of the hole. “Just a graze,” he lies. “The drop point is just ahead.”

For once, things go right: no one is behind them as they skid to a stop near a tunnel entrance that connects up with the train station. Baker and Moreno are waiting just inside to whisk Rachel away.

“Go! Quickly!” Bronco barks. There’s a rumble of engines echoing down the streets behind them. The remaining motorbikes, and probably the second truck, having found its way around the road block.

Rachel climbs out of the back, admirably steady on her feet considering everything that’s just happened, and turns back toward Bronco. “What about you? You’re hurt.”

“Don’t worry about me,” he tells her. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Sid nod. “You have to go. Now.”

Rachel knows better than to question their judgement on these things. She hesitates only another second, then flees toward the tunnel entrance.

“You should go with her,” Bronco tells Sid, not turning to look at him. “I’ll lead them away.”

“That wasn’t the plan,” Sid says flatly. Bronco can feel him staring. “Now that she’s gone, how bad is it really?”

Bronco wants to lie again, but it’s starting to feel like too much effort. He stares down at his hand, covered in his own blood. The gold ring on his finger glints back up at him through the red.

“Bad enough that you should let me go alone,” he admits. He laughs grimly and tips his head back against the headrest. “Won’t matter if they catch me.”

Sid is silent for a beat, then another. The engines are growing closer—if they catch them here, all of this will be for nothing.

“Sid—”

“Fuck that,” he growls, and throws the Jeep into gear.

It’s a sign of how messed up he is that Bronco doesn’t argue. Can’t. He fumbles for his pistol with his free hand, so at least he’ll be useful in some way, but he can already tell that even that will be asking a lot.

He’s so sleepy. His eyelids are impossibly heavy. Sid is yelling at him, but the words are muffled and he can’t make them out.

His grip slackens, and the pistol thunks into the footwell.

He’s jolted awake by someone shaking him and pressing hard on his wound, and he yells in pain before he remembers that might not be a good idea. But when his ears stop ringing, he slowly becomes aware that something is missing. No gunshots, no following engines. He’s lying down, cradled in someone’s lap, and when he pries his eyes open, he sees that he’s in the back seat of a different car.

He looks up into brilliant blue eyes. With just a little brown. The familiarity of those eyes—the ones he knows better than his own, the ones that haunt his dreams—makes something slot into place in his chest.

What’s not familiar is the terror in them. Somewhere, in Bronco’s delirious mind, the thought pushes through: that’s not like Sid. He always stays cool under pressure.

“You’ve got to stay awake,” Sid is telling him, clutching him close. There’s a new bandage around Bronco’s middle—a torn shirt, perhaps. Sid’s hand, dark with dried blood, comes up to cradle Bronco’s jaw. “C’mon, Bronc. Stay with me.”

Dunne is in the front, driving, he realizes. They got away. That’s good.

“Rachel?” he slurs.

“Safe and sound,” Sid assures him. “Now you just hold on until we get to hospital.”

Don’t bother, Bronco thinks. Too dangerous, this close to the target. They should leave him and follow Rachel. Get out while they can.

Except he must have said that out loud, because Sid growls, “Absolutely not, you insufferable bastard.” He sounds like Sid, but also not, because there’s a strange note of hysteria in his voice, which breaks slightly on bastard.

“C’mon, Sid,” Bronco tries. “You’ve seen this before. Doesn’t turn out”—he groans as they hit a bump—“well.”

“Do I look like I bloody care?”

Yeah, actually, he does. It looks like he cares quite a lot. That’s not what he means, of course. But that’s what Bronco hears. And look, it’s not like he didn’t know Sid cares deeply about him, that they have a closeness that’s difficult to quantify. But there’s caring, and there’s caring. There’s whatever is going on with Sid as he draws Bronco in closer and presses his forehead against Bronco’s temple, his breath ragged and unsteady.

