Archive of Our Own

Casey is the one who brings up the subject first, but Court has been ruminating on this budding operation from every angle for the past four months. He has a carefully curated list of possible outcomes and redundant backup plans for each strategy, cycling through every scenario in his mind until he exhausts himself into sleep.

He’s prepared for the conversation. He’s just the unsuspecting victim of Casey’s impeccable timing.

“We should get married,” Casey says suddenly.

His fingers stroke slowly through Court’s hair, neatly combing back the dark blond locks to settle against his temples. Every movement of his fingers tracing along the curve of Court’s face is reverent. Court basks in it, his eyes long since drifted shut, but he goes preternaturally still at the announcement. His rapidly beating heart feels like it will cut loose and escape straight through his ribs.

“Yeah?” Court finally murmurs. It comes out quieter than he intended. There’s a lump in his throat that refuses to diminish. Every single plan he filed down to its raw nerve to dissect its success vanishes before his very eyes.

In some incredibly obvious way, he had not planned for Casey to be the one to propose. He had not even conceived of a world where he made that choice to ask Court about it.

The plans he has been obsessing over have not helped in the slightest. He still feels hopelessly unprepared.

He’s stumbling onto his back foot, unbalanced, and heading straight on into a conversation he desperately does not want to fuck up.

“Yes.” Casey doesn’t stop petting his hair, but when he speaks, he weighs each word carefully. Deliberate in every single choice, this man. “I want to marry you.”

Court opens his eyes. Casey’s face is above him, but he’s staring straight ahead at the television. There’s a commercial for a local bathroom renovation company playing on the screen that Court could recite in his sleep at this point. From this angle, Court can track the steady rise and fall of Casey’s chest and trace a path from his throat to his relaxed jaw. The soothing rhythm of his fingers in Court’s hair does not falter.

Court believes him wholeheartedly; he does not even have to question it. He huffs out a soft breath, amused about the timing despite the surprise fluttering in the pit of his stomach.

“I was going to ask you that very question,” Court replies.

“You can ask,” Casey says. He finally cracks a smile, just a softened hint of happiness, but he’s still staring intently at the television. Court smiles to himself all the same.

“No,” he says firmly. “I’m happy you did. Makes it a lot easier.”

Casey nods, almost to himself, then tilts his chin down to look at Court’s face, his head still pillowed in his lap. From this close, the soft exhale of Casey’s breath fans across Court’s cheekbone with a warm caress. His eyes are an endless expanse of blue that Court wants to delve into, deeper and deeper, and never come up for air. He wants to fold himself into Casey until he drowns in the depths of it all.

Self-preservation is nonexistent now. There is only Casey and Court, and the space between them that he wants to cleave away to nothingness. He wants to bridge any gap stretching between them, no matter how small it may be.

Marriage is all part of his plan to secure the boundaries of this strange little life he has stumbled into. He has his little brothers, the comfortably cramped rental house, and he has Casey. It’s all he never dared to hope for.

It’s all he wants.

“Yes?” Casey asks quietly. His gaze is unflinching as always.

“Yes,” Court whispers. He clears his throat and adds, a little more confidently, “Yeah. Let’s get married.”

A real smile steals across Casey’s face. A rare, highly coveted wide smile. He nods again, his fingers smoothing back a stray lock of Court’s hair from his forehead, and he turns back to watch daytime television as if the conversation had never happened.

Court chuckles and shuts his eyes. He gives up on dozing off entirely in favor of scrambling through what remains of his proposal plans, mentally shuffling through the cramped confines of his own mind to prepare for the next step. His strategic brain, honed by years of Sierra missions, betrays him in its baffled joy.

Casey wants to marry him.

Court didn’t even have to beg him or persuade him to agree. It just happened as easily as falling in love had all those years ago. Like a seatbelt clicking into place to secure him to his seat, a fluid motion ingrained in his mind and his hands with no other coaxing.

He does not intend to doze off, buzzing with that intoxicating rush of euphoria, but the soothing motion of Casey’s hand and the sound of his steady breathing lull Court off to sleep all the same.

The proposal had been the easiest part. It’s everything else that follows that brings the veil of calm crashing down around them.

Casey takes in the chaos with wary consideration. He does not like any of this: the phone calls with tuxedo shops, the negotiations with courthouse appointments, and the constant barrage of questions that strangers pelt him with when they discover his upcoming nuptials. The woman at the jeweler’s who sizes them for their rings talks nonstop about her own wedding, and all Casey can do is nod impassively when she stares at him for too long for his opinion.

Court, on the other hand, thrives in the chaos with an unshakable, enviable composure. He fields every one of their wedding-related phone calls with stern politeness. He marks all their appointments on the calendar hanging on the fridge, which the twins doodle on with growing anticipation. He reminds Casey of every important check mark on their to-do list without growing exasperated or frustrated by the way Casey stares at him in bafflement.

Why are weddings so fucking hard? He’s driven criminals away from crime scenes less complicated than this singular moment of time for a piece of signed paper.

Then again, he didn’t have two kids to tow along during the whole process.

The twins are ecstatic. Ever since Casey and Court drove them out for ice cream and told them the news, it has been a momentous event on the horizon of their lives. They point it out constantly. They ask about it constantly.

They talk about it. Constantly.

They discuss aspects of the wedding as if it will change their lives forever, and Casey is starting to feel nervous. He does not want his life to change. He has struggled to hold onto the one he has now through blood and terror, and losing any aspect of its bright luminosity is a sickening thought to contemplate.

No, he does not like talking about the wedding. He’s starting to grow very tired of it.

“Are you gonna kiss him a lot more?” Colt asks suddenly one day. “You do that already.”

