Absolutely Devastating Idk What To Say But So SO SO GOOD

love you like i mean it ⛐ 𝐀𝐀𝟐𝟑

alex is always going to be someone that you want; you have too many years between you. (or: you, alex, and the devastating situationship that reshapes your friendship.)

ꔮ starring: alex albon x childhood best friend!reader. ꔮ word count: 10.2k. ꔮ includes: implied smut, romance, friendship, light angst with a happy ending. mentions of food, alcohol; profanity. friends with benefits, idiots in love, the reader pines… so much…, carlos as a plot device. heavily inspired by & shamelessly references spring into summer by lizzy mcalpine. ꔮ commentary box: this was initially supposed to be inspired by chappell roan’s casual, but i listened to too much lizzy mcalpine and ended up with *gestures vaguely* this. the fic got away from me at some point hence the 10k (lol). i was supposed to give up on it, but i pushed through because i owe @cinnamorussell some alex before the month ends. please enjoy my first ever alex long fic!!! 𝐦𝐲 𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭

♫ modigliani, lucy dacus. the bolter, taylor swift. right side of my neck, faye webster. touching toes, olivia dean. ode to a conversation stuck in your throat, del water gap. do you love me?, georgia parker.

Alex calls you late, the way he always does when he’s just lonely enough to admit it.

Your phone screen lights up with a sepia-toned photo from your shared childhood, featuring you and him sharing a comically large lollipop. His contact name is his initials. AAA. It puts him on the top of your list, which honestly feels like a cruelty in the grand scheme of things.

You answer his call anyway.

His hotel room in Tokyo is all muted beige and filtered city light, the kind that makes everything look like a memory. He’s in a white tank top, hair wet from a shower, collarbone shining faintly with leftover steam. He looks tired. He looks beautiful. You hate that.

“Come to Suzuka,” he says, not bothering with hello.

You smile without showing your teeth. “That’s a bit dramatic.”

“It’s not,” he complains, flopping back down against his pillows. You itch to reach through the screen and trace all the parts of him you’ve come to know and love. “You didn’t even come to Melbourne for the start of the season. What’s the last race you were at?” 

You know the answer. Still, you feign like you’re thinking. “Abu Dhabi,” you say after deciding Alex has squirmed just enough. Last year’s season-ender. 

Alex winces like the truth physically hurts. “That’s criminal.”

You shrug. “I’ve been busy.”

“Too busy for me?” 

His voice is so small, so soft. You adjust your grip on your phone, desperate not to fall into this cycle, this pattern. Coming, taking, giving, leaving. “Work has been a lot,” you grit out. “I’ve texted you about it.” 

“Don’t do that.”

He sits forward. The screen tilts. A flash of his knee, the edge of a pillow. You’ve seen that bed before. You’ve been in it, legs tangled, laughing into his shoulder while the world outside blurred into something manageable. “I’m not doing anything,” you lie.

Alex blows out a breath and rubs the back of his neck. “Okay, fine. Then I’ll just tell you. The helmet. The special one for Japan. It’s—it has you in it. Well, not you you. But something that’s about you.” 

Your stomach pulls. “Why would you do that?”

“Because I want you there. Because maybe it’ll make you come.”

You have half the mind to accuse him of trapping you. Of having nefarious intentions or whatever bullshit you can spew to get Alex to stop doing all this. Instead, a sigh rattles out of your chest and you say, “Fine. I’ll go.” 

His smile is quick and boyish, and it kills you. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

You end the call before you can say anything stupid, like I wish you didn’t do that or this isn’t fair or I want you so bad, I’d go back on the things I believe. You sit in the dark, phone face down, trying to remember how this ever felt simple.

Alex moved to Suffolk during the summer your bike had a flat tire. His family settled three houses down, in the white one with the peonies that never bloomed. He wore a school jumper too big for his frame and didn’t talk much, but when he did, it was with a sharpness that made you listen.

You found each other in the way quiet children do. At the edges of playgrounds, in the hush before rain, somewhere between a shared silence and a dare. He let you ride his scooter once. You gave him half your sandwich. You became the kind of childhood friends they croon about in indie songs. 

By eight, he was already racing. Karting on weekends in places with names you couldn’t spell. You’d sit on a folding chair, hands sticky from petrol-slick air and melting sweets, watching him blur through corners. He never looked at the stands, never waved. But afterwards, helmet in hand, he’d find you first.

“Did you see that overtake?” he’d ask, grinning, teeth crooked and proud.

You always said yes, even when you hadn’t. He trusted you with his joy before anyone else, placing it in your hands time and time again. Who were you to drop it?

You grew up like parallel lines—close, steady, never touching. Until you did.

Three years ago, it had been raining in London. You’d both had too much wine and not enough food, and he had to race Silverstone in two days. His hotel room smelled like wet wool and expensive soap. You were laughing. About something stupid, a memory, one of the many things only the two of you remembered exactly the same way.

And then he kissed you.

It wasn’t a question. It wasn’t even hesitant. It was just there, sudden and sure, the way you’d always known it would be if it ever happened. Fate, you thought, you prayed. 

You hoped that would be the start of it all. The shift, the change, the inevitable. Instead, he had pressed his forehead to yours and whispered, “Still friends?”

You were so dumbstruck that all you could say was yes. Yes, even though your heart clenched when he breathed a sigh of relief. Yes, because it meant Alex could comfortably lean in for a second kiss. A third. A fourth. 

You kept saying yes. Every time he reached for you in the dark. Every time he flew you out and touched you like something sacred and temporary. Every time you watched him leave in the morning, shoulders lit by the sun and never once looking back.

Still friends.

Yes.

It’s the biggest lie you’ve ever told.

The suitcase lies open on your bed, half-stuffed with clothes that still smell like dust mites. You fold things with more care than necessary, pressing your palms flat over each cotton shirt like you’re trying to smooth out a thought.

Your mother hovers in the doorway. Not saying much. Just watching. “Japan this time,” she says matter-of-factly. 

You nod. “You know how it is.”

She walks in, slow and quiet. Treading light. Her hand brushes over the edge of your suitcase, the one she’d gotten you when you first started taking these jet-setting trips to visit Alex wherever he was racing. It wasn’t frequent, but it was enough to rake up a significant amount of miles.

“You’ve been going less lately,” your mother says.

You don’t look up. “Been busy.”

A silence stretches between you, gentle and persistent. “You were always thick as thieves, you and Alex,” she says. “Even when he moved away, you’d look at the calendar all the time. Count down the days until he came back.”

You smile faintly. You remember that. For the longest time, you had scribbled in the race calendars into the Saturdays and Sundays, taking note of the time differences. It was a little quirk you stopped doing last year. “We grew up,” you say vaguely, but your mother is relentless. 

“Sometimes growing up just means getting better at hiding things,” she hums. 

You stop folding. Your mother sits beside you. Her fingers find a loose thread on your jumper, twist it once, then let go. “I won’t ask,” she says carefully. “It’s not mine to ask.”

You’re grateful and aching all at once. That mothers know best, that your love for Alex is so blindingly obvious to everyone but him. 

“Just—be careful,” she warns, and you nod. That’s all you can do.

She pats your knee, stands, and leaves the room with the soft efficiency only mothers have. You finish packing in silence. It feels like preparing for something other than a race.

By the time you’re flying out, you can only focus on the imminent promise of Alex’s hands cataloguing all the changes since you last saw each other. 

Fourteen hours in the air does something to your bones. Your spine feels longer, your limbs looser, like you’ve been pulled apart by altitude. The Narita airport lighting is too clean, too kind. It reveals every wrinkle in your clothes, every bruise of fatigue under your eyes.

And then there’s Alex.

Grinning like it’s spring and not just the arrivals gate. Ball cap low, hoodie creased, holding a bouquet of jet-lagged daisies and baby’s breath like he bought them because they looked sort of like you.

“Hey,” he greets, and it’s so simple, yet it undoes you.

“Hi.”

He pulls you into a hug without warning, arms looping around your shoulders like they’ve been missing their purpose. He smells like travel and the aftershave you teased him for when he first bought it. You let your forehead rest on his collarbone for half a second longer than you should.

He doesn’t notice. Or pretends not to.

“You didn’t have to come all the way out,” you murmur.

“You flew fourteen hours. I can drive forty-five minutes.”

He says it like it’s math, like it adds up, like there’s logic to the way he always tries too hard when you’re about to slip through his fingers. You pull back. "Flowers, though?"

Alex shrugs. “Figured you’d like them. The lady at the stand said they were sweet. Like you.” 

