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“Don’t tell Court,” Ryland whispers. “He’s gonna get really, really upset.”
He stares at the flour caking the countertop with resigned despair. There’s a set to his jaw that Driver recognizes as the same determination as a soldier sent to the front lines. It’s the same look Court settles into when he has to discipline one of the twins.
“He likes it when we help! He says we do the best job at helping,” Colt interjects. Smugly, he twists to look over his shoulder and grins up at Driver. “And Mr. Driver said we could! He likes likes Mr. Driver.”
Driver considers the counter for a moment. The cake mix had been Colt’s idea, the execution had been Ryland’s domain, and the funding had been solely his own tips from the night before. He had less time to skim the shallow market for late-night fares when other taxi cabs were shuttered for the graveyard shift. The rest of his time has been dedicated to the bleak task of ensuring the twins survived the night without Court there to supervise their every move.
Whatever was in Driver’s wallet—all wages paid under the table—was supposed to cover rent due at the fourth of the month, enough food for the week, and the cost of at least one of his cheaper utility bills.
At this rate, he was thinking he would try to pay off some of his water bill. He mostly showered at Court’s apartment regardless.
The running tally over the past few months showed Driver that keeping kids alive was an expensive investment for an ordinary part-time taxi driver, and even more so to keep them happy. By now, these specific kids were squeezing him out of every dollar he could scrounge up.
“Court really likes cupcakes,” Ryland offers to Driver. It’s the same justification he gave at the grocery store when they all stared at the shelves of baking mixes. He sounds just as confident now as he did then. He even smiles the same toothy grin when he adds, helpfully: “He ate three of them at the party!”
Last week, the four of them attended a child’s birthday party for one of the twins’ classmates. Driver didn’t remember the child in particular, but he did remember studying Court as he watched the boys with a thinly veiled mask of sorrow drawn over his eyes. Every facet of Court was carefully curated for easy dismissal: he kept his appearance tidy but unremarkable, and he rarely raised his voice above a low, polite rumble. It would be so easy to glance at him and look away.
Driver has never been able to look away without taking notice. Watching Court gives him context clues that never make it past the furrow of his brow or twitch of his mouth.
It was the only way that Driver caught the moment when the sorrow for the otherwise festive party had evaporated into soft affection when Ryland bounded over with a vanilla-frosted cupcake for both Driver and Court.
Court had eaten three cupcakes: the one Ryland brought specifically for him, the one Ryland got for Driver that he wasn’t interested in keeping for himself, and one that Colt secreted away before they left and produced with a proud grin from behind his back. Court had laughed, loud and unrestrained, when Colt tugged on his arm to show him the treat.
The laughter had been sweet, but not as sweet as the vanilla frosting that Driver could still taste in Court’s mouth later that night. Those kisses had been sweet and warm. Far better than a cupcake. Far more addicting, too.
Yeah, he had been selfish. He had bought more cake mix with a handful of one-dollar bills that the twins insisted on handing to the cashier themselves. He justified it as though they could all use some more celebration lately. It was not selfish for him to want to wipe the exhaustion from Court’s face. Just for a moment.
“I know he does,” Driver tells Ryland. He gives the cluttered counter a pointed look. “That’s going to be hard to bake.”
“Oops,” Colt says, unapologetically. He draws a smiley face in the scattered cake mix remains and then, closer to Driver’s side of the counter, he makes a frowny face. Driver watches him write Court’s name and draw an arrow to the upset picture.
He smiles despite himself.
Ryland nods slowly, taking in the mess, and claps his hands. Flour explodes in the air around them at the impact. Colt splutters out indignantly, but Ryland looks rejuvenated.
“I can fix it!” Ryland declares.
He does not fix it.
The kitchen is a warzone. It takes them three hours to wipe up clumps of wet cake mix from the counters, the tile floor, and the cabinets before Driver shrugs and ultimately accepts the collateral damage. The cupcakes are dense and stiff when they come out of the oven to cool off, and Ryland sniffles in despair as Colt tries to bounce one of the failed cupcakes on the counter.
“It’s like a bowling ball,” Colt tells Driver gravely.
“Sort of small,” Driver counters.
“Like a small bowling ball.”
“How small?”
Colt huffs. “Small like… like a cupcake!”
That gets Ryland to laugh, and even Driver cracks a smile.
It isn’t until much later that Court comes in and finds them huddled on the couch.
The television is muted, and only the dimly lit flashes of the movie’s scenes continue on. Driver has seen Despicable Me so many times that he stares blankly at the animation, the unheard words echoing in the back of his mind in time with the scene cuts.
Ryland is curled up on Driver’s right side, the tip of his nose buried against the bent crook of his elbow. His glasses are already safely folded and held loosely in Driver’s free hand. Colt is on Driver’s other side, with one of his legs dangling over the edge of the couch and his arm thrown over his face.
Both of them are snoring in soft bursts. Driver knows better than to move them without help. They do not handle being separated well, not even in sleep.
Driver, despite the late hour, is still wide awake. He hears the lock on the front door disengage with a soft click. He waits, wound tightly enough to spring up at a moment’s notice and get in the way of the danger, but the tension drains away when he hears Court’s footsteps shuffle quietly past the threshold and lock the door behind him.