Casey chews on his toothpick and takes care to add milk to the grocery list on the kitchen table. This household thrives on lists and order. Court demands it, and Casey can usually manage to stick to it if he’s quick enough to remember. They just used the last of the milk for breakfast. He might need to adjust his after-work routine to get some more, and if he does, he has to reorganize his plans for the rest of the day…

He makes a mental note to ask Court to buy some. Then he adds it to the grocery list: Court needs to get the milk. He hopes it will be enough to jog his memory later.

“What?” Ryland asks, baffled.

“Driver,” Colt specifies. He stretches it out slowly. “He’s gonna be Court’s husband.”

“Yes?” Ryland looks concerned now. He has a book laid flat out in front of him, the spine neatly compressed to hold his page open, and his gaze slowly slips away from his breakfast to stare back at the words. The conversation with his twin is quickly losing its luster. “That’s the point of a wedding.”

“That’s the point of a wedding,” Colt snarks back. He aims a kick at the leg of Ryland’s chair, and it connects with a small squeak of the wood against the tiles. The sound grates through Casey’s ear in a nerve-splitting echo. Ryland yelps and grabs onto the table to steady himself, but Colt is shoving another spoonful of cereal into his mouth with a smirk.

“Don’t kick him,” Casey says idly.

“I kicked his chair,” Colt complains. Casey levels him with an unimpressed stare, and Colt relents with a muttered apology that’s drowned out by another spoonful of cereal. Casey turns back to the shopping list and stares at it thoughtfully. If he focuses hard enough, maybe he can conjure up the last thing they needed that he tried to write down and forgot.

“Besides,” Ryland pipes up, his face still tilted down to study his book intently. His spoon clatters on its way back into the empty bowl of cereal, but he hardly seems to notice. He just raises the empty spoon to his mouth reflexively. “Court always wants to kiss Casey. He stares a lot. That means he wants to kiss.”

Casey adds cereal to the shopping list, feeling a smile curl at the edge of his mouth. That was the last thing he needed for the list. These kids go through three boxes of cereal a week. That does not include the daily bowls of cereal that Court sneaks into the kitchen to eat in the middle of the night, either.

Colt splutters out a mouthful of milk and coughs roughly. “Ry!”

“Well, it’s true,” Ryland shrugs. “Casey does it too, right? Right, Casey?”

“That’s not true,” Colt says defensively.

“Yes,” Casey agrees without hesitation.

Colt buries his face in his hands and groans. “Ugh, they are gonna kiss more!”

It’s a simple ceremony, Court is assured. It’s only a courthouse appointment, a brief photo set after the nuptials, and then they are free to enjoy the historical significance of the small-town government building and its courtyard garden. A picturesque, simple ceremony.

Court doesn’t feel like it’s simple in the fucking slightest.

He takes the boys for the tuxedo fitting on a Saturday while Casey is at work. The owner of the tuxedo shop happens to be the neighboring bridal shop owner’s cousin, so they pass through a long display room lined with rows of overflowing, frilly white dresses.

Court has to grab Colt by the back of his shirt to pull him away from a dress sparkling with beading. He doesn’t know the price of bridal gowns, nor does he particularly care to learn, but he knows the damage one of the boys can do to nice clothing if given unsanctioned free roam of the shop floor.

“I just wanna feel them,” Colt complains loudly.

Ryland, standing on Court’s other side, takes advantage of his distraction and lashes a hand out to grab a handful of tulle skirt in wonder. The fabric flows out of his fingers as they pass in a movement as fluid as water. He makes a disgusted sound and wipes his hand on his jeans hurriedly.

“It’s kinda scratchy,” Ryland reports back to Colt immediately.

Court grabs him by the elbow and leads both boys down to the tuxedo shop. His patience is outpaced by his amusement.

He isn’t a stranger to the finer details of black-tie events- he has plenty of experience with those while he was an undercover operative for Sierra team - and he finds it strangely endearing to watch his brothers experience the overwhelming extravagance of such a place. His life is much simpler now than it was before, and he loves every aspect of it. There is no subterfuge in his movements now.

He can appear exactly how he is without fear of dismissal or, even worse, absolute horror.

“Looked soft,” Colt shrugs. He sounds disappointed. “Are the suits gonna be scratchy, Court?”

“I hope not,” he mutters. A little louder and a little more polite for company, he adds, “We have to try them on and see, first.”

“That’s a yes,” Ryland translates solemnly. Colt tips his head back and groans loudly. It’s the perfect rendition of Court’s own long-suffering groan when the boys get into something they know better than to incite.

As if on cue, a man with whitened hair and a sharply pressed suit steps out from behind a curtain to greet them. Court drops his grip on the boys and laughs despite himself. The twins crowd in at his side, looking concerned at Court’s uncharacteristically unrestrained amusement in the presence of a stranger.

Donald Fitzroy just smiles at them, pleased with himself. “Good afternoon, lads. I heard you needed suits?”

“A few,” Court grins. All of the nervous anxiety for the wedding planning unfurls from the pit of his stomach in a rush of relief. He has never needed to pretend to be composed in front of Fitz. This man has seen Court at his lowest point and only offered him a hand to help haul him back up to his feet.

This man is the reason he has the life he does, with the boys and with Casey, instead of ending up rotting in a prison cell.

“What the hell are you doing here? Don’t tell me you retired.”

“Language!” Colt interjects, scandalized. Ryland laughs with a tinge of nervousness.

“Does anyone really retire?” Fitz chuckles. “Aside from you, I suppose.”

“I suppose,” Court agrees, though his smile softens. He puts one hand on Ryland’s shoulder and uses the other to ruffle Colt’s perfectly styled hair to incite a groan of annoyance. “This is Ryland and Colt. Boys, this is my old friend, Mr. Fitz.”

