Work Text:
"All the missing men were last seen at a bar in San Francisco," Eve says, reading out of the clippings book. "Somewhere named The Sacred Band, huh."
Cassandra claps her hands together excitedly, and squeals, "Fire up the door, I guess we're going bar-hopping."
"Yeah, no." Eve looks at her. "I think maybe Stone and Jones should take this one."
"Why?" Cassandra pouts.
"It's bar," Eve replies pointedly. "A bar for men. In San Francisco."
"Ohhhhh." Cassandra nods. "Well," she says, turning to Jake and Ezekiel. "I think you'll make an adorable couple."
"We really will," Ezekiel says, draping his arm over Jake's shoulders, nudging him with his hips. "Won't we, honey pie?"
"Yeah," says Jake, sounding like he's just been asked to wade through alligator infested sewage. "Great."
"What's wrong, sweetie?" asks Ezekiel, gently booping Jake on the nose with one forefinger and earning himself a scowl in return. "I thought you were more open-minded than that."
"A gay bar is no problem," Jake replies, stepping sideways out of Ezekiel's reach. "Pretending to be your boyfriend?" He shakes his head. "No way."
And there's something weirdly personal about the way he says it, Ezekiel thinks, as if the idea isn't simply repellent to Jake, but something that actively upsets him. There's an almost wounded air to his objections, but Ezekiel brushes it off. "Probably for the best." He shrugs. "The guys will all be too busy checking this fine piece of ass," he says, gesturing at himself, "to even look at you."
Jake regards him for a moment, obviously considering. "You think?" he finally says, eyes narrowed.
"Of course," Ezekiel answers, like it's obvious, because well, yeah, it is.
"Fine," says Jake, and Ezekiel could swear there's hint of challenge accepted somewhere there in the word, but he's not threatened.
Ezekiel Jones doesn't do threatened.
They both head off to change clothes, and if Ezekiel happens to select his skinniest pair of skinny jeans and a t-shirt a size smaller than what he would normally wear, then that's just because it's what he's in the mood for. No other reason, none at all, so he heads back to the door, game face on, a quip ready about how he won't be buying any of his own drinks tonight, no fucking way, but then he sees Jake.
And almost jumps back in shock, because whoa, that is not what he was expecting.
Jake's dressed in a checkered shirt that's unbuttoned halfway down his chest, exposing enough skin that it's vaguely obscene, a pair of worn jeans that manage to both cling in all the right places and hang off his hips in an alarmingly attractive fashion, and a belt with an enormous buckle that would appear to be some kind of bull-riding rodeo trophy. The whole ensemble is topped off with a scuffed-up-just-right black cowboy hat, and for a minute Ezekiel's not sure he remembers how to speak, but at last he says, "Um, why are you dressed like that? This isn't a theme night or anything."
Jake only grins at him. "Oh, Jones," he says, condescendingly rueful. "How little you know."
"Whatever," Ezekiel scoffs.
"The Sacred Band, San Francisco," Jenkins announces, and they both walk through the door with a brief flash of light and that strange, sticky feeling, finding themselves in a storage area littered with boxes. They pick their way through, emerging into the main bar area, and they're barely inside the room when it immediately becomes crystal clear why Jake is wearing what he's wearing, because before Ezekiel has even caught his breath there's a group of men practically mowing him down, one or two literally shoving him out of the way in order to get to Jake, circling him like flies on honey, their voices cooing all, "Hey, cowboy," and, "Let me buy you a drink," and, "Come sit by me, sweetheart."
And Jake's taking off his hat, playing up the aw-gee-shucks Southern accent, telling them all he's just in town for a few days to do some business for his Daddy's pipeline company and by gosh he never knew people were so friendly here in the big city and why all you gentlemen are so darn kind and heck yes he'd love a cold beer.
He sits down at the bar, smiling broadly, acting the innocent hick role to its absolute limit as the guys fawn over him. Ezekiel stares for a second, looking around him, because surely someone hasn't been taken in by Jake's whole transparently fake redneck naif bullshit thing, but it would appear not. Oh, he thinks, and eventually gets the bartender's attention for long enough to buy himself a beer.
He stands in the corner, nursing his drink and being ignored by everyone except some creepy older guy who's being so not-subtle about having a very particular interest in Ezekiel that he may as well have 'rice queen' tattooed on his forehead. Ezekiel turns away from him as deliberately as he can, and instead watches Jake interacting with the men that surround him. His face lights up when he smiles, his stupid perfect lips pulling back to reveal stupid perfect white teeth, head thrown back with laughter as he slaps one of his suitors on the thigh.
Ezekiel feels… he pauses, ponders for a minute, because, if he's honest, he doesn't know what he's feeling. Angry, maybe? Annoyed, yes, irritated, definitely, but there's more to it than that. And then suddenly it dawns on him. He's jealous, fucking jealous, and how is that even remotely possible because Jake Stone is not his type. Not at all, not in the slightest, not in any possible world.
Except, it seems, this one.
And well, okay, Ezekiel tells himself, if that's the way it is, then fuck it, fuck it all, because if there was ever an opportunity to make a move that he can just brush off as part of the mission if, as is almost totally certain, it's rejected, then this is it.
So he tries not to think about what a fool he's likely making of himself, and marches determinedly across the room, pushing through the small crowd to stand in front of Jake, saying, "Sorry, boys, this one's taken," and then planting the biggest kiss he dares right on Jake's still-perfect, still-stupid lips.
Ezekiel pulls back, and Jake's eyes are wide with surprise, even as he plays along. But then the smallest smirk hovers over his face, coming to rest in the corner of his mouth. And he knows, Ezekiel realizes, he fucking knows, and how long has he known? When Ezekiel himself didn't even have the faintest clue, Jake has known, maybe forever, right from the start, and he hasn't said a word, not one single word.
Which, Ezekiel thinks, explains a lot.
"This your boyfriend?" one of the men asks, disappointed, and Jake pulls in Ezekiel in close.
"This is my guy," he says happily, arms wrapped tight around Ezekiel, and the group starts to back off, wandering away and muttering among themselves. Could have said he was taken, Ezekiel hears, fucking cock tease, and usually he'd feel the need to retort with some smartass remark, but this time, he lets it go.
Jake turns to smile at him, easy and wide. "Wondering when you were gonna work that out, Jones," he says.
And Ezekiel can't stop himself from smiling back. "Well," he says, shrugging, "I got there in the end."
"Took you long enough." Jake rolls his eyes, takes a swig of his beer. "Now about these missing guys," he starts, because it seems he's already got a lead, and for once, Ezekiel is content to just listen.