Chapter Text
Things were looking up, finally. Sierra Six, aka Courtland Gentry, had escaped the grasp of the CIA after he'd fought off and defeated Lloyd Hansen, the creepy motherfucker—and made off with Claire Fitzroy after they fled to Australia to reunite with Colt Seavers and Ryland Grace, who were on the set of the Jody Moreno movie, Metalstorm.
When Court showed up on the set, with a teenage girl in tow, the first thing Colt did was tackle his older brother into the desert sand, screaming that he'd seen a ghost.
The first thing Grace did? Immediately end up tossing aside the bag of sour Skittles that he'd been savoring, candies scattering across the sand and clattering under Colt's nearby trailer like forgotten ice cubes kicked under the fridge.
There'd been a lot of hugs, a lot of tears, and that night, as Court held his baby brothers against his chest as they all piled together onto Colt's bed in his trailer—a solemn promise that he'd never walk away from his brothers as he'd done before, and no Shoot on Sight sanction, the CIA, or whatever fucking ghosts that had it out for Sierra Six was going to stop him.
Or I'll die with them in my arms. Besides, Court liked the challenge, he was The Gray Man, damnit. And the Gray Man fucking lived for this shit.
Of course, then there was the bullshit with Tom Ryder. Framing Colt for murder, all because Tom thought that his popularity was being eclipsed?
It took a lot for Six to not immediately put a bullet between Ryder's eyes when he'd kidnapped Colt, almost setting him on fire if it wasn't for Colt's quick thinking and stunt training that let him escape from the mess.
And it took a lot for Court and Ry not to lose their minds as Colt confronted Ryder and Gail dangling over the set of Metalstorm in a helicopter, the actor revealing that he'd admitted to everything—including killing his previous stunt double, and breaking Colt's back.
"All of that, over the fact he thought you were replacing him?" Ryland said when Colt had plummeted to safety into an airbag, as Court shook his head in disgust.
"I'll never understand Hollywood people, all of this for hurting you?" Court sneered, as Colt shrugged, a look of "what can you do" on his face—and resulted in Court tackling them all into yet another group hug, relieved that they were alright.
And they would be. Wouldn't they?
No more threats.
Ryland Grace was pretty sure he was dying. Court had returned, Colt was safe, and they'd stayed in Australia to spend some time together before Grace had to return to work in Kazakhstan, so they'd ended up celebrating.
That didn't account for the fact that his stomach felt like it was going to be ripped open from the inside.
Colt had suggested a place near the set of Metalstorm, a… well, Grace didn't remember what it had, but there was food, and alcohol, and much to Colt's relief(and Grace's), there were no mysterious pills of a questionable origin—though, in hindsight, maybe it was a pill.
He's been hunched over the toilet for far too long now, sweat dripping off of his face and into the toilet like rain and the pain the pain the pain—
"Ry?" Groans a familiar voice from across the hotel room. Hotel Room?
Oh.
That was right, they'd all gotten a hotel room together after celebrating late into the night.
Colt was slumped by the sink, hiding his face in the base of the cool ceramic. "What… happened?" Grace groans.
"I think we…" Colt cuts off, and soon enough, he's next to Grace near the toilet, pain shredding his insides.
"Got sick." Colt moans, wiping his face with the end of his sleeve.
But how did Court make it out?
Something was wrong.
Six shot up from his spot in the bed, feet slamming into the carpet in record time. Something crawled across his skin, standing the hairs on the back of his neck like needles.
He'd prided himself in honing that instinct until it was razor-sharp, reading people before they even knew that he was onto them.
Most of his time spent as the Gray Man meant he spent a lot of time people watching, noticing the quiet furrows of a forehead, the way people would shift before charging into attack—or when someone was about to look at him and deliver the worst possible news.
And now that instinct was screaming at him to check on his boys.
Court darts across the room, the fear tightening his chest as he realizes they're not in bed. Did they not come home? Did they get taken, was Tom Ryder back?
A low moan sounds from the bathroom, and Court swears he can hear his heart crumble as he changes course, charging in after his brothers.
Oh fuck.
Ryland has his head half in the toilet, a whine escaping his mouth as there's a horrific retching sound, while Colt has his face squished against the base of the sink, bile coating his lips. Both twins were paler than the floor around them, sweat dripping down their faces.
What happened?
The first priority was to determine what the hell happened between last night and now, as they'd been fine before. …Right?
Sierra Six was panicking. He did not panic, but right now his heart was hammering like a rabbit's.
You always did have too soft of a heart…
Drugging? Colt had told them that Ryder drugged him when he'd been looking for clues into the actor's disappearance, but it'd made him look like a fool who thought it would be a fan-fucking-tastic idea to be hit by a car.
No no no. That was too complicated.
As Court takes in their faces, the sweat, the bile—it clicks into place as Colt tries reaching up to the sink, cheeks puffing in another attempt to get up whatever was in his stomach.
All too fucking slowly. It's something they ate.