“Hi, Mr. Fitz,” Ryland says promptly. He reaches up to tug his glasses down over his nose to hang off his chin, eyeing Fitz closely now. “Hey! I saw you before!”

“Not-uh,” Colt says instantly. Then he pauses, squinting, and adds, “I have never seen this guy before.”

“Boys,” Court sighs.

“You have a good eye,” Fitz tells Ryland. His face is softened from its usual stern facade. He looks at the brothers one by one, trailing over Court’s gentle touch over his younger brothers, and he nods to them. “I have met you before, but it was very brief. I was hoping to stay for your fitting appointment and give some advice to your brother.”

“Are you going to the wedding?” Colt blurts out. “Court doesn’t let anyone come!”

“You tried to get Dan and Jody to come!” Ryland counters. He is a natural at playing the devil’s advocate. “Casey doesn’t like a lotta people around ‘cause he gets nervous.”

“He likes them!” Colt shoots back. His voice pitches up with that familiar tinge of distress that Court recognizes for recalcitrance.

“You like Jody, too, Colt,” Ryland teases.

Court senses the brewing argument and quickly urges Ryland forward to Fitz with a steady push against his shoulder. “Okay, let’s get started!”

It’s easier with Fitz there, Court finds, and he also finds his winding tension softening further as the boys parade through the rows of tuxedos to touch the fabrics. They quickly root out the stiff materials and favor the smoother ones. Both of them have a discerning eye for a good set of clothes that will fit their specific requirements under Casey's tutelage.

“The four of you will be matching for the occasion,” Fitz points out at some point.

Every set of tuxedos the boys have pulled off the rack is carefully double-checked for their sizes and materials. Court makes the final decision for every offering, but the boys have a serious furrow to their little brows that bode well for the selection today. There are only a few colors and styles that Court absolutely refuses, even if the sizing matches for the four of them and could be tried on later. He doesn’t have time for frivolous misadventures today. He’s focused on making the right choice before the twins start to get too restless to be much help anymore.

Court nods. “They wanted to. The boys like wearing the same thing anyway.”

“You know them well,” Fitz notes. He’s already smiling in that smug, assuring way of his. It reminds him of the days working as Six, when he was more of a number than a human, and he used to pick apart micro-expressions in tedious examination. Living here as a nearly normal person has not diminished his skill, but Fitz has never tried to hide from him in the same way others in their line of work would.

Even after all this time, Court is startled to realize that he still finds Fitzroy to have the same command over him as he did when he was a CIA handler taking the reins over Six’s mission. He wants to know his mentor’s advice for the life he’s building. He wants a little direction.

More than anything, he wants to know that he’s doing a good job.

“They’re my kids,” Court agrees quietly. “I need to keep up on those types of things.”

Fitz laughs. “I imagine you can handle two children far more easily than some of your previous missions. Dare I remind you of your two weeks spent in Bolivia?”

“The first time or the second time?”

“Your last time.”

Court grimaces at the very thought of the poor comparison, and that only makes Fitz laugh again.

Colt comes over with an armful of fabric, which Court disentangles and finds to be two different-colored button-down shirts and four different ties, and then he happily trots back off to see what Ryland is doing with a rack full of tuxedo jackets. Both of the boys point to the buttons on one of the brands, shake their heads in disgust, and parade on to the next rack for approval. Their movements are succinct and efficient, reminding Court of some of the intelligence operatives he has worked alongside in the past.

“Maybe not so easily,” Fitz allows.

“Not in the slightest,” Court agrees. He tries to buff out the worst of the wrinkles in the shirts, then quickly gives up and leaves them on the counter for the shop’s owner to sort out afterward. He hasn’t seen the man yet, even though they have spoken over the phone and the bridal shop’s owner welcomed them inside warmly, but he figures Fitz has his hand in that specific turn of events. Clearly, he’s here to talk about something.

Court checks that the boys are behaving as politely as they are capable of managing in public, then steadies a level look at Fitz. “Cut to the chase, Fitz. Why are you here?”

Fitz eyes him. He’s pretending to appear cross at the lack of decorum, but there’s still that softness in his eyes that betrays him as always.

“I wanted to congratulate an old friend on his pending vows.”

“A phone call would work if you wanted to just say that,” Court says dryly.

“Phone calls are easily intercepted,” Fitz says. He waves a hand dismissively. “I needed to get a look at your operations here.”

Court half-smiles. “My operations? Or my… new permanent colleague?”

“That’s the real question, isn’t it?”

“Mr. Fitz!” Ryland shouts. It’s their only warning before two pairs of footsteps come hurtling over to them, and Ryland hefts up an armload of fabric. “Look! It’s like yours!”

Fitz is wearing a clean-cut dark pinstriped suit, and the outfit Ryland offers has the same lined design, even if the fabric is just a shade lighter. It’s closer to navy blue than true black. Fitz nods and offers some advice about the choice, noting the weight of the suit’s fabric and its sizing, and Ryland nods along with him seriously.

Court watches them discuss the finding as seriously as if it’s one of the after-action mission reports Fitz always made him run through.

Colt tugs at his sleeve. “Court! Can we try it on? It’s soft an’ it has big buttons so Casey will like it.”

“Let me see,” Court says. He tries to stifle the worst of the skepticism in his tone.

Obediently, Colt trots over and pulls the suit jacket off the pile Ryland clutches onto. A tie falls to the floor in his wake, but Colt is already bounding back over to hand the suit to Court. Ryland’s protest is muffled by the mountain of fabric towering in his arms, so Fitz picks up the tie and helps unload the burden onto a nearby settee.