Your laugh is dry. He takes your carry-on like he always does, hand brushing yours for a second that buzzes longer than it should. You walk in step without trying. An old habit that never bothered to leave.

“How was the flight?” he asks.

“Long.”

“Sleep at all?”

You shake your head. “Tried. Kept dreaming about missing the gate.”

He smiles sideways. “You didn’t miss anything. I’m right here.”

You don’t answer. Can’t.

Because he is right here, and he doesn’t see it—the weight of three years pressed into every beat of silence, every time he looks at you like nothing has changed.

You want to scream. You want to hold his hand.

Instead, you follow him into the soft Japanese evening, suitcase wheels humming against tile, the daisies wilting in your arms. 

You’re not surprised when there’s only one hotel key card.

Alex doesn’t say anything as he hands it over, just gives you that familiar look, half sheepish, half expectant, like this is just how things are. Like you wouldn’t have come otherwise. 

The room smells faintly of cedar and lavender, the kind of scent pumped through vents by hotels that cost more than you’d care to admit. There’s a single bed, king-sized and already turned down. The lights are low. Evening has softened the edges of everything—the city beyond the glass, the echo of jet lag in your bones, the sharpness of what goes unspoken.

Alex drops your bag by the wardrobe and shrugs off his jacket. He stretches like a cat. Arms high, shirt lifting just enough to show the skin at his waist. You look away before he catches you. You’ve memorized the lines of his back in hotel mirrors, the way his shoulder blades rise when he’s tired.

“You hungry?” he asks. “Could order something. Or just raid the minibar like we’re twelve again.”

You smile, toeing off your shoes. “Minibar dinner sounds appropriately tragic.”

He laughs, pleased. “Perfect. I’ll get the world’s saddest sparkling water. Maybe some mystery peanuts.”

You sit at the edge of the bed while he rummages, pulling out a half-sleeve of biscuits and something that might once have been chocolate. He tosses them on the duvet with the flair of a magician, then flops beside you, shoulder brushing yours.

The room settles around you in the way shared spaces do. His charger, already plugged in on your side; your toothpaste, beside his in the glass. He pads over after brushing nighttime routine, hair damp from a quick shower, shirt loose and collar stretched.

There’s something about him in these moments. Unguarded, tender. Like the world forgets to ask too much of him for once. And in that forgetting, he remembers how to exist soft with you.

He pulls you in like muscle memory. His hand on your waist, his breath near your temple.

You go unquestioningly.

The kiss is slow. Familiar. Less heat, more gravity. He touches you like you’re fragile but necessary, like this is the only part of the weekend that makes sense. He murmurs something against your skin—your name, maybe. Or just the word please. You can’t tell if it’s a question or an apology.

You let him press you back onto the mattress, the sheets cold for half a second before his warmth fills the space. His touch is gentle, reverent, like he thinks this is how you say thank you. You hold him, nails digging into his back, trying not to hurt him more than necessary. 

Later, you lie tangled in the hush, his head on your shoulder, one arm wrapped loosely around your waist. You run your fingers through his hair, slow and steady. You think about what it would mean to let go.

It’s just a thought, though. 

The next morning, you wake to an absence.

The sheets beside you are still warm, faintly creased from where Alex’s body had been. But his pillow is abandoned, and there’s no sound but the gentle hum of the city beyond the window. For a second—just one clean, heart-punched second—you panic.

Then you hear the shower running.

Relief and resentment wash through you at the same time.

You sink back against the pillows, pressing your palms to your face. Your throat feels tight in that half-awake way that makes you wish you dreamed less vividly. The room smells like steam and his shampoo. 

The bathroom door opens with a soft hiss of air.

Alex steps out with a towel slung low on his hips, hair wet and curling against his temples. He’s grinning already, eyes catching yours across the room. “Could’ve joined me, you know,” he says, voice still a little hoarse from sleep. “Water pressure’s phenomenal. Would’ve saved time.”

You groan into the pillow. “Pervert.”

He laughs, padding barefoot across the room, steam trailing behind him. “You love it,” he says cheekily. 

You throw a pillow at him. He ducks, and the sound of your shared laughter feels almost like the old days. Before things blurred at the edges, before kisses replaced inside jokes and you started sleeping with your memories.

“Go put some clothes on, you menace,” you say, swinging your legs over the side of the bed.

He gives you a mock salute and turns back to the bathroom. “Yes, captain.”

You head for your toiletries, feeling the day tug at your skin already. In the mirror, your face looks quieter than it feels. Your mouth remembers his. Your hands remember where he pulled you close. But what you remember most is how easy it is to fall into him—how friendship once felt like enough.

You used to be best friends. Before everything. Before late nights and shared beds and pretending it meant nothing.

And some days, like now, you still are. Best friends, that is.

You wonder if it will ever be enough again.

You ride to the paddock in the backseat of a tinted car, shoulder pressed lightly to Alex’s. The morning is golden and forgiving. 

Suzuka blurs past the windows—red lanterns still swaying from the night before, cherry blossoms beginning their slow fall, the air touched with the delicate scent of fried batter and spring. Alex hums along to something playing faintly on the radio. He taps your knee with his fingers in time to the beat. 

Just once, then again. Like he doesn’t know what else to do with his hands if they’re not touching you.

The air between you is easy. Intimate in the quiet way that friendship can be when layered over something else. A liminal space neither of you names.

He steals your sunglasses and you let him. He makes a show of adjusting them on his nose, eyebrows raised. “Do I look cooler already?” he asks, grinning. You roll your eyes and try not to stare at his mouth.

He offers you a sip of his energy drink and you make a face but take it anyway. He wipes something from your cheek with his thumb and doesn’t comment on it, just lets his hand hover there for a beat too long. The silence fills up with old knowing, soft and dangerous.

Almost enough to fool you.

Almost.

The driver pulls up at the paddock entrance, and you’re met with the orchestral chaos of race day in its early rhythms. Media crews already swarming, engineers in fireproofs wheeling gear past, the crackle of radios and the distant whine of a power unit being tested. The scent of burnt rubber and fresh coffee threads through the breeze. Alex walks beside you, hand skimming your back once, twice, as though to anchor you.

You’ve done this before. Many times. But there’s something about being here again, together, that presses a quiet ache into your sternum. Like returning to a childhood bedroom that’s been rearranged without your permission.

The Williams motorhome appears like a cathedral in blue and white. You’re recognized immediately. A few engineers smile and nod. One of the comms girls hugs you tightly, laughing something into your shoulder about how long it’s been. Someone presses a coffee into your hand, just the way you like it. Two sugars, no milk. It’s a strange kind of comfort, this small network of familiarity in a world that moves too fast.

Then—

“Carlos,” Alex says, reaching to clap the shoulder of his new teammate, who stands just outside the motorhome in full kit. “This is my best friend.”

You turn to meet Carlos’s gaze. He’s charming, polite, smiling in that open, easy way that says he’s used to being liked. He extends a hand, firm but not overdone. You’re sure he’s a good guy, but you’re too hung up on the introduction to care about anything else. 

Best friend.

You shake Carlos’s hand and hope your face doesn’t flinch. You know the role. You’ve played it well for years. Smiled through it. Laughed through it. Shared hotel rooms and winter holidays and the softest versions of yourself, all under the umbrella of that phrase.

Something about hearing it aloud, in this place, in front of someone new—it lands different. It presses cold fingers against your chest.

Alex is already moving on, ushering Carlos toward a PR meeting, tossing a grin over his shoulder. “I’ll find you after. Don’t disappear.”

You smile back, lips curving with practiced ease. Of course you do.

You take a long sip of your coffee. It’s too hot. It burns going down.

You swallow anyway. 

Alex finds you later, just as he promised, in the quiet hours between press and briefing. Afternoon light slants through the windows of the hospitality suite, dust catches like static in the air. You’re tucked into a corner seat with your knees drawn up, phone unread in your palm. 

“Got something to show you,” Alex says, voice low.

You glance up. He’s already smiling, hair a little damp at the nape, lanyard tangled around his fingers. There’s a kind of eagerness to him, the kind he used to have before kart races, before it all got louder.

You follow him without speaking.

The room he leads you to is cooler, quieter. A storage space, maybe, or a converted engineering nook—lined with crates and spare parts, the stale tang of tyre rubber hanging faintly in the air. And there, propped on a cloth-draped workbench, is the helmet.

You pause.

It’s not what you expected. Not flashy. Not loud. It’s soft. White matte base with brushed, almost watercolour swathes of indigo and lavender bleeding toward the edges, like dusk spilling into night. On the side, near the visor hinge, is a single motif: a swallow in flight.