“Don’t you dare leave me, Beauregard. You hear me?” he whispers furiously. “Try it and I will follow you down to hell and drag you back out.”

Oh, Bronco realizes.

Then everything goes black again.

Despite his history, Bronco hasn’t spent much time in hospitals. Doesn’t care for them. To be fair, most people probably don’t, except maybe doctors.

That said, he can’t really be too upset about waking up in one this time. Mostly because he wakes up.

The room is quiet save for the low hum of the machines he’s hooked up to, but the sounds of people bustling around in the hallway outside filter in through the barely open door. He listens for a minute, trying to make out snatches of the language—where did they end up?—but nothing quite resolves. Drawing in a careful breath, he feels the tug of fresh stitches in his side, and a bone-deep ache that fills every inch of his body.

Finally, he pries his eyes open, blinking against the dry grittiness, and takes in his surroundings. It’s… a hospital room. They all pretty much look the same. He’s not sharing this one, except, it seems, with the person slumped in a chair by his bedside. It’s too small for his muscular frame, but somehow, Sid has passed out in it, his head lolling forward in a way that looks like it’s gonna be murder on his neck. At some point, he’d acquired a fresh change of clothes, but there are dark circles under his eyes and his usually carefully-combed and gelled hair has become a riot of curls

Bronco smiles, the feeling filling his chest a little too big for the space behind his ribs. Fuck, he loves this guy.

For once, it doesn’t feel like agony.

One of the machines must alert them that he’s awake, because a nurse comes in a few minutes later, a kind smile on her face. Her gray hair is pulled into a low pony tail, and a name tag that reads Maria is pinned to her pink scrubs. She picks up a clipboard hanging off the end of his bed and makes a few notes as she checks his vitals.

“Hola, Mr. Smith,” she greets, the words lilting in her accent. “How are we feeling?”

Bronco bites back his laugh at the generic name and nods. “Good, I feel good. Sore, but you know.”

“Yes, I understand,” she says, a little wryly. “Pain?”

“Not much.”

“Good.” She grabs a small device hanging off one of the bed rails. “If it becomes too much, you can click here, si?”

Bronco nods again, watching as she busies herself with checking his bandage and his IV line. “How long was I out?”

“Two days. Not so bad, for your condition when you arrived.”

“I hope he hasn’t been a pest.” he asks, tipping his head toward Sid, who still hasn’t stirred.

Maria smiles at him, her warm brown eyes crinkling at the corners. “He will not leave the chair. Very inconvenient. But sweet. You are lucky, to have one who cares so much for you.”

Bronco’s smile is probably far too sappy, but he can’t help it. He’s on the good drugs, after all. “I know.”

“Can I get you anything else right now?”

“No, thank you, Maria.”

As she’s bustling back out, Sid snorts softly and his head jerks. He lifts a hand to rub his eyes as he shifts himself in the chair, which creaks alarmingly. A frown creases his face at the nurse’s departing back, then his attention finally swings around and lands on Bronco.

The smile that lights up his face is almost painfully bright.

“Hey there, Sleeping Beauty,” Bronco murmurs.

Sid shakes his head and huffs a laugh as he drags the chair a little closer. “Christ, B,” he sighs, pushing a hand back through his curls. “You should bloody talk.”

For a beat, Bronco just looks at him. Drinks him in. The moments in the back of the car swim in his memory. Sid’s strong arms curled protectively around him. His face buried in Bronco’s hair.

“You’re still here.”

The look Sid gives him is baffled. “Of course I am.”

“Two days?”

“Is there somewhere else I should be?”

Bronco frowns a little and shakes his head. “How’d you convince them to let you stay?”

Sid’s mouth opens and closes, and he laughs. Then he holds up his left hand, where the wedding band is still on his finger.

Seeing it on Sid’s hand still has the ability to send a little thrill through Bronco. He forgotten, in part because his own ring is gone—removed, presumably, for surgery. He wonders if Sid has it. He wonders if it would be insane to ask for it back.