Court inspects the jacket, his fingers tracing the stitching on the hems and cuffs carefully. He’s pleased to find that the lines are straight and clean without exposing themselves on the inner cuff against the wearer’s bare skin, and the label along the collar is printed, not stitched. There should be no stray threads to bother them during the ceremony. He finds that Colt was right about the buttons, too, because he can easily swipe one into its buttonhole, then undo it without fuss. Casey won’t feel trapped by the fitting suit if the sensation overtakes him suddenly.

He nods his approval slowly. His mind is rushing ahead, imagining Casey dressed in this suit, standing next to him at the courthouse altar. Then his imagination goes further, his fingers working the buttons of the jacket and letting it fall away to expose the familiar territory of the expanse of Casey’s lean, muscled chest.

He clears his throat. “We can try this one.”

“Yes!” Ryland cheers. “I picked that one!”

“I helped,” Colt adds quickly.

“You guys did great.” A headache is starting to curl around his temples, squeezing in time with the pace of his heart. He’s going to burn out and grow irritated long before the boys do at this rate. “Let’s see how it fits.”

Fitz does end up giving Court some advice.

It’s just a fleeting moment between the two of them while the twins help the shop owner hang suit jackets back on the rack, chattering at the older man in an overflow of jumbled nonsense. Court had been watching them carefully, readjusting his grip on the bundle of shopping bags containing their suits.

“You know, lad,” Fitz says, apropos of nothing, “I never married to anything other than my work.”

“I noticed,” Court says. His voice is softer to give Fitz room to speak up, and it lands just south of not so teasing as he pretends. He has seen the life Fitz leads, and it had once been the sort of life Court envied. It had seemed easier to be the handler when he was once the attack dog, but now that he’s slipped his leash to the CIA, he finds that he is relieved that he did not end up like Fitz.

He has spent far too much of his life feeling utterly alone. He never wants to turn back and find himself in an empty room again.

“There’s no retirement for men like you and me,” Fitz continues. His voice is quieter, but it doesn’t gentle into consolation. His eyes cut through Court with practiced ease. Court holds his stare without flinching. The only man he has looked away from in an act of supplication is the very same man he shot through the back of the skull for attempting to hit his mother.

He does not give that same submission to Fitzroy. “I’m out of it, Donald. All of it.”

“That doesn’t mean it’s done with you, Court.”

An unfamiliar shroud of sadness passes across his face, casting a shadow in his eyes that Court has never seen in the years they have worked together. He isn’t sure what to make of it until Fitz looks back at the twins and sighs. Then, Court knows exactly what to make of it.

He knows everything that Fitz is trying to tell him without saying a goddamned word.

“I’m out of it,” Court repeats softly. “I promise, Fitz.”

Fitz says nothing. The twins come running back over to Court, both of them beaming with pride. They were successful in finding a good suit for the wedding, and both were looking forward to showing it off to Casey when he got home from work.

Court takes in their overenthusiastic chatter with a calm nod. He reaches out to adjust the glasses hanging off Ryland’s ear before they slide off his face and hit the carpet, but Ryland hardly seems to notice other than the series of rapid-fire blinks. Colt tugs at one of the bags in Court’s hand, insistent on taking one to carry for himself, and Court obediently readjusts his grip to give away the lightest of the load.

“You chose well, lads,” Fitz tells the twins. He adjusts the cuffs of his pinstripe suit with a neat tug, nodding to the younger boys, then looks back up at Court. His face betrays nothing of their conversation. There is only an undisguised fondness lingering there. “You as well, Court. You are welcome to call if you need any help with your… future appointments.”

“Thanks, Fitz,” Court snorts. Then, because he is a hopelessly sentimental fool, he reaches out and clasps Fitz’s hand as a silent gesture of goodwill. Fitz squeezes his hand back just as tightly, and they both let go at the same exact time.

“That guy was old,” Colt says in the car. He has his feet stretched out to press his sneakers into the back of Court’s seat. Every once in a while, pressure increases in the back of the seat right in the center of his lower back. Court can feel his little feet probing into the cushion every time he shifts his weight from side to side.

Not that little anymore, he reminds himself.

The twins just celebrated their eleventh birthday, and both of them got a new pair of shoes as part of a new outfit from Casey. Their feet are growing faster by the day, just like the rest of their awkwardly lanky bodies.  At the rate they have been growing, the pediatrician predicts that they may even grow taller than Court himself.

Soon they will be teenagers, and then they will be fully grown men who can look him in the eyes and no longer need a big brother to struggle to help them with their homework.

Court shakes that thought loose immediately. He will never be able to look at them without seeing the wide-eyed kids in the hotel asking him to rent a movie and eat ice cream for dinner. They aren’t allowed to grow up much more than that in his head.

“Court is old,” Ryland muses. He’s in the backseat trying to knot the tie that Court just bought around his neck. The fabric bunches and wrinkles in his clumsy fingers, but Ryland continues cheerfully, “Mr. Fitz was old, too! That’s why they’re friends.”

“Ouch,” Court says without heat. He feels much older than he looks. Years spent running undercover operations to disengage and execute CIA targets will do that to a man, but watching these two kids has aged him far more quickly than being Sierra Six ever had.

“It’s okay, Court,” Colt chirps. “I think you aren’t that old even though you have lots’a gray hair too.”

“Do you guys want to listen to the radio?” Court interrupts cheerfully. “Let’s listen to music for a little while.”

He turns the volume dial up just loudly enough to drown out his chuckle, but not so loud that he misses the excited cheers from the kids behind him.

Casey comes home from work at the same exact time every night.