"Hey, hey, hey, I've got you." Court murmurs, as he moves to Colt first, arms hooking under his armpits to prop him up—but Colt is draping against his chest, eyes lolling towards Court's face.
"Court…? I don…" Colt's cheeks are positively gray by now, as Court shakes his head, limping Colt towards the garbage can instead of the sink.
"You both ate something bad, but I've got you." Six murmurs in Colt's ear, absently running a hand through his baby brother's scruffy hair, holding it back as Colt makes it into the garbage can, light groans of embarrassment following behind.
"You… don't… haveta hold our hair like we're kids or somethin." Colt manages, avoiding Court's gaze. He was embarrassed?
Courageous, proud, selfless Colt. The stuntman who relentlessly traveled in search of the truth, and Court's heart filled with warmth for his baby brothers.
He was so damn proud of them both. It was time someone gave them the love that they gave so easily to others.
And Court had years of love to give them.
"Let me take care of you two, hm?" Court murmurs. "I want to. Please." He adds, as Colt finally relents, as Court nods, positioning him over the garbage can while he goes to check on Ryland.
Ryland's half in the toilet, biting back a strangled cry as he tries to get something out of his system—no luck.
"I've got you too, Ry." Court crouches beside Ryland, rubbing his back carefully to try and work out whatever was still there in his stomach.
Better out than in, after all.
"Court…?" Ryland mumbles, eyes peeking from over the rim. "Where… where were you when I was in college?" He jokes, and Court presses a kiss to his forehead, smothering the tiny, disbelieving laugh in his throat.
Even now, Ry was always trying to make things better, deflect from himself. It was better than being sad all the time, he'd reason.
And Court knew that he was the best damn teacher for it—aside from the fact he was a genius, thank you very much.
"Here now." Court says instead, smoothing a strand of hair out of his eyes so they could try to look at each other. "Do you two remember what you ate?"
"Ate?" Ryland mutters, his nose scrunching. "Oh, y'mean we could have ate something with… E.Coli? No, too easy…" He adds, ever like Court.
Ryland's jaw twitches, before he shoots up, Court holding his head to prevent him from hitting it. "I know! Those devil…de-" He gets out, as Colt peers up from the garbage can.
"Deviled eggs." Colt tries, as Ryland nods, cheeks going gray from the sensation.
Round two, but Court was fucking ready. Eggs—salmonella. It was a hell of a lot better than e.coli, and Six had to resist the urge to cheer when he realized what was going on.
That he could handle. Mind you, it would require a fuck ton of electrolytes and TLC, but—there was a weird fizzle of excitement in Court's chest about it.
Sierra Six was a weapon pointed at the CIA's enemies, the Gray Man was the bogeyman of the criminal underworld—but now he could just be Courtland Gentry, and according to the little card he'd gotten when the twins turned six—
The world's best big brother.
Yeah. That's what Six wanted to be tonight.
Now to get them cleaned up and in bed while I get supplies for their stomachs.
Grace was seeing things through water, he thinks. He was in the toilet—now he was staring up at the ceiling as Court carries him with ease to the nearby bed.
How…?
When did Court get this much muscles? Was what Grace's brain supplies instead, as he's placed on the bed with delicate ease—and soon Colt's right next to him, as his twin's feverish hand searches out his own.
"Ry..?" Colt's whisper is against Grace's ear, as he turns to face his twin, noses touching. "Is Court fucking real?"
"I'd like to think I am." Comes Court's voice, though something about it is strangled, choked. "And I'm never going to disappear on you two like that again."
"Promise?" Colt asks, wincing as the ask turns into a plaintive whine.
Something in the room shifts at that—and Grace felt something crawl across his skin that wasn't sweat. Fear? Dread?
Court's face is immediately soft, and for the first time in a while, their brother looks close to tears.
Oh.
Court nods, once, but then he's crouched beside their bed, gripping Grace and Colt's hands in his.
"Promise, and I'd die before breaking it." He says, voice trembling with fervor. "I will always come back to you both."
That was a loaded word, always, Grace noticed.
Always, always. No one meant always unless they were willing to prove it—and Grace knows Court would.
But Grace wanted Court to live for him, not throw down his life again. Yet, the ability to be more articulate than a garbled "blehhhh" was out of the question.
Maybe later. "Jus'… come back wi—bleh." Grace says, as Colt lets out a wheezy, dry laugh, slugging Grace in the shoulder.
"Real smooth, bro. R'smooth." And Colt's no better! This finally lets a laugh bubble up from Grace, and soon, all three of them, healthy or not, are laughing.
And wasn't it the darndest thing of all, that it took to him and Colt being sick, for them to be laughing like children again?
But it was good. Grace knew how fleeting good could be now—what with the constant reminders that the sun was dying and his work was possibly the only thing to stop it? Grace wanted to take any opportunity to feel good.
So he was going to grab onto this tight, curled up next to his brothers like they were kids again—
Without a care in the world other than salmonella.
Circumstances aside, cheese crackers, this is good.