“Of course,” he says with his own chuckle. “You’re my husband.”

He’s not expecting Sid to grimace with his whole body, his other hand going to the ring. For a moment, he thinks Sid’s about to twist it off, but it remains in place. “Look, I’m sorry about… all of this,” he says, gesturing vaguely toward his hand. “I’ve gotten too comfortable using this cover, and I really shouldn’t ask that of you—”

“Sid.”

“—I’m not sure everything you were conscious for, or what you remember—”

Well, now Bronco wishes he hadn’t passed out when he did. Not that he hadn’t come to the necessary conclusion already. It’s kind of astounding to watch Sid now, uncharacteristically rambling as he stares down at his own hands, nothing practical or logical about him. Bronco’s kind of loving it. But it’s time to put him out of his misery.

“—but you should know, I don’t expect anything—”

“Sidney,” Bronco interrupts, with enough force that Sid finally stutters to a halt. He finally looks up, his eyes big and blue and worried and hopeful all at once. “I’m in love with you, dumbass.”

Sid gapes at him for a long moment, then finally croaks, “What?”

“If you confessed anything in that car, I didn’t hear it,” Bronco tells him. “But I thought I was gonna die back there, and the only thing I regretted is that I never told you how I really feel.” He reaches out and takes Sid’s hand in one of his, weaving their fingers together. “Turns out you’re the love of my goddamn life, and it kinda seems like you might feel the same way, so can you please stop fucking apologizing?”

“You’re in love with me?” Sid says, his voice unsteady.

“Yeah, Sid. I am.”

“You’re serious?”

“Pretty fucking serious, yeah,” Bronco huffs. To be honest, Sid’s complete shock at this revelation is not exactly comforting, but he also hasn’t pulled his hand away from Bronco’s, which is a good sign. Still, he says, “But I’m starting to wonder if maybe I misread things, so—”

He doesn’t finish, because Sid surges to his feet, leans in and slips his free hand behind Bronco’s neck and cuts off the rest by pressing his mouth to Bronco’s.

Admittedly, Bronco figures out what’s about to happen a few seconds before he actually connects, which means he’s smiling into the kiss when it comes. Sid’s lips are dry and a little chapped, and the angle isn’t perfect, but it doesn’t matter, because it’s utterly perfect anyway. Bronco tries to push into it, tries to lift his other arm to grab onto Sid to bring him closer, only to get hung up by his IV. The movement jostles the line, and an alarm chirps once.

“Fuck,” he breathes as Sid breaks the kiss and presses their foreheads together. “Okay. Message received.”

“They weren’t an accident,” Sid murmurs. He pulls back enough to meet Bronco’s eyes. “All those covers. Once I realized I could get away with calling you my husband, I couldn’t stop.”

At that word, Bronco shivers involuntarily despite himself. Somehow the feeling of falling is worse, because it’s a possibility in a way it never was before. Not that he’s running to the altar, but still. The fact that it could even be a some day is incredible for someone like him. 

“Baby, you don’t have to,” he says before his brain catches up with his mouth. His eyes go wide. “I don’t mean— Shit. This isn’t a proposal—”

Sid’s laugh cuts him off, and he brushes a calloused thumb over Bronco’s cheek. “I know, love, I get it.”

He’s sure that Sid does get it, in every sense—the way that cover makes him feel, the desire for it to be real, but also the reality of what they do, and how new this is despite feeling like, in some respects, they’ve been together forever. They won’t be tying the knot any time soon, but there’s also no reason to pretend like he doesn’t like the idea.

Bronco smiles, a little lopsidedly, in that way he always does when he’s teasing Sid, and he gives a one shouldered shrug. “But… I don’t hate it.”

“Mm, I couldn’t tell,” Sid says, his lips twitching like he’s trying to keep his smile from getting too big. It’s not exactly working.

“I mean, you kind of couldn’t,” Bronco points out. “You were apologizing. You didn’t believe me when I straight up told you I was fucking gone on you.”