Still, Court does not feel as though he can draw in a full breath until the moment he sees the headlights cut through the kitchen window as the car pulls into the driveway. He spares a moment to look into the living room, making sure the boys are fully engrossed in their show of some sea sponge grilling burgers, and then he silently opens the side door to slip outside.

He closes the door behind him with a soft thud and waits. The car idles for a long moment, rumbling a happy purr that finds its place in the same space as Court’s accelerating heartbeat. Then, the engine cuts off with a soft click-pop of the heated metal. Casey climbs out of the car carefully, taking care to shut off the headlights and lock the doors, and he makes no delay in crossing over to where Court waits for him.

“Hey,” Court says.

“Hey,” Casey echoes.

The reflective patches on his uniform shimmer in the dim shine of the porch light, casting him with a soft glow. His hair is mussed from the hat he wears and his own fingers running through it to tug at the locks. It’s a bad habit that Court aches to replace with his own hands running through those same soft locks, tugging and teasing to find the right rhythm to make Casey purr just as sweetly as his beloved car’s engine.

Court sucks in a sharp breath and ducks his head, suddenly exhausted. “Sorry. I know you want to come inside to wash your hands for dinner.”

“You need something,” Casey states. He steps closer, raising his hands to tug off his gloves, but Court reaches out to hold his wrists still. He’s not holding him as firmly as a manacle would, but he’s offering a silent service, not restraining him.

Casey nods. Yes, he accepts Court’s offer.

Court slowly switches hands to keep one of them latched onto the slim patch of bare skin between Casey’s glove and the cuff of his jacket where it's riding up his forearm. The skin is warm beneath his curled fingers. With his other hand, he teases open the buckle on the back of Casey’s gloves. Finger by finger, he tugs at the leather until it slips free and exposes Casey’s bare hand.

His fingers are pale but clean in just the way Casey prefers. The other hand shows the same result, and Court carefully tucks the gloves into Casey’s jacket pocket. He had wandered closer during the exchange, the air crackling to fervent life with each soft tug of the gloves from Casey’s hands. His eyes had burned through Court as he carefully stripped away the last barrier between Driver and Casey, finally coalescing them into one and the same.

In the scant distance remaining between their bodies, Court finally gathers the strength to draw in his next full breath. He admits, a little unhappily, “I do want something. I want it so bad that it fucking hurts.”

Casey says, as if it’s that easy: “Tell me.”

So Court tells him about the appointment. He tells him about the gut-punching surge of emotions he felt seeing Fitz again after all these years, right in the middle of one of the most important moments of Court’s life. He tells him about the relief in seeing his oldest friend, a man practically family, finally meeting the twins and finding them just as special as Court does. He tells him about the dreadful anticipation of waiting for trouble to come thundering through the door, his attention split between watching his brothers for signs of impending danger and watching Fitz in case he was the one bringing it to their very doorstep.

He even tells him that there is no retirement for Sierra operatives, even if his every instinct wants to curl protectively around Casey and his boys and pretend none of it ever happened. Ignoring the issue will not protect them. That doesn’t make the instinct any less suffocating.

Casey listens. He always listens with utter concentration, unbothered by the sudden peal of the neighbor’s laughter or the motorcycle that comes cruising by with a shrill roar of its engine. He has eyes for Court only. There had been a time when such attention would have felt just as suffocating as his instinct to stand in front of a threat all on his lonesome. Not so much anymore. Court finally feels like he can shed the weight of his own loneliness and let its mantle lie abandoned in the dirt.

“I want to stop fearing for your life every time you step out of my sight,” Court finishes. “I’m out of Sierra. That was the deal. I don’t want it coming back to you or the kids.”

Casey considers this for a moment, his gaze tracing a fond path over Court’s face as if committing every detail to memory. Court lets him stare, but he does glance down to his feet, feeling just as ridiculous as he did the day he kissed Casey right in the backseat of his own damn taxi. He feels as exposed as a raw nerve, festering in the open air with nothing left to shield him from harm.

He cannot protect himself from this man.

He simply has to bear whatever judgment Casey deems to give him.

Finally, Casey smiles. “You are out of it.”

“Not according to Fitz,” Court says with a self-deprecating smile. He still can’t bring himself to raise his eyes from his shoes. Every word guts through him like a knife’s edge. He hates himself for even saying it. “You can take the spy out of the game, but you can’t convince the game to let him go.”

“You’re out of it,” Casey says. “You’re ours now.”

Court’s breath stutters to a halt. He raises his head in surprise, but Casey is already moving in. His fingers curl into the soft fabric of Court’s shirt, his thumb stroking idly against the line of Court’s muscular stomach through the cloth, and he tugs Court in closer for a kiss.

His mouth is warm and sweetened with bubblegum. Court would laugh at the revelation if he had the breath to do anything other than whine in longing and press in closer. His tongue sweeps into Casey’s mouth, chasing the taste of his favorite gum, feeling weightless.

He has never belonged to himself. He was originally a victim of his father, then he had grown into the unflinching operative that Fitz wielded as a spearhead for CIA covert missions. He had never lived a day when he did not take orders from someone he served just by the sheer convenience of being alive. Court was something to be owned.

He thinks, distantly, that he has never wanted to belong as much as he does right here, right in the possessive grip of Casey’s fingers clinging to his shirt.

Court pulls back to breathe. Casey’s grip does not let him go far. He has no intentions of freeing himself now that he has everything he wants.

“I heard I can be more trouble than I’m worth,” Court manages to joke.

“You’re worth it,” Casey replies. His voice does not tremble or waver. It’s simply a statement of life as it is.

Court closes his eyes to hide the sudden shine there. He tries to smile, but the corner of his mouth quivers at the upturn. “I’m trying to be realistic here.”