“It’s not finished,” Alex says quickly, rubbing the back of his neck. “Still needs clear coat. But... yeah.”

You take a step closer. Fingers don’t touch, but hover. The paint looks hand-done. Imperfect. Beautiful.

“Swallows are your favourite, right?” he adds. “You said once they’re always coming home.”

“Yeah. That was years ago.”

“I remember.”

You look at him then. Really look. He’s leaning against the wall, watching you with the kind of expression that unravels things. Eyes searching. Mouth set.

“It’s beautiful,” you say, and you mean it. Then, quieter: “Why me?”

He shrugs, like it should be obvious. “Homecoming,” he answers, plain and simple and absolutely gut-wrenching. 

There’s a silence after that. Not awkward. Just wide. You think of the years, the way he always made space beside him without asking if you wanted to stay. You think of how easily you did.

Your throat feels dry. “You know,” you say slowly, because the thought has been on your mind since this morning, “he thinks I’m just your friend. Carlos.”

Alex winces. Fucking winces. He glances away, jaw ticking a bit, like you’re not about to head back to the same hotel room later and fuck in the shower.

A beat. Alex doesn’t say anything to your accusation.

You don’t ask him to. You only step closer, the helmet between you like a talisman. “Thank you,” you say, and this time, you do touch the helmet—just briefly, your fingers grazing the painted sky.

He watches you do it. And then, quietly, almost laughing to himself, he says, “Figured if I crashed, at least it’d be wearing something that reminds me of you.”

You shake your head. But you’re smiling, and it hurts. “Idiot,” you chide.

He grins. “Your idiot.”

You don’t answer. Not because it’s untrue, but because it’s too close to what you want—and too far from what you have.

Alex doesn’t crash.

He finishes P9.

A number that used to feel like clawing victory. Like a miracle wrung from a midfield car held together by tape and tenacity. And now—it just feels steady. Not easy, but earned. There’s something clean in the way he crossed the finish line today, a quiet defiance. The kind of performance that leaves no bruises, only breathlessness.

You watch from the back of the garage, arms crossed tight against your chest. Headphones clamped over your ears. The final laps passed like a dream.  One where the world narrows to telemetry and engine whine, the flicker of sector times on a screen. When the checkered flag waved, your lungs finally remembered how to breathe.

Now, the paddock is in chaos. Post-race buzz. Cameras flashing like static. Someone’s shouting in Italian. Mechanics high-five. There’s champagne somewhere, but you can’t see it. Just the press of bodies and the smear of victory across the asphalt.

And then he’s there.

Helmet off, hair damp with sweat, eyes scanning until they find you. He doesn’t wait for an opening. Doesn’t care about the line of journalists trailing behind him or the media handler trying to tug him toward the pen. He walks straight to you, cutting through everything.

You take a step back. Instinct, maybe. Habit.

He pulls you in anyway.

The cameras catch it. You know they do. The embrace, the way his arms wrap around your shoulders like they belong there. You stiffen, palms flat against his chest. You’ve been labeled Alex’s childhood best friend, have been subject to speculation of various rabid fans and gossip sites. 

“Alex,” you hiss, low. “People are—”

“Let them,” he says.

His voice is hoarse from radio calls and engine growl, but it’s soft now. Just for you.

You shake your head, and your hands find the hem of his fireproofs, fingers curling there like they might ground you. “You’re ridiculous,” you grumble. 

“P9,” he says, like it explains everything.

Maybe it does, because he’s beaming. Not with the sharp joy of a podium or the reckless rush of a win, but something gentler. Like he’s proud. Like he’s content. Like you’re a part of it, maybe, and that’s why he’s with you instead of everybody else. 

The cameras flash again. Somewhere, someone’s calling his name.

In this moment, though, it’s just you and him. You let your head fall against his shoulder, just for a second. He smells like sweat and rubber and the faint sweetness of whatever hydration drink he refuses to stop using.

“I’m happy for you,” you say.

His hand curls at the back of your neck. “Come with me?”

You want to ask where, but the question feels too fragile. Too close to breaking something.

So you nod.

And when he takes your hand, you let him.

He leads you down the corridor with his fingers wrapped around your wrist, still sticky from the gloves, still trembling with leftover adrenaline. The world outside—flashing bulbs, echoing interviews, the scream of celebration—falls away, muffled by white walls and the hush of engineered insulation.

His driver room is barely bigger than a closet. Spare. A bench, a chair, his race suit unzipped and hanging like shed skin. There’s a bottle of water half-finished on the counter. A towel draped over the back of a folding chair. Everything stripped to function.

But when he turns to face you, the room holds its breath. What’s about to happen is far from functional. 

His mouth is on yours before you can speak. Before you can ask what the hell any of it means. This morning, the helmet, the P9, the arms around you in front of half the paddock. His hands frame your jaw, a little too firm, a little too desperate. You taste the salt of him, the heat, the care.

He kisses like he’s still racing. Like the throttle’s still open and the finish line is somewhere in the shape of your mouth.

You melt. Of course you do.

Because you remember every version of him—mud-caked knees and scraped palms from karting days, late-night phone calls from airport lounges, sleepy secrets across hotel pillows—and this is all of them, distilled. This is every inch of history pressed into your spine as he backs you into the wall and exhales against your neck.

You want to say his name. You want to ask. What are we now? What does any of it mean? Do I get to keep you, or just these seconds?

But your hands slide beneath the hem of his fireproofs, and your fingers learn again the familiar slope of his waist, and he breathes your name like an answer. “My favorite part,” he murmurs absentmindedly into the crook of your neck. “This ‘s my favorite part.” 

And it should be enough.

It isn’t. 

Regardless, you let him kiss you again. You let him take you, hand over your mouth to keep your sounds muffled. You let him finish, let him bring you to that same peak, let him piece you back together after taking you apart. 

Your shirt ends up inside out.

Alex points it out between fits of laughter, eyes crinkled, bare feet padding across the linoleum floor as he tosses you your jacket. He’s flushed from the high of it all. He buttons the top of his race suit with fumbling fingers, grinning like he hasn’t done that exact thing a hundred times before.

“You look like you’ve been caught in a wind tunnel,” he says, smoothing your hair with both hands, thumbs pressing briefly at your temples. “A cute one, though.”

You try to smile. You do. But there’s a hollowness under your ribs, something heavy and low and familiar. Like something’s rotting sweet in your chest. He doesn’t see it.

He’s still beaming, tugging at a wrinkle in your sleeve. “There. Perfect.”

And you almost say it then. Almost let the words fall out: What are we doing? 

I can’t keep doing this, Alex. 

But he looks so happy. So golden in the overhead light, still caught in the orbit of something good. Something that feels like hope. You can’t ruin it. Not yet.

So you reach for his hand. His fingers slot through yours like habit, like home.

You nod toward the door. “They’re probably wondering where you are.”

He leans in, presses a kiss to your cheek. “They can wait.”

You let out a sound that might be a laugh. Might be a sob, if it tipped the wrong way.

I’ll tell you next time, you think, as you follow him back into the noise.

Next time, when he’s not smiling like that.

Next time, when it won’t feel like stealing joy just to be honest.

Next time.

Just—

Not now.

The timing is never right.

Saudi Arabia. P9 again.

He dances you around the hotel room with his hands still smelling faintly of fuel and rubber, laughing into the inside of your thigh as if nothing else exists. His joy is unfiltered, real. You think, maybe, you’ll tell him then.

But then he kisses you like you’re part of the celebration, like you’re champagne on his lips, and you can’t find the words in your mouth. Not when his hands know every part of you better than your voice knows how to form the truth.

In Miami, it’s P5.

He lifts you off your feet in the hallway outside his suite, spinning you once like a man who’s just won something permanent. He smells like the sun, his cheeks pink from the heat. “Did you see?” he asks, breathless, giddy. “Did you see how I held off Antonelli?”

“Of course I did,” you say, and you kiss him because it’s easier than telling him what you really mean. Because it would be cruel to take this moment away from him.

Italy is the same. Another P5.

Another night in a borrowed room, you pressed against the cool tile of a motorhome bathroom while he moans your name like it’s the only thing that exists beneath his ribs.

And still, you don’t speak.

You let him take. Let him thread his fingers through your hair and guide your mouth to his. Let him find comfort in your skin, in the shape of you, in the softness that greets him after every race. It feels like penance. Like proof that this is the version of you he wants, so long as it stays unspoken.