“Christ,” Sid huffs, rolling his eyes. “I don’t know why I put up with you.”

Bronco’s grin widens. “I think it might be because you’re in love with me. Just a guess.”

“Yes,” Sid agrees, pulling him into another kiss, “that’s exactly it.”

Two Years Later

Bronco’s laughing when Sid shoves him up against the wall in the corridor of the hotel after they’d snuck away from the party. They should probably be keeping a lower profile, but today he couldn’t fucking care less. Neither, it seems, could Sid—he presses his body against Bronco’s and kisses him within an inch of his life, uncaring of who might walk by. And he doesn’t stop with the kiss, because he slides a thigh between Bronco’s and tugs the tails of Bronco’s shirt out of his pants so he can press his hands underneath, and things start going a little hazy.

“Don’t you think—” Bronco tries to get out, only to be cut off when Sid seals their lips together again, “—we should—take this somewhere—more private?”

Look, it’s not like they haven’t fucked in some pretty questionable circumstances over the years. Bathrooms, utility closets, tents, cabanas without the barest hint of a door, and once, memorably, on the roof of a hundred-story building. But there’s hardly call to risk getting kicked off the premises when their room is quite literally right there.

Finally, Sid breaks the kiss and pulls his head back far enough that Bronco can get a good look at him. His pale linen suit is in disarray, his shirt is unbuttoned nearly halfway down his sternum, and the flower Bronco had given him for his lapel slightly crushed. Even after all the years they’ve spent together, he still can’t get over how beautiful Sid is. The sculpted jaw. The cheekbones. The dimple in his chin. Those big blue eyes that Bronco will happily get lost in for the rest of his life. And he’s even more gorgeous now, his lips kiss-bitten red, his hair mussed from Bronco’s hands, a kind of wild expression rarely seen on his usually-reserved face. He grins wickedly, all teeth, and his pointed canines make him look even more feral. This is not a Sid that anyone else gets to see, and Bronco loves that fact.

“You know, you’re right,” Sid says, stepping back, but before Bronco can turn toward the door he’s being swept off the ground, one of Sid’s arms around his back and the other under his knees.

“You—fucker,” Bronco yelps in surprise, automatically trying to wiggle out of Sid’s arms, but his grip is too solid. Plus, he doesn’t really want to go anywhere.

He’s laughing again, and Sid’s laughing, and it’s a nightmare to get the hotel key out but finally they get the door open and Sid carries him over the threshold.

Bronco kind of wishes he didn’t like that so much. On the other hand, there’s no reason that he shouldn’t enjoy the fact that his partner has stupidly huge arms and can toss him around on occasion.

The door slams as Sid kicks it shut behind him, and then he heaves Bronco onto the bed with so much force that Bronco nearly yelps again. Before Bronco can give him hell about it, Sid’s climbed onto the bed and on top of him, straddling Bronco’s lap as he crushes their mouths together again. Never one for dawdling, his nimble fingers divest Bronco of his shirt, which he balls up and flings across the room.

“Hey, that’s silk—” Bronco protests.

“Don’t care,” Sid says as he applies his mouth to Bronco’s neck. “More important matters to attend to.”

Bronco groans at Sid’s lips and hands on his skin as he grinds upward against Sid’s weight on his lap. “Such as?”

“Such as me getting fucked,” Sid murmurs, his lips brushing the shell of Bronco’s ear, “by my husband.”

Bronco still shudders in pleasure at the word. He hopes it never stops. Then he says, “Yeah, okay, good plan,” and sets to work getting Sid out of his clothes as quickly as possible.

And later, when they’re wrapped up in each other, he’ll splay his left hand against Sid’s bare skin, and he’ll stare at the gold ring on his finger and feel his stomach swoop. Because no matter how many times they’ve played husbands for a cover—no matter how many times he’s had this view—this time it’s different.

This time it’s real.