“You’re careful,” Casey allows after a moment. His fingers slide open to release his grip on Court’s shirt, but all he does is press his open palm to the toned muscle of Court’s stomach. His palm rests as a heavy brand on his navel, his thumb tantalizingly close to the waistband of Court’s jeans.

Court lets out a shaking breath. When he leans in closer, drawn into orbit, Casey holds still to let him come at his own pace. Their whole relationship has been one long marathon, hurdling over obstacles thrown in their path to trip them up and yanking one another along when they needed a hand forward to keep going.

It’s all been one long push and pull. The rise and the fall. The longing and the blissful release.

Court shifts their positions to press Casey against the door, shuffling their feet over the stoop to keep them steady. Casey goes willingly, but Court can feel the sudden spike in his breathing pattern. His pupils are blown to nearly black in the half-lit glow of the porch light. Court leans in again. He pauses, struggling to find the words he needs, and he finds that all he can do is cleave through the bluster and expose the raw truth lying beneath his skin.

“I’m tired of being careful,” Court whispers against Casey’s ear. “I just need…”

The rumble of his voice dies out in a slow longing. The scratchy caress of his beard follows a meandering path down the curve of Casey’s jaw, the warmth of Court’s breath against his bare skin inciting a shiver through Casey’s body. Court ducks his head to kiss the jack-knifing leap of Casey’s pulse at the soft spot below his ear. It’s a searing brand of intoxicating heat.

“I just need this,” Court finishes in a hoarse whisper.

Casey closes his eyes, his own breathing quickening. His fingers curl into the fabric of Court’s shirt to anchor himself again. He feels dizzy with the exhilaration. Not even hurling down the highway at breakneck speeds can compare to the pressure of this man pinning him against the door. Right now, the only thing keeping him upright is Court’s hips pressed to his. His knees are weakening by the minute.

Court rumbles out a soft laugh. “Relax, Casey. It’s just me.”

“You’re the problem,” Casey mumbles out. Court laughs again, and the sound lances straight through him. He used to have to negotiate his way to finding that laugh. Now, it comes all too easily to his beck and call, unrestrained and guiltless.

“All yours,” Court says quietly.

It comes out too unsteady to sound teasing. Casey only breathes him in, clutching onto his shirt as a lifeline, every inch of contact between them scalding him despite the layers of clothes. He could stay right here, forever, and that would be a fate he does not fear. It’s the very fate he thought he had condemned for himself after frightening off Irene back in Los Angeles.

Court tilts his head back up. Casey waits, trembling with desire, and he nearly jumps out of his skin when a loud thud echoes on the door at his back.

“Are you guys kissing?” Colt yells out through the door. “You aren’t married yet!”

“We have a separate problem, now,” Court groans out. He just hardly speaks loud enough for Casey to hear him, and Casey merely smiles. As much as he complains, he would never say those words loud enough to make one of the twins think they were a problem in Court’s life.

“Stop kissing!” Ryland shouts in agreement. “I’m hungry!”

“You’re always hungry!” Court calls back.

Still, Court slowly untangles himself from Casey’s hands. He spares a moment to press a soft kiss to the corner of Casey’s mouth, right at the upturn of his lingering smile, then pulls back with a long-suffering sigh. Casey brushes a hand through his hair in an effort to steady his pounding heart, but he can feel his smile growing more bashful by the minute.

Court is still smiling, too, until he tries the doorknob and finds it locked. His expression loses the luster of desire quickly in favor of grim annoyance. Casey smiles wider. He ducks his head to hide it before Court notices and his stern ire is diminished with answering laughter.

“Boys! Did you lock the door?”

“I told you he would notice, Colt!”

“You locked the door!”

Court does not sleep for a single minute the night before his wedding.

He spends most of the early morning in the bathroom, taking the time to envelop himself in the quiet of the house before the twins wake up at sunrise. The sink’s faucet drips steadily despite the multiple attempts Court has made to fix it. He knows how to rig up car bombs with nothing more than a short fuse and a half-assed load of ammunition, and yet he can’t stop the damn sink from leaking.

Nausea churns in his gut. He closes his eyes and administers the breathing exercise he learned at the CIA dark site in Tel Aviv. He’s so far from the man he was back then. He cannot run far enough to escape the influence that being Sierra Six has wrought upon his life.

The problem is that his life is no longer his own.

Ryland and Colt are the greatest gift he has ever been given. They are brilliant kids with a sheer playfulness that Court had never been allowed as a child. They make him laugh more easily than he has ever before. They make sure he has a reason to open his eyes and get out of bed in the mornings when he cannot bear to think about the blood staining his hands. They are his family. They are practically his own kids at this point. Every binding legal and medical document has his birth name scrawled at the bottom to mark him as their legal guardian. They are his, but more importantly, he belongs to them.

Casey, though, is someone else entirely.

While the twins are tied to him by the blood of their shared mother, Casey has no reason to linger around them. He could get into his car and drive hundreds of miles away until there is no one around to recognize his name or his face. He doesn’t need to live in a small town out in the middle of nowhere with nothing but a leaky bathroom faucet and a busted-up old pickup truck to show for his loyalty.

Court has nothing of value to offer him. If Fitz was telling the truth, then there are people who intend to hurt or kill Court wandering on the outskirts of their little safe haven, just waiting for their chance to strike. The sort of people intending to interrogate and eliminate a former Sierra operative have no qualms about killing the man who just so happens to share a bed with him.

Court knows how to kill a man in over a hundred different ways, and yet he cannot guarantee that Casey will not die for the sin of loving a man like Court enough to marry him.

