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Delinquency
“I’m impressed, honestly,” Reyes says.
McCree, seventeen and skinny as a rail, flinches.
“Really,” Reyes says, tapping his finger on the box of cigarettes, thoughtful. “I’ve never been pickpocketed before.”
McCree doesn’t dare say anything. He’s been standing at attention in front of Reyes’ desk since he was summoned, nervous ever since Reyes asked for his cigarettes back.
“I’m from Los Angeles,” Reyes continues idly. “Big city like that...you have to know how to keep your wallet. It’s hard to pick the pockets of someone who knows how to play that game.” He picks up the box, nodding as if in approval. “You’re good, cowboy.”
Out of fear, McCree says nothing. Reyes gives him a patient look, and McCree squeaks, “Thank you, sir.”
Reyes sets the box back down on his desk. There’s a moment of heavy silence that has McCree’s heart hammering in his ears. Reyes leans forward on his desk, mouth hidden behind laced fingers, as if thinking up a suitable punishment. McCree holds his breath, back ramrod straight.
Reyes drops his hands to the desk, like bringing down a judge’s hammer. “You know I don’t tolerate this shit on my base,” he says calmly.
“Yes, sir,” McCree manages.
“I’ve let you get away with it multiple times,” Reyes informs him. McCree goes pale. “My agents have had food go missing. Beers.” He pauses again, adds, “Knives.”
McCree’s perfect posture shrinks.
Reyes presses his lips together, takes a deep breath, and lets it out slow. “I assured my...colleague that you would be a good asset to my division. I assured him you wouldn’t be any trouble. How do you suppose it’d make me look if he caught wind of a thief in my ranks?”
McCree swallows. Gabriel holds a hand up to his ear and leans forward expectantly. McCree blurts, “Bad, sir.”
“Bad,” Reyes repeats dryly. “As a matter of fact, it’d be a huge pain in my ass for months.” His gaze drops to the cigarettes. “What happened if you stole from someone in Deadlock, kid?”
McCree’s brows knit, and the lines of his mouth droop a little more severely. He looks like he’s trying not to cry. “Uh -”
Reyes snaps his fingers twice.
“We handled it ourselves,” McCree says, all rushed. “Depended on the guy. Sometimes a man could get his ass beat an’ sometimes a man could get shot.”
“You want me to punch you?” Reyes asks.
McCree looks at Reyes’ arms briefly. He swallows again. “No, sir.”
“Well, that’s a problem,” Reyes muses. “Because I’m not in the habit of shooting my investments.” He picks the cigarettes up again, opens the box, and ignores the way McCree’s shoulders lose the slightest bit of tension. He pulls out a cigarette, tucks it between his lips, reaches into his pocket for a lighter.
McCree stares. Reyes lights his cigarette and pulls out another. McCree blinks. “Sir?” he asks, small.
Reyes frowns and holds out the cigarette again. “I’m not going to bite you, kid.”
McCree takes it.
“Relax,” Reyes chides. His frown deepens as he looks over McCree’s posture again. “Relax,” he repeats, less like an order. McCree obeys. Reyes passes him the lighter.
“These are shit, anyways,” Reyes says as McCree lights his cigarette. “I carry these on missions so I don’t waste my good ones.”
McCree lets out a little puff of smoke. Reyes takes a long drag and lets out a bigger one. McCree asks again, “Sir...?”
“I don’t tolerate thieves on my base,” Reyes informs him. He taps the cigarette over the ashtray on his desk. “You need something, you come to me and ask for it.”
McCree blinks.
“You don’t have to steal food.” Reyes holds his gaze. McCree straightens sharply. “You get three square meals a day, and if you want to save snacks in the kitchen, then you better write your name on them. Any weapons you need will be provided to you on the condition that you prove I can trust you with them.” He pauses, then adds with amusement, “Technically, I shouldn’t allow you to have beer, but...”
“You ain’t punishin’ me?” McCree blurts.
“This time,” Reyes warns.
“Why not? I ain’t complainin’, but-”
“You’ve got a lot of learning to do, kid,” Reyes interrupts. He puffs on his cigarette for a moment, then rubs at his jaw in exasperation. “You’ve got a lot of unlearning to do, too.” He stabs a finger in McCree’s direction, and the cowboy jumps. “Don’t let me catch you betraying my trust, got me?”
“Yessir,” McCree answers, quick this time. His eyes are dancing, and Reyes figures that this is what will finally win him McCree’s respect.
“Dismissed, vaquero,” he says after a moment. McCree looks all too happy to leave; when he’s gone, Reyes lets himself chuckle.
Mischief
“You...asshole,” Jesse breathes incredulously.
Gabriel glances up from his book, peering over the back of the couch. “Hm?” he asks with slight disinterest, though the corner of his mouth twitches when he sees Jesse is standing in front of the refrigerator with the door wide open.
“You asshole,” Jesse repeats. His gaze whips to Gabriel, eyes narrowed. “You ate my pie.”
Gabriel almost smiles, though he brings his book back up to cover it. “I did eat some pie, yes. I didn’t know you wanted the whole thing to yourself.”
“Oh ho, no,” Jesse insists, shutting the fridge with perhaps a bit too much force. It takes only a few long strides for him to reach the couch, which he looms over with a hint of menace. “You know what I mean,” he says. “There was one piece left. It was mine.”
Gabriel turns his book in Jesse’s direction. “Was there?” he answers. “Never saw it.”
“Sure you didn’t!” Jesse exclaims, attempting to pull the book away.
Gabriel pulls it back up stubbornly. “You’re going to bend the pages,” he complains, playful.
“You ate my pie,” Jesse says again, pouting. “Traitor. Last time I trust you with leftover dessert.”
“I didn’t do any such thing,” Gabriel denies. He peeks over the edge of his book, eyes full of mischief, which in Jesse’s mind completely proves that he did, in fact, eat the last piece.
“It was in the fridge just an hour ago!” Jesse says accusingly, already swinging his leg over the back of the couch. He climbs on top of Gabriel, feet planted in the cushions until he’s able to settle his weight on top of his lover.
“Don’t step on the couch,” Gabriel chides, then laughs and cries, “No!” as Jesse makes a grab for his novel.
“Admit it!” Jesse demands, leaning over the top of the pages to kiss Gabriel’s nose. Gabriel makes a small noise of surprise, and Jesse uses the opportunity to make a beeline for his mouth.
The book falls on the floor, forgotten; Gabriel’s hands are suddenly preoccupied with Jesse’s hair, and Jesse’s hands with Gabriel’s jaw.
Jesse pulls back after a long moment, grin tugging at the corner of his mouth when Gabriel starts to follow him. Gabriel opens his eyes as he realizes the movement is meant to be a break, cheeks flushed a pleasant pink.
“You taste like cherry pie, jackass,” Jesse says, smug and still pouting all at once.
Gabriel blinks, then laughs. “Sorry,” he says, then flashes Jesse a hopeful smile and adds, “It was a really good pie.”
“Ass kisser,” Jesse sighs, dipping down to peck at the scar on Gabriel’s lip. “You’re bakin’ me another.”
“Won’t come out as nice,” Gabriel says lightly, hands sliding over Jesse’s shoulders.
“Tough,” Jesse answers, mildly distracted. He kisses Gabriel again, softer this time, mutters, “Mean t’me,” against his mouth.
Gabriel hums. “You lost my page,” he murmurs. Warm summer air rustles his curls. Against Jesse’s fingers, he hardly notices.