Each night, you lie awake beside him, the sheets tangled at your ankles, sweat cooling on your bare shoulders. You study the slope of his nose, the twitch in his fingers as he dreams.

You try to remember the sound of your own voice before it forgot how to say no.

In Miami, after the noise, after the warmth, after the sex that feels too much like lovemaking to just be chalked up to something primal—he falls asleep with his head on your chest. One arm draped across your ribs like a promise he never made. You don’t move. You barely breathe. The room hums with the air conditioner and your unspoken ache. 

You stare at the ceiling and try not to count how many ways you’ve chosen him over yourself.

You lose count before morning.

By the time Monaco comes around, you fake a migraine. A vague stomach ache. Something that sounds gentle enough to pass as believable, but just real enough to keep Alex from pressing.

He calls you from his hotel balcony, sun caught in the lighter parts of his hair. He frowns at the screen, concerned. Or at least something close to it.

“You sure you’ll be okay?” he asks. “Want me to send anything?”

You shake your head. Smile faintly, let your voice come out soft, strained. “I’ll be fine. Just need to sleep it off.”

He nods. Looks off-screen for a moment, distracted by something—someone. Then back to you. “Rest, yeah? I’ll call you again later.”

“Yeah,” you say. “Good luck.”

He hangs up. You stare at the empty screen until it darkens and your reflection blinks back at you. He doesn’t call, and you don’t fault him for it. 

The article finds you by accident.

One of those sidebars that pop up when you’re checking the weather. You almost scroll past it, until the name catches your eye, buried in the speculation. A tabloid photo, bright and cruel: Alex on a golf course, sunglasses perched low, grinning across the green at a pretty girl whose name is Lily and whose swing is better than yours. Professional, the article notes. 

They look good together.

You tap the images, one by one, like touching them might change what they show. In the last one, he’s laughing. Head thrown back. Free. He laughs like that, too, when you’re showering after sex or trading stories over dinners. Often in private, never anywhere someone else can see. 

You stare at that one photo until your throat closes. Until you can no longer remember what it felt like to be looked at that way.

Your mother finds you like that. Curled on the couch with your knees to your chest, phone abandoned on the floor, eyes wide and glassy.

She doesn’t ask what happened. Just sits beside you, wraps an arm around your back, tucks your head beneath her chin like she used to when you were small. “I don’t know how we got here,” you whisper.

“I think you do,” she murmurs. Her hand strokes your arm, slow, steady. “You just didn’t want to admit it.”

You nod, brokenly.

“I wanted to be enough,” you say.

“I know,” she says. 

You cry until you have no more tears. Until your breath evens out against her shoulder. Until the ache becomes a dull, familiar thing.

She holds you through it all. By the time she’s getting up to make you one of your comfort meals, you already know what you have to do. 

You stop answering.

Not suddenly. Not all at once. Just the way a tide recedes—softly, so softly, you wonder if he even notices at first. He texts the morning after the Monaco GP. 

AAA [8:20 AM]: Morning. How’re you feeling now? You missed the best post-race sushi of my life.

You don’t reply. Not because you want to hurt him, but because you don’t trust what you might say if you open the door even a crack. Later, another text:

AAA [5:39 PM]: Mum says hi, by the way. I told her you were under the weather. She’s making soup just in case, and it should be sent over. 

You see it. You say nothing.

Spain comes. He finishes P10.

Barely. You watch from a stream muted low, the sound drowned beneath your own breathing. He looks tired. He still smiles into the cameras. And when he texts—probably stolen in between media obligations—it feels a lot like a man who’s bargaining. 

AAA [4:43 PM]: You watching? Hope you’re proud. Even if it’s just one point.

He calls the same night. You let it ring.

Canada is worse. Outside the points.

His face is closed off in the post-race interviews. The text comes later. 

AAA [11:10 PM]: Did I do something wrong?

Then:

AAA [11:53 PM]: I miss you.

At three in the morning, a voicemail. His voice is low, frayed at the edges.

“Hey. I know you’re probably busy. Or just… done. I don’t know. You never said. But I—fuck, I don’t know. You usually tell me when you’re busy. If this is about—that stupid tabloid, or whatever? It was just a golfing lesson. Anyway. You have no reason to be… jealous. Or whatever. Just… call me, okay? Please.”

You don’t.

Austria. He doesn’t even start. DNS.

Technical issue, they say. The look on his face when he climbs out of the car—grief and rage and something dangerously close to despair—it unspools you.

Another voicemail, sent somewhere between him disappearing after media interviews and showing back up in front of the journalists with a tight-lipped grin.

“You’re avoiding me. I know you are. You didn’t even tell my mum you were alright, and she’s been worried sick. I had my dad check if your family was okay and even he said you’ve gone quiet. What’s going on? Just tell me.” A pause. Then, wretched, almost like a sigh of defeat: “You don’t get to ghost me. Not after everything. Not you.” 

You sit in the dark with the phone pressed to your chest like it might warm the place where he used to live inside you.

You still don’t call.

There are some things you can’t avoid, though. Silverstone comes like a tide.

The roads fill with flags and Ferris wheels and cardboard cutouts. Your village pub sets out Union Jack bunting again. Your father makes some dry comment about the national holiday Formula One has become. And you know. You know you can't hide anymore.

You get the first text Monday morning:

AAA [1:43 PM]: I’m flying in. Can we talk?

You don’t answer. You clean the kitchen instead. Scrub the countertops, wipe down the windows. As if clean glass could clarify anything at all. He doubles down. 

AAA [5:28 PM]: I’ll come to yours. Just want to see you. I’ll bring the bad flowers from Tesco, if that helps.

A voicemail, later that evening, tentative and thinly veiled: “Hey. I know it’s been a while. You’re probably still mad. Or sad. Or both. I don’t know. I just—I’ll be there tomorrow. Even if it’s just to see you across the street. Even that would be better than this.”

True to his word, by tomorrow afternoon, there’s a knock at the front door. Not loud. Just three gentle raps, like he’s afraid your mother might answer.

You open it anyway.

He’s there, holding a slightly crumpled bouquet of peonies and eucalyptus from the supermarket down the lane. His hair’s damp with mist, lashes clumped. He looks like someone who hasn’t slept right in weeks.

You don’t speak.

He clears his throat. “They were out of sunflowers.”

You step aside wordlessly.

He walks in like a memory. Like he’s been here a thousand times. Shoes off by the mat, flowers passed into your hand, eyes scanning the room like he expects to see a version of himself still here. The silence is soft, but full. You boil water out of habit. He lingers by the doorway, unsure.

“You’re not going to yell at me?” he asks, almost sarcastic. 

You shrug, trying to be noncommittal about it all. “What would be the point?”

He swallows. His jaw twitches. You leave the tea half-made, walk upstairs. You don’t say anything. Just know—somehow—that he’ll follow.

And he does.

Up the stairs. Down the hall. Into your room that still smells like dust and the lavender you leave under your pillow. He stands in the doorway, taking in the fact that the air is thick with expectation.

“Are you going to tell me the truth now?” he asks.

You say nothing, sitting on the edge of the bed. You don’t know if he wants to hear it, or if he only wants what he can still take.

And so you don’t answer his question. Not directly. Instead, you ask, “How was Spain?”

Alex hesitates, eyes narrowing slightly. “Hot. P10.”

You nod, like that’s all there is to say. “And Canada?”

He shifts, arms folding. “Slippery. Out of the points.”

“Austria?”

“DNS.”

You offer a small sound of sympathy, but it’s hollow, transparent. A stall tactic. He sees it. He knows you. Knows you’ve watched all the races you’re asking about, knows you’re trying to delay the same way you dragged out this arrangement for much longer than necessary. 

He steps forward, voice low but strained. “Are we going to keep talking about races? Or are you ever going to get to the point?”

Again, you don’t answer. You get to your feet. You cross the room to where he is.

You kiss him.

It’s not soft. Not a reunion. It’s blunt, desperate, pleading. A distraction dressed in affection. And for a moment—just a moment—he kisses you back like he needs it to survive. Like this is what’s been missing from his string of ill-fated races. His hands slide into your hair, his body molding against yours as if it never learned to be apart.

Your fingers find the hem of his shirt. You tug.

He pulls away abruptly.

“Wait.”

You blink, breath catching. “What?”

He doesn’t step back, but he doesn’t come closer either. His hands hover near your arms, not quite touching. “I still want to know,” he manages. “I deserve to know.”

“Alex…”

He shakes his head, slow and quiet. “You disappeared. I thought you were sick. Hurt. I thought I did something wrong. And now you want to pick up where we left off like it never happened?”