The nausea swells up in his throat. Court ducks down to vomit into the toilet. Then, he silently flushes away the evidence and douses his face with cold water from the leaking sink. He breathes in and out to focus his mind back to the present.

When that doesn’t work, he plunges his bare hands under the water’s flow as if that can erase years of his brutal killing tally. His hands have not been stained red in years.

No. Not true. The boys convinced him to go strawberry picking last summer, and they spent over two hours picking fruit, only for the basket to end up half-full by the end of their foraging. Casey’s lips had been tinged red when he caught Court’s shocked gaze and smiled. He had tasted sweeter than the berries he swiped from the basket, and his mouth had sucked the lingering shades of red juice slinging to the pads of Court’s fingers.

Another practiced breath, and Court opens his eyes. There are new memories to coalesce above the old. He is not Sierra Six anymore. He doesn’t have to be that man.

He doesn’t want to be that man.

“Okay, Gentry, get it together,” he whispers to his reflection. He sees his own mouth tick up in the mirror. Today is the day he marries the only man he trusts above and over himself. There is no more room for doubt and fear. He has a mission to finish, and this is the most important one he has ever undertaken.

Today is the day that Courtland Gentry turns his back on the past and becomes Courtland Daley.

Today is the day that Court escapes into the woods and becomes a hermit. It would be the most preferable response to the sudden surge of fear flooding his veins when he sees what Colt holds up for his inspection.

Colt beams up at him, unbothered. “Do you like it?”

Court stares down at the massacred cake sitting in the unsuspecting bakery box. The white cardboard has a film window built into the top for viewing, and he can see the twisted, uneven curls of frosting spelling out a boldly lined message: HAPPY WEDDING DAY.

He recognizes Ryland’s writing, even with it being jagged frosting lines on a cake.

“How did you do this?” Court manages. His voice treads on in an uneven path. Fuck, fuck, fuck. This is their wedding cake. Casey doesn’t have much of a sweet tooth, but Court still wanted a cake prepared for this very important moment in their soon-to-be marriage. Not to mention that it was really fucking expensive.

“They didn’t put words on it,” Colt puffs up proudly. “We remembered for you!”

“Okay,” Court says faintly.

“It’s okay, Court,” Ryland adds. “Casey doesn’t even like cake.”

“Thank you, boys.” He only sounds a little horrified. The boys beam back at him, preening.

It’s a relief that he can turn back to the paperwork that the courthouse clerk pushes across the desk for him to check over. He fills out their information, signs along the bottom line with the sweep of his scrawling signature, and hands it back to her. It takes less than three minutes for him to be distracted.

When he turns to look at the twins, he finds that they are long gone. They were kind enough to leave the cake sitting on one of the plastic waiting room chairs, at least.

Casey finds two familiar faces waiting for him on the front steps of the courthouse.

Panic tightens in the pit of his gut. He doesn’t see Court. When the twins wave at him excitedly, dressed up in their little matching suits and grinning widely, the panic sours into dread. Court would never let these boys out of his sight without good reason.

He climbs the stairs in rapid succession. The dread clogs the back of his throat. He practically barks out, “Where’s Court?”

All he can think of is the burning line of Court’s body pressed against his and the quiet confession that his past as a Sierra operative will catch up with him. Casey refuses to believe that this is it. This is the happiest day of their lives. Court cannot be gone. Casey cannot be left behind.

“He’s signing papers,” Colt sighs. He is utterly unbothered by Casey's sharp tone. At this point, he's used to it when it comes down to Court and Casey. He never flinches at a man's raised voice the way Court had when he was that age. “We asked if we could come wait for you, and he nodded his head.”

“Um,” Ryland says. “I think he did that to the lady at the desk ‘cause she asked him if he was gettin’ married and he is.”

Colt’s sharp little elbow whips out to dig into Ryland’s side. Ryland flinches out of range, his arms tucking in to protect his sensitive ribs. His mouth drops open, fully agape in offense. “Court said no fighting!”

“I’m not fighting,” Colt corrects instantly. “I was just moving my arm an' you were in my way, Ryland.”

He makes a move to jab his elbow into Ryland’s side again, but Casey shakes his head and gives both of them a solid push back to the front door of the courthouse. They bicker the entire way back to the reception area, but Casey isn’t listening. He scans the atrium for any sign of Court, his heart beating furiously in his chest with the fear that he finds nothing. If this is it, then Casey will not rest until he finds him, he will leave no stone unturned and no man alive…

No. Court is there. He's right there.

He’s standing right in the middle of the atrium, his hand pushing back through his carefully styled dark blond hair with careless anxiety. The cut of his suit broadens his shoulders and slopes down to the trim shape of his waist. Casey knows exactly how soft that fabric feels beneath his fingers. He knows exactly how to undo those buttons, and he knows exactly how fast he can have his hand sliding across Court’s bare skin when they are finally alone as legally married husbands. He knows exactly how to make Court cry out for him. He only needs a few minutes.

Casey’s mouth goes dry at the desire flooding his belly. When their eyes meet over the twins’ heads, he can see the moment that Court finally drags in a full breath. He’s even more beautiful when he smiles at Casey, wide and unrestrained.

“We found him!” Ryland announces.

“Yeah!” Colt hollers. His voice echoes around the atrium with a pitched fervor. “Let’s get married!”

They get married in the local courthouse at noon on a Tuesday. They have Donald Fitzroy standing in as an undercover witness to their union. Ryland gives one ring to Court, and Colt gives the other to Casey. Both of them have flowers pinned to their lapels, even if Colt’s looks wilted and crushed from his impromptu somersault across the floor.

Court keeps his vows short and sweet, his mouth quirking with suppressed nerves.

“I swear that I can be a better man for you. I want you to know that I’m trying to be that for you, even if I fuck up sometimes. I don’t know what the hell I did to deserve you, but I’m going to fight for it.”

Casey clasps a hand over Colt’s mouth to stifle his interjection about Court’s swearing. He’s smiling so wide his face feels bruised. He keeps his vows even shorter.

“You’re the best thing to ever happen to me.”

Court is crying when they kiss. It’s silent, nothing more than a splotch of wetness trailing down his cheeks, but Casey just takes his thumb and wipes them away. Court’s face is scruffy and warm beneath his bare hand.

“Kiss again!” Colt hollers. “You just got married! You’re supposed to do it now!”

So they kiss again.

Casey draws to an abrupt halt. His shoes scuff the linoleum tiles with an obnoxious squeak from the new soles, the sound grating against his sudden nervousness with piercing accuracy. He blinks. The scene before him doesn’t change.

Through the windows of the double doors leading into the garden, Casey can see the entire world.

A wide swatch of blooming flowers sways gently in the afternoon breeze, an array of bright colors against the backdrop of the twins’ dark blue suits. Ryland looks rumpled, his suit jacket unbuttoned and his sleeves cuffed up to his skinny little elbows, and Colt has shed his jacket altogether to tie it across his head like a bandana. Both of them look out of breath, their faces flushed red from exertion, but Casey can tell both of them are talking a mile a minute regardless.

Crouched down in front of them, listening intently with his face softened by fondness, is Courtland Daley.

His husband’s eyes are rimmed red from crying, but there’s no fresh evidence of tears shining on his face. Casey watches for a long moment, smiling to himself, then sets off to open the door and join them. He had needed the bathroom break to orient himself, splashing water on his face and breathing deeply, but he did not linger in there for long.

He doesn’t want to miss a moment of this.

The pickup truck was an impulse buy.

Casey can’t say he minds in the slightest. It gives him something to stare at: his husband, streaked with engine oil and grease, swearing and muttering underneath the hood of the old ‘88 Bronco. His muscled arms flex underneath the strain of a particularly stubborn bolt.

He gives up on pretending to look busy on his own passion project and wanders over to Court’s side of the garage. The walls are stuffed to the brim with tools, car parts, kids' toys, and other miscellaneous junk that Court keeps in case he needs it. For a man who lived in nothing more than a black duffel bag meant for quick mission deployment for years as a Sierra operative, he certainly likes to act as a hoarder in his own space.

Casey can’t say he minds in the slightest. His husband has a place to bury his roots deep and fill this space with things he likes or wants to keep close. He can have the whole damn garage as long as he leaves a parking space for the Chevy Malibu Casey is trying to restore.

Quietly, Casey sidles up next to Court. The radio is crooning a song that Court hums along to in fits and bursts. He clearly recognizes the tune, but he’s not familiar enough to sing along. It’s a shame. Casey loves his voice. He could blissfully listen to this man speak of nothing at all until the day he goes deaf.

“Damn rust,” Court mutters. His grease-blackened fingers point to a spot in the engine that Casey does not examine too closely. He’s too busy staring at the hard lines of muscle in Court’s forearm. His shoulders flex under his T-shirt as he shrugs with a dismissive grunt. “That’s on me for buying it off the side of the road, I guess.”

“Court,” Casey says, and Court looks at him.

His eyes are softened at the corners. There are wrinkles at the corners of his eyes, too, growing deeper from the years' worth of laughter that have carved their way into his life. The laugh lines faintly curve around his mouth. He’s going to be handsome when he’s old, and it’s going to be because he’s so quick to smile.

“Casey,” Court prompts. He smiles. It’s just that easy for him.

“Can I kiss you?”

“I was going to ask you that very question,” Court replies brightly.

“You can ask,” Casey says.

“No,” Court says firmly. “I’m happy you did. Makes it a lot easier.”

With that, Court tilts his head and lets Casey draw him into a deep, intoxicating kiss. They fall into the familiar waltz of their kiss, taking and giving in equal measure. Casey’s hand slides up to lace his fingers through Court’s hair, gently caressing the speckled gray strands he knows are there. Court hums happily into his mouth, but he keeps his dirty hands firmly at his sides. He knows better than to dirty Casey’s favorite shirt, even if the shirt is technically Court’s.

They move to the side, away from the stench of engine oil at the cracked hood, and Casey feels himself loosening into that haze of desire. He leads Court right where he wants him. Court goes where he is led as easily as if a breeze is nudging him along.

Casey’s bare hand is pressed flush to Court’s hip now, pinning him to the truck’s fender. The calloused pads of his fingers sneak their way under the hemline of Court’s shirt, running an arc of lightning across his skin in their feverish wake. Court stutters out a surprised little gasp, far too aroused to speak at all now. Any excuse to disengage and focus on the truck’s restoration has fled far from his mind, and Court is struggling with the urge not to slam the door behind its sudden absence and let himself fall into this.

It would be all too easy. Forget the repairs and fall into it. He doesn’t even have to beg for it.

Casey takes his startled silence as an invitation to kiss him deeper, his knee sliding into the widening spread of Court’s legs as he tries to keep them both upright. Court has to let go of his grip on the belt loop of Casey’s jeans to plant his hand on the truck hood behind him. Casey’s tongue probes deeper into his mouth.

Fuck it, Court thinks with a stifled groan. He wants the easy option for once.

The fucking truck can rot on its cinder blocks for all he cares at the moment. A better man would do anything his husband asks of him, and Courtland Daley is determined to fulfill his wedding vows every single day of their lives.

He has so much farther to go.

He is going to treasure every single second of it.