The apartment is mostly dark. The hallway is half lit by the light over the stove in the kitchen, and Driver stares at the spot where he expects Court to be.
Waiting.
Wanting.
It takes exactly the three seconds that Driver predicts. Court’s silhouette cuts through from shadow to dim light. He toed off his boots without making a sound, but he’s still wearing the rest of his security uniform. The structure of the jacket broadens his muscled shoulders just as much as it hides the true shape of his figure in the dark. The pants swish softly with every step.
Driver isn’t fooled by the strike of the heavy steps. Court is making noise for their sake so as not to frighten them with a sudden appearance. He can walk as silently as a shadow if he intends to.
Court passes through the hallway and finally appears in the doorway to the living room. This close, the lamp on the side table next to the couch illuminates his face in a serene profile. Driver dismantles him piece by piece with a single look: there is a furrow between his brows, an unhappy downturn to his mouth, and a slumped line to his shoulders.
He looks utterly spent.
Driver almost rises to his feet before he remembers the twins tucked in on either side of him. He does not want to wake them. That urge to keep them peaceful is just barely stronger than the surge of worry that floods his gut at the look on Court’s face.
When Court takes another step into the room, the lamp's light gentles the exhaustion into calm. Court pauses at the edge of the room, drinking in the sight before him. Driver watches his gaze skim over Colt’s sprawled body, then Ryland’s curled-up one, for any sign of injury or distress. It is only when he is satisfied with their wellbeing that his softened gaze trails up to Driver’s face.
They stare at one another for a long moment.
There is no exhaustion in Court’s face now. There’s some amusement, more than a little appreciation, and a staggering blow of unfiltered fondness.
“Hey,” Court murmurs. It is a quiet, private thing for just the two of them.
The corner of Driver’s mouth curls into a smile. Within three steps, Court is there, his fingers gently taking Ryland’s glasses from Driver’s hand to set them safely on the side table.
When Court glances at him again, taking measure, Driver blinks, then nods.
He still feels the electric shock of physical contact thrill through his body when Court leans in and kisses him. His facial hair scratches softly at Driver’s chin, barely more than a passing sensation, but Driver pulls back all the same with a sharp exhale.
He smells smoke clinging to Court as visceral as blood. It makes his hand curl into a fist, fighting against the surge of panic that swells at the memory of engine smoke and gun smoke mingling into one. Some nights, he can still taste the seawater as he drowned Nino. Most nights, he tastes the blood from his stab wound seeping into the back of his mouth in phantom memory.
The smell of the smoke with the soft touch of Court’s skin against his is too much. Court lets him go without rebuke, but there’s a smoldering heat in his gaze that promises more. All Driver has to do is lean in or nod his head.
Driver takes a breath, steadies himself, and focuses on Court’s expression for any sign of a lie. “You smell like cigarettes.”
“Not by choice,” Court grimaces. “Got stuck with the chimney on watch tonight. Guy went through a whole pack.”
Driver lets out a soft huff of amusement. “Those things kill.”
Slowly, prepared for him to retreat, Court reaches out to the white-knuckled fists Driver keeps set firmly in his lap. The boys are still asleep, unbothered, even when Driver stills dangerously at the calloused warmth of Court coaxing his hands open. There are red crescents from Driver’s stubby nails left on the flesh of his palms.
Court’s hands, broad and scarred, cover his imprints with startling gentleness.
“I’m okay,” Court assures him quietly. His voice is unsteady, and Driver pulls his attention from their hand contact to the look in Court’s eyes. There’s a boundary there that Driver does not recognize at first, not until Court refuses to lift his gaze to meet Driver’s own.
His eyes are hooded, downcast, obscured by the shame of being worried about. Court does not think of himself as a creature to be fretted over. He is the one who pushes past the boundaries of sensibility to ricochet straight into the depths of utter insanity. He is the result of being trained to delve into a black ops mission with nothing more than his gut instinct and a target to check off.
Beyond these four walls, Courtland Gentry is a tool to be used and discarded. He is a highly specialized Sierra operative with codeword clearance to get his hands dirty in international affairs. He kills, and he does not look back at the aftermath.
Right now, half-lit by the lamp and still dressed in his night-watch security uniform, Court feels the farthest he has ever been from that life. He cannot help it when Driver stares at him with unadulterated approval. He doesn’t view the monster in the room as a threat to be neutralized, and he doesn't put himself between Court and the twins to protect them from his very presence.
Driver trusts him explicitly.
Courtland Gentry wants nothing more than to be worthy of that fucking trust, for once in his life, with none of the Sierra bullshit hanging over his head like an executioner’s axe. He wants to reconcile the image Driver shapes him into with the pathetic copy Court tries to masquerade as.
He wants a life that has never been his to own. The longing for that simple life festers in him like a rotting organ. All of this is temporary, but it means more than a case number in some desk jockey’s file cabinet. He thinks that, if he must see it end, then he will carry what it gives him for the rest of his life.
This is everything to him, even if it is all fleeting. He just wants to pretend for a while.
Court draws out a breath and manages a faint smile. Driver, as if he can’t help himself, smiles back.
“What the hell happened in my kitchen?”
Driver smiles wider, but he does not answer. Court did not expect him to; he knows at this point that the two of them prefer the dance around the edges of the room to the action on center stage. It’s safer that way.
It’s all for the best for his mission.