You stare at him. He’s flushed. Hair mussed from your hands. Lips swollen. Still panting a little from the heat of the kiss.

But his eyes are hurt. 

You stand there, inches apart, in the middle of your childhood bedroom. The silence is deafening. You’re both breathing like you’ve run a marathon, like you’re on the edge of something neither of you can name.

You’re still catching your breath when the words crawl out of your throat.

“I love you.”

Alex freezes. Like the words are a crash, not a confession. Like they’ve splintered the floor beneath him. He doesn’t answer right away. Just looks at you—gaze gentle, shoulders locked—like you’re something he almost recognizes but can’t quite name. Then, quietly, “I love you too.”

You close your eyes. That should be enough. It should be everything.

But it isn’t. “Not like that, Alex,” you sigh. 

His brow furrows.

You try again. “Not like… what you mean. Not in the way you mean it.”

Silence. The kind that leaves room for heartbreak.

He draws back a step. “What do you mean?”

You laugh. Not because it’s funny, but because it’s helpless. “I mean I’ve been in love with you since before all this.” You gesture vaguely, between the two of you, between what the kids nowadays call a situationship. Personally, you call it an undoing. An unraveling. 

His mouth opens, but no sound comes out. He looks gutted not what he finally understands what you’re getting at, now that you’ve used the word in love. 

“How long?” he asks, and his voice is barely more than breath.

You look at him. “Years,” you say, thinking back to the boy in the kart, the teenager next door, the man in front of you now. You’ve loved all of them. Your voice cracks as you repeat, “Years, Alex.”

He crumples under the weight of your words. At the fact he’d asked, in the first place, and you spent the past three years of your life letting all of it wash over you. 

“God,” he mutters. “God, I’m so sorry. I didn’t know. I—fuck. I thought you were okay with it. I thought we were okay.”

“I know,” you say, voice barely above a whisper. “I let you think that. I let myself think that.”

He presses his palms into his eyes like he can scrub the guilt away. “You should’ve told me.”

You tilt your head. “Would it have changed anything?”

Alex looks at you, helpless. Desperate. “I don’t know,” he says, sounding almost panicked. He knows it’s not the right answer, not the answer that you want. 

You step toward him. You touch his hand, gently. “It’s okay,” you manage, even though it’s not. “Really, Alex, it’s alright.” 

Somehow, you manage to tell him. Truths so tender and close to the heart that to relay them verbatim would be a crime.

You tell Alex you’re grateful to have had him, even if it were just like this. Even if it was just bits and pieces. Even if it was casual. 

He doesn’t answer, just looks at you like he’s trying to piece it all together. The silence stretches again. His eyes flick to the bed, then to the door. He doesn’t move. He looks like he doesn’t know whether to hold you or walk away.

Alex leaves anyway.

He says he’s sorry, eyes flicking between your face and the floor like he can’t quite decide where the damage is worse. You repeat that it’s okay, which is the kindest lie you know how to give. And then he’s gone—hood up, shoulders shaking, not looking back.

You don’t watch him leave. You sit on the edge of the bed with your hands in your lap, palms pressed together like prayer and surrender. 

It should’ve been a clean break.

Three years of blurred lines and soft touches that always stopped just short of real. He’d kiss you like it mattered, then laugh about it an hour later. You let him. Again and again. You think that’s the end of it. You try to believe it is. It’s easier to hate an absence when it’s permanent.

But the day before the race, your phone rings. His name lights up the screen like a wound reopening.

You let it go once. Twice. You’re letting him back out, but he doesn’t buck. The third time the phone rings, you answer.

“Hey,” he says, uncharacteristically shy. “I’ve got a paddock pass with your name on it.”

You pause. Not out of surprise, but because you’re waiting to feel something. You don’t.

“Silverstone,” he adds, as if you could forget.

You picture the pass in his hand—laminated, official, hollow. A gesture more ceremonial than sincere. “I can’t go,” you say evenly.

A beat.

“You busy?”

“No.”

Another pause. This one longer. Thicker.

“Okay,” he says. But he doesn’t hang up.

You hear the static of his breath on the line. The shuffle of something—maybe his hand in his hair, maybe guilt settling in his bones.

“Alex.”

“Yeah?”

“You don’t have to do this.”

“I’m not doing anything.” 

You’re not sure if you should laugh or cry at this performance of care, offered like a consolation prize. This is probably an olive branch, but you know you still need some time. You need to be furious. You need to be hurt. You need to hate him and what he’s made of you before you can even consider loving him again. 

“I should go,” you say.

He doesn’t argue. Just murmurs, “Yeah. Okay.”

But he lingers. You almost say something. Almost tell him not to call again unless it means something. Unless he means it. 

You don’t. You just let him sit there in the quiet with you, not speaking, not hanging up.

And then finally—too late, too long—he does.

You end up seeing it on the news.

P4 at Silverstone.

Just short of champagne and cameras, but still something to be proud of. Still something you would’ve teased him about. You might have told him he was allergic to podiums, just to watch him roll his eyes and smirk like you’d said something stupid but sweet. And maybe he’d kiss you, again, in his driver room, waxing British slang to tease you, all the while driving you crazy with the way he can grope and squeeze. 

You almost text him. A good job. A thumbs up emoji. A dot, even. Something weightless. Something he could pretend didn’t matter if it made things worse.

You hold back. 

You brush your teeth instead. Crawl into bed. Turn off the lamp. The room folds in around you like silence is a kind of blanket. You almost get away with sleeping until your phone rings.

You don’t even have to check the caller ID.

“Hello?”

It’s loud on the other end. Laughter, glass clinking, music with too much bass. “You didn’t watch,” he slurs, like that’s just hitting him now.

“I told you I couldn’t.”

“You didn’t say why.”

You sigh. “Did I need to?”

He goes quiet, but the noise behind him doesn’t. It presses in, distorted and joyless. Celebration without clarity. Then, softer, garbled: “You’re the post-race celebration I miss the most.”

You sit up. “Alex—”

But he’s crying now. Not loudly. Not theatrically. Just little, broken sounds, like something leaking out of him slow and unwilling. “It didn’t feel as good,” he sobs. “Didn’t feel as good to win—without you there.” 

You close your eyes and rest your forehead against one hand. “I’ll come get you,” you say.

He sniffles. “You don’t have to.”

You stand. Already pulling on jeans. Grabbing your keys. Not sure of anything but this: he can’t stay lost like this, not tonight.

“I know,” you say, and then you’re hanging up to book yourself a proper cab at two in the goddamn morning. 

The speakeasy isn’t marked, not really. Just a nondescript door off a narrow alley, guarded by a bored-looking man with an earpiece and a clipboard. But when you give your name, his expression changes. Softens.

“He’s in the back,” the man says solemnly, nodding you through.

Inside, the music is velvet-loud, low, and pulsing. Everything glows amber, lights like melted gold dripping down the walls. People in team polos and sharp jackets toast to something that sounds like victory, even if it’s just the illusion of it.

They all know who you are.

Someone from comms gives you a tight smile and gestures toward the hallway behind the bar. “In there,” she says, like she doesn’t need to explain further. Like you’re the inevitable ending to his night.

You find Alex hunched over a sink in the men's bathroom, one hand braced on the cold porcelain, the other trembling around the rim like even that is too much to hold. He doesn’t hear you come in. Or maybe he does, but pretends not to.

“Jesus, Alex,” you say, nose scrunching up with distaste.

He lifts his head, barely. His face is pale, lips chapped, eyes rimmed red. Not from the alcohol, but from whatever came after.

“You came,” he breathes, like it’s a miracle. Like he’s seeing something holy.

You step forward and crouch beside him, grabbing paper towels, wetting one with cold water. “Of course I came.”

He laughs, ragged and too loud in the tiled echo. “Didn’t think you would. Thought I fucked it.”

“You did,” you say, matter-of-fact, blotting sweat from his forehead. “You absolutely did.”

He closes his eyes. “Then why’re you here?”

You hesitate. Not because you don’t know the answer. Because you do. And it’s the kind that costs you something every time you say it out loud.

“Because you called.”

He leans into your touch like it’s a lifeline. “You always come when I call.”

You help him sit back, guide him to the floor with his back against the wall. The tiles are cold. He shivers.

“Yeah,” you murmur. “That’s kind of the problem.”

Alex rests his head on your shoulder, the weight of him more familiar than foreign. “I didn’t know who else to call,” he whimpers.

You exhale, slow. “That’s not true. You just didn’t want anyone else.”

He nods, eyes fluttering closed. He’s too out of it to try and deny the fact. “I’m sorry,” he whispers, and you can tell by the quiver in his voice that he means it. 

You brush your fingers through his hair once, twice. You let the silence speak for you, and then you help him up. “Let’s get you home,” you say. 

The night air cuts through the alcohol-stained warmth of the bar as you step outside, Alex’s weight slung over your shoulder. He’s steadier now, upright at least, but still leaning into you like gravity is playing favorites.

You settle on the curb, one arm braced around his waist. The air smells like rain on asphalt, smoke, and the faint trace of spilled gin. Somewhere in the distance, someone laughs too loud. London doesn’t sleep for long.

You’re waiting for a cab when Carlos finds you.

He approaches quietly, hands shoved into the pockets of a fitted jacket, eyes scanning Alex the way someone might glance at a closed book. Worn, familiar, unreadable. “He okay?” Alex’s co-driver asks. 

You nod. “Drunk. Sick. Stubborn,” you answer, not bothering to play nice when Alex is dead on his feet and half-asleep already. 

Carlos huffs a small laugh. “Sounds about right.”

There’s a beat of silence before he adds, “You’re the best friend.”

It still stings, still pricks. You keep your expression perfectly controlled as you give a small sound of affirmation, arms still focused on holding Alex upright. 

“Mm.” Carlos watches you for a second too long. “Doesn’t feel like that’s the whole story.”

“What does it feel like, then?”

Carlos shifts his weight. Looks away, then back. He glances at Alex to check if the man is listening, and then, Carlos confides as if it’s a secret: “It’s like you are his entire heart, and he’s just too scared to admit it.”

The words land like a bird flapping its wings across the Atlantic. No thunder, no accusation. Just something still and sudden.

You almost want to ask him to repeat it, to explain—but the cab pulls up before you can decide whether to believe him.

You help Alex into the back seat. He slumps immediately against you, arms curling around your middle without thought, face buried in your shoulder. His breath is warm and even, his fingers wound tight into your shirt like muscle memory.

You rest your cheek on the top of his head.

The cab pulls away from the curb. Carlos’s words echo, sage and unfinished. You don’t know what to do with them yet. So for now, you let Alex hold you.

You don’t think about it too hard. Just tell the cab driver your address, press your fingers against your temple, and watch the city blur by. Alex stirs once or twice, murmurs something incoherent against your collarbone, but otherwise stays folded into you.

By the time you reach your house, it’s well past four. You fumble with the keys. He sways a little when you guide him inside.

You don’t take him to your bed.

It feels too loaded, too intimate in the wrong kind of way. Instead, you settle him on the couch, pull a blanket from a nearby cabinet, and start toward the kitchen to get him some water. Before you can take more than a few steps, he reaches out.

“Don’t go yet,” he says, voice hoarse.

You turn back. “I’m just getting you a glass.”

He tugs gently on your hand. Not enough to stop you, just enough to anchor you. You kneel beside the couch. He’s watching you, eyes glassy but sharp in the ways that count.

“I want to kiss you so badly,” he says.

Here’s the terrible, terrible thing: You wouldn’t mind. You miss it sorely. The kisses, the touch. You’re convinced you’ll be dreadfully happy with the scraps of it all, but you figure the two of you have the right to make informed decisions. “You’re drunk,” you point out. 

“I know.” Alex exhales. “I won’t kiss you. Not tonight. Want the next one to be right.”

Your throat tightens. “You think there’s going to be a next one?”

His smile is impossibly sad. “Hope so.”

And then—because he’s Alex, and because this is how he breaks you—he leans forward and presses a kiss to your cheek. Then another, just beneath your eye. Then one at the edge of your brow, your temple, the tip of your nose. All of them clumsy and warm and deliberate. None of them where you want them most.

You don’t stop him. You don’t move. There’s too much in your chest—years of it—and not enough space to lay it all down.

When he finally sinks back into the couch, eyes fluttering shut again, his fingers remain curled around your wrist. Loose. Trusting.

You don’t move for a long time. 

The next morning, Alex is gone without so much as a goodbye. You half-expected it. Still, the hollow space where his body had been feels louder than anything else in the room.

No note. No message. No follow-up call.

You wait. A day. Then two.

By the third, you stop checking your phone so often.

When the knock comes, it’s gentle enough to be mistaken for wind. You almost don’t answer it. There’s no one at the door when you open it. Just a small brown paper bag, plain and unassuming, sitting patiently on the welcome mat.

You bring it inside, hands careful. There’s something fragile about it that you can’t quite name. Inside: a bundle of crocheted sunflowers, yellow and gold and clumsily perfect, like someone tried very hard to make them right even with hands that don’t quite know how.

Beneath them, a makeshift paddock pass—laminated, hole-punched, strung with navy-blue lanyard cord. Your name is written in all caps. There’s a photo of you from when you were kids. Grinning, windblown, your arm slung casually over Alex’s shoulder.

Underneath the photo, in bold handwriting: PARTNER OF ALEX ALBON.

The letter is tucked in a simple envelope, sealed with a strip of duct tape.

You open it with shaking hands.

I’m not expecting anything from you right now, his scratchy script leads with.

I get it. I know I’ve made this messy. I know I said too much too late. I still wanted you to have this, because you’ve always belonged next to me on race day. Not just as my best friend. Not just as something halfway. But for real. Something proper.

That’s why I made you this paddock pass. It’s stupid and I probably got the fonts all wrong. You don’t have to use it. If you ever want to, though, it’s yours. I don’t think anybody else is ever going to have that title. 

Also: the sunflowers. They’re not real, obviously. I wish I could give you fresh ones every time I leave, but I’m not good at that kind of thing. And they run out so often. So I made these. Or tried to. They took forever. I watched so many YouTube videos. I pricked my fingers like five times. Hope that counts for something.

I’ll let you have your space now.

I just want you to know that—given the chance, I want to love you like I mean it. 

Always and forever, Your Alexander Albon Ansusinha

The checkered flag waves.

P4.

Not a podium, but it feels like one.

Alex exhales, lungs finally catching up to the rest of him, the engine cutting to silence beneath him. His radio crackles with static and shouts, voices overlapping in celebration. The team is ecstatic. He lets out a whoop, punching the air from the cockpit, heart rattling against his ribs like it wants to break out and sprint down the pit lane.

“Brilliant job, Alex. Another P4. You nailed Sector 3.”

He laughs, breathless. “That was insane. The car felt so good. Thank you, everyone. Honestly. Thank you. Thank you.”

His gloves are damp with sweat. The world outside the cockpit is heatwaves and motion, but inside his helmet, he’s grinning so hard his face aches.

And then—a new voice cuts through the radio.

“Nice work, Albono. Kinda makes me want to crochet you a trophy.”

Everything inside him stills. 

The voice is familiar, unmistakable. Part comfort, part ache.

It’s a record scratch, a public declaration, everything he’s been dreaming of for the past couple of months. Voice shaking with unrestrained joy, Alex only manages a disbelieving, “Is that—?”

There’s laughter on the other end, muffled and alive. The team doesn’t answer. They don’t have to.

Alex is yelling again, louder than before. Whooping into the mic, a sound that isn’t filtered through performance or professionalism. A sound from the core of him. There’s something raw in the chant of yes, yes, yes, something uncontained. 

The P4 doesn’t matter anymore. Nothing does. Just that voice, soft and close and impossibly real.

You’re laughing, too, as you step back from the engineer’s radio rig, nearly breathless yourself. Your palms are still slightly damp with nerves, your chest still tight with something like disbelief. 

The Williams team surrounds you in a bubble of warmth—claps on the back, someone handing you a bottle of water with a grin, another looping you into a half-hug. “Told you he’d freak,” someone says.

You nod, cheeks aching from the smile that just won’t leave. Around your neck, your proper paddock pass swings with each breath. It’s glossy, official. But next to it hangs another—rougher, laminated at home, edges slightly frayed. The homemade one Alex had sent you months ago. The one that says PARTNER OF ALEX ALBON.

You touch it lightly, fingers brushing over the faded corner. It's worn, like something loved too hard.

You hadn’t been sure. You’d hesitated at the airport. Almost turned around at the gate. But the truth is: you missed him. And you were tired of pretending otherwise.

The garage is alive now—busy with celebration and noise. Mechanics moving in sync, voices rising in overlapping bursts, the scent of warm carbon, oil, and sweat curling into the air. The low whir of cooling fans. The scrape of tires on concrete.

You hear the car before you see it, the soft growl of the engine rolling into the lane. The screech of tires settling into stillness.

Alex climbs out.

Helmet off. Suit unzipped halfway, sweat darkening the collar. His hair is plastered to his forehead. His hands are trembling, still wired with adrenaline and something else—something unspoken and urgent. 

He tosses his gloves toward someone without looking.

Then he turns.

And he sees you.

For the longest time, you had doubted this would mean something. You worried that you’d waited too long. That all your silence had turned into something irreversible. That the distance you asked for had hardened into fact.

Time doesn’t stop. It just slows, enough for you to catch the look on his face. The way his shoulders drop, the way his mouth forms your name like it’s the only thing that makes any sense.

You don’t move.

You don’t have to.

Alex is already running right back to you. ⛐

---

i opened tumblr.com again

i am alive

bye bye

I HATE THE PANTHERS ‼️

fun fact for the lb, i live in florida. there will be more fucking annoying people in THESE FUCK ASS wife beater jerseys that the sell. i can’t i can’t.

---

leave you behind J.B.

pairing: bucky barnes x reader

timeline: civil war (bucharest romania)

wc: 1.1k

warnings: use of 'malyshka.' not proofread

a/n: really wanted something with bucky's dog tags but didn't have any ideas so wrote this... not as fluffy as the ideas in my head...

romania is beautiful. you spent a year in constanta, gazing out to the black sea and discovering how to live life after fleeing america, tired of the old life you left behind. you migrated inland, settling in bucharest like millions of others in the city. 

you spent many nights learning the city, the language, and the people in it. it was how you met bucky three months ago. 

“te-ai pierdut?”

bluish steel eyes blink back at you, no response. 

you stare back at him, thinking. you try again, switching tongues because your gut tells you that he’s not from around here. “are you lost?”

a small grunt precedes his first word to you. “market.”

you nod, motioning for him to follow you out of the side street.

he follows in step quietly and almost robotically for three blocks until you reach the farmers market. it’s midday and bustling, some trying for a bargain and other window shopping the open tents. 

you let him pass you, watching as he makes his way to a fresh fruit stand. he pauses and stares at the produce and the person running the booth. 

you step forward. “do you need help? i can translate if-”

your words are cut short as the man speaks fluently to the vendor, inquiring about the various fruits. as he finishes picking and paying, you stand in slight shock a few steps behind him. he turns around, shocked to see you waited around for him. he doesn’t smile at you, but the look in his eyes tells you that he wants to. but he doesn’t.

“i’m sorry.” you say at last. “i wouldn’t have bothered you if i had known you didn’t need help.”

the man shakes his head, his long brown hair swaying as he does so. you glance to the metal laying against his chest, not quite reading the name engraved into it. 

“i’m bucky.” he offers a gloved hand. you look at it before shaking it, smiling as you introduce yourself.

you spent the rest of the day looking at the vendors together, getting lunch and talking in the park until the cold came with nightfall.

three months later, you’re back at the same farmers market, grocery shopping with the same man. you practically live together, surviving off the pay you get from your part time job and the money bucky earns on random side quests. 

it’s not like you don’t know him – you just don’t know what he’s done, how he got to romania, why he stayed. it’ll come with time, is what you always told yourself, especially when you wanted to ask bucky to be yours officially. the term ‘boyfriend’ scares him, and you’re not sure if either of you are ready for that level of commitment. 

“meet back at the dairy shop?” you let of his hand, ready to part into the sea of shops.

his smile is soft as he nods, kissing your hand as he releases it. you smile as you walk the other direction, weaving through the crowd to shop. 

you pass a nearby bar, scanning the area through the propped door. glancing up, the news outlet displayed on the television catches your attention and you stop in place, reading the headlines. images flash across the screen, and a magnified picture of bucky pops up. the color drains from your face as you finish reading the headlines. your feet move faster than your mind, footsteps picking up as you race to find bucky in the field of people.

you weave again, almost slamming your bag into a woman as you near the next corner of the market. 

“bucky!” you call. his back is turned to you but he’s barely 20 feet from you. the sea of people doesn’t part for you and you’re forced to wait for the people to slowly depart. 

he turns around just as you reach him, his gloved hands holding a newspaper with his face on the front of it. 

“what’s happening?” tears well in your eyes as you reach for his hands. “you couldn’t have done those things. you were with me.”

he doesn’t respond but he faintly nods. his jaw clicks and he grabs your hands, dragging you away from the market and the sea of people in it. “i need to leave.”

“leave?” you stumble after him, barely able to keep up as he pulls you along. “leave where? what about me? bucky, i’m scared.”

he pulls you into an alley, bringing your hands to his chest and steadying you. “i know, malyshka. i’m-” his eyes droop in disappointment. “i’m sorry. i never should’ve let you get this close. i- i shouldn’t have risked getting you involved.”

“involved?” your brows furrow. “involved in what?” you drop your bag on the asphalt. 

“me.” his eyes search yours as you try to understand what he means. “i’m dangerous, malyshka.”

“not to me.” you reach for that familiar metal hanging around his neck, forehead resting against his. “i’ve never felt more safe than with you.”

as you exhale shakily, your breath fans his face and he glances to your lips before pulling you in a deep kiss, hands cupping your head gently. 

“you need to leave.”

“what?!” the shock on your face almost breaks him. you step back in shock. bucky picks up your bag, pulling it to your arm. 

he goes through his pockets, giving you what he doesn’t need and closing your bag securely. 

“what? bucky, go where? why can’t i go with you? What’s-”

both his hands hold your face, now ungloved. the sight of the metal plates in public has you quiet. he never takes his gloves off in public, never anywhere other than the safety of your apartment. 

“y/n, i need you to focus.” he carefully pulls off his dog tags, pulling them over your head until the metal tabs rest on your chest now. “keep these safe for me, okay?”

you’re crying now. you can barely see him through wet eyes. 

you shake your head. “i don’t want you to go.” you sob. “i love you.”

the confession has bucky pausing, the pads of his thumb wipe away your fallen tears. his lips meet your forehead in a calming kiss. 

“i know, malyshka. i… i love you too.”

more tears spill out.

“but i can’t risk losing you.” he pulls you into his chest, hugging you so tight because you both know you won’t see each other for a long while. “get out of the city. go back to constanta if you have to. just-” you feel the uncertainty in his exhale. “get as far away until it’s safe.”

you peer up at him, sniffling. “okay.” 

“i’m coming back, y/n.”

“okay.”

he kisses you again. “i won’t leave you behind.”

⋆˚✶˚‧⋆｡˚

bucky masterlist

i'm thinking of writing a second part

my dad and flew with the lead singer of aerosmith and i rode in an elevator with the entirety of lovejoy (it was in 2023 dont cancel me)

Whenever anything is not going his way, he lashes out with unnecessary anger and borderline violence.

gasped out loud when i saw this posted

perv | pt. 2 | s. crosby

after being called out for his perverted actions, he gets a taste of his own medicine.

warnings: smut (18+ ONLY MDNI, piv, oral, for visual purposes only), sidney being a perv,

retired!sidney crosby x younger!fem reader

read pt. 1 here

"i was wondering, if you'd wanna see the real thing?"

sidney was sure he was in a dream. how did he end up here? how did he get himself in this promiscuous situation? oh, right. he was being a perv, that's how.

he was frozen in time. his mouth slightly agape as he was stuck, watching her- the stunning young woman in front of him take her bikini top off. the top strings come undone, gravity making them fall and unfold on top of her stomach. god, he feels like a teenager again, remembering what it felt like looking at a playboy magazine for the very first time. hard. painfully hard.

then she reaches around her back, pulling at the delicate bow that sidney had politely tied for her. then, it falls.

she steps closer to him, reaching for his hand. inside she's freaking out a little bit- why hasn't he said anything? but she pushes the thoughts aside and takes his hand, forcing him to palm her breast. he breathes in sharply, biting his lip.

"y'know sidney, i've heard rumors about hockey players," she whispers, leaning into his touch as his hand plays with her breast.

"probably all bad," he chokes out. he takes his other hand and rests it on her back, pulling her closer to him while he squeezes lightly on her round flesh.

"just mostly, that hockey players only care about themselves in bed," he hums, "they only have one setting when they're fucking women," he raises his eyebrow.

"and what might that be?" he teases, the tip of his nose just centimeters away from hers.

"rough. hard, fast," she runs her hands up his chest, she can feel the toned but soft muscles that are underneath his soft t shirt. she feels his breath pattern change, his eyes have grown a little bit darker by now. "i've even heard that they can't even make a woman cum." he grins, "is that true, sidney?"

by now, his hands have started to play with the strings on the bottom pice of her bikini. he's lightly playing with the bows that are holding it together, teasing to pull them apart.

"partially," he grips her hips, pulling her close to him as he starts to walk backwards into a hallway. "what part is not true?" she responds.

he opens the door to his bedroom. he backs her up to the bed, the back of her knees hitting the mattress and forcing her to sit on the bed. he stands in front of her, taking off his shirt to reveal his broad, tan chest. she takes in a deep breath.

"not true? that i can't make women cum," he takes her legs in his hands, spreading them as wide as she would let them go for him. she bites her lip while feeling his rough hands smooth over her soft thighs. she lays back on her elbows as he sinks to his knees, putting her legs over his shoulders.

he stares at the bright red, thin material that's been keeping him from getting the good stuff this whole time- it's been taunting him. he presses his nose up against her clothed cunt, taking in a deep inhale of her scent. she doesn't know whether to be turned on or turned off, but the feeling of his nose pressed up against her clit is heavenly. he mouths at her pussy a couple times, his teeth grazing against her clit draws a moan from her. he chuckles.

"you sure you wanna keep going?" he asks.

"now you're asking for consent? after taking pictures of me, groping my breasts, and putting your nose in my pussy?" she laughs, untying her bottom piece and shimmying to get it off, tossing it onto the floor. "get to work sidney, show me you're not lying about that rough and fast part."

he takes a rough grip on her thighs, fingers digging into the soft flesh of her thighs there's going to be bruises in the morning. he doesn't care, she asked for it to be rough. he spits on her pussy, taking his tongue and pressing it flat against her clit, shaking his head side to side.

out of pure physical response she spreads her legs wider, arching her back off the mattress. she moans, feeling the hot, wet friction against her clit. sidney pulls back to get a breath, kissing the inside of her thigh just briefly before sucking at her folds. inserting his tongue into her hole, then licking up a stripe along her wet cunt.

she's giggling out of pleasure, gripping the sheets and moaning into the air. she takes a hand and stuffs it into his salt and pepper hair, gripping tightly, as if she is holding him in place. "don' stop," she breathed out, grinding her cunt up against his mouth. she feels him smile against her, what a dirty dog.

he starts to lap up her juices, licking fat stripes up and down her cunt. she's giving him the loudest moans he's ever gotten, letting out a string of curses with his name mixed in with it.

"please," she inhales sharply when he wraps his lips around her clit and sucks harshly, "ohmygod- fuck i'm cumming sidney!" she shrieks, gripping onto his hair he thinks she might pull some of it out.

with just a few short hard sucks, she cums on his tongue just like he wanted her to. squeezing her thighs around his head, his ears ring just a little bit before he spreads them with his hands. one more lick to her cunt, getting every last drop on his tongue, he swallows everything she just gave him. dirty.

she sits up, brushing her hair back with her fingers and reaching for the waist band of his shorts. she pulls his hard cock out, grinning at how big he is. that gets his ego going.

she licks her hand, jacking him while looking deep in his eyes. this girl is going to kill him- and they only met twenty minutes ago.

"goddamn- lay back again. all the way on the bed," sidney climbs on the bed with her, keeping her legs spread as he stood on his knees in between them. he picked her up by the back of her thighs, pulling her against him to line his dick up with her aching hole.

he took his thumb, pressing it against her clit as he drug his tip through her folds. he got a kick out of watching her facial expressions, her eyes screwing shut as he teased her pussy. "ohmy- please put it in sidney-"

she let out a sharp gasp as he started to press inside of her, hearing him moan as he slipped inside her tight hole. "suckin me in baby," he pressed the palms of his hands on either side of her head, inching in all the way in her cunt until he couldn't go any further.

he saw tears brimming her eyes, for a second he felt bad but then he felt her thighs squeeze around him, pulling him forward as close as he could get. "it hurts so good," she breathed out, dragging her nails down his chest.

"yeah? you like your hole stuffed full of cock don't you?" she nodded her head while he started to thrust. starting off slowly, grinding into her in and out, in and out, in..and...out.

"keep going," she arched her back and moaned, locking her hands around his neck to try and bring him closer but he isn't budging. he wants to stay above her, to watch, to analyze. see how she's reacting to his big and bad attitude.

he hasn't picked up his pace, he's stayed slow and steady for at least a minute. it's driving her crazy, he can tell. and he loves it.

"c'monnnn sidney, is that all you got?" she whines, nails scraping down his shoulders, trying to get him to do something. "thought you were s'posed to be...fuckin' rough..or something," she whined in between thrusts from sidney.

"you want rough?" she nodded eagerly, "yeah baby?" he pulled out just halfway.

then suddenly he pushed back in, and started to push her halfway off the bed. the only part of her on the mattress were just her hips and nothing else. "fuckin' take it then," he said through gritted teeth.

holding onto her hips with an iron grip he fucked her hard, rough, and fast. just like she asked. the bed was creaking with every thrust he made and she was moaning and whining with every deep thrust she made, hitting her g spot every time.

he was deep inside of her, and she was so overwhelmed with pleasure. she shrieked again when she felt her orgasm coming along fast, her hands gripping onto the carpet underneath her while she felt him abuse her cunt with every snap of his hips.

"fuckin' cum baby, cum hard for me please-" that was all he had to say before she was screaming his name in pleasure, her orgasm coming like a tidal wave over her body. she felt her arms give, before she was going to fall completely sidney held onto her legs, using his strength to pull her up and face him again.

still inside of her, he kindly brushed hair out of her face and brushed his hands along her flushed cheeks.

"was that enough for you? or you want more?" he teased, both of his hands gripping her ass hard to keep her in place.

she's still catching her breath, but she lets out a light laugh, "give me all you got, captain."

feedback | masterlist

your da coolest lets be real this is so fire

Him and I - Quinn Hughes

Mob Boss Nico Hischier, Nico Hischier x reader

Warnings: angst, blood, violence, guns

Previous chapter

A/n: I apologize in advance for the amount of lore dropped in this chapter xx

~~~~

What do we do?

Thanksgiving comes and the question doesn’t get answered. Jack and Luke remain almost the same, albeit a little more observant. You can feel them always looking to you and Nico when no one’s paying attention, mentally willing you into having an answer.

But you don’t.

Then Christmas comes, the house filling with lights and Christmas trees, snow building up outside and you and Nico still can’t answer it. Not when you’re driving around town looking at the lights on houses, not when your sifting through hoards of gifts, matching wrapping paper and bows together, and not when your laying out gifts Christmas night, tucking candy into Luke and Jack’s stocking. You both share an uncertain look, knowing the best gift you could be putting in there for them would be an answer.

And yet it’s not there. And it’s not there when you’re drinking champagne on New Year, kissing Nico at midnight with the spoken promise that you can’t wait to spend another year loving him.

The answer isn’t there on Nico’s birthday either, when you tease him for reaching the downward end of his twenties, tell him to start investing in his retirement. When he laughs and kisses you, jokes that you’re a grave robber but the prettiest one he’s ever seen.

A week later though, the holidays and birthdays are over, the rush winding down and you’re lying in bed, tracing your finger over the embroidered logo on Nico’s t-shirt. The sleep timer on the tv had gone off a while ago, leaving the two of you in the faint glow of the night light across the room.

“We have to go,” you whisper, and Nico shifts, the pillows rustling as he looks down at you curled up against his chest. He’s not startled, not surprised by your decision. You’ve both known it was the only possible answer.

Even if the last trip out of the country is still fresh on your mind, if your head still aches after a particularly hard workout with Timo, if sometimes you wake up in the middle night scratching at Nico’s arm too hard, your brain still stuck in that moment right before he got there to save you.

“Yeah,” he agrees, his hand moving to hold the back of your head. There’s not much else to say. You both have to go. For Luke and for Jack. Both boys who have and still would do anything for you and Nico. For the two boys that walk into your house like they own the place, sit at the dinner table and call Nico papa to annoy him, even if he secretly likes it.

Your boys. That’s what they are. Yours and Nico’s boys.

“I’ll take care of it tomorrow,” he says, tenderly massaging his thumb into the crown of your head. “Schedule the flights and everything.”

You’re not sure if you should ask for the request on the tip of your tongue. Nico will understand, will know what it means. He’ll know why you’re asking him to do this. And you don’t want him to worry, don’t want him thinking you’re not ready.

But it’s Nico, who you’re always safe with. If Switzerland taught you one thing, it’s that you have to tell Nico everything, even if you think it’ll put him on edge. Because it might be worth the little bit of anxiety in the long run.

“Will you tell them?” You implore, “The boys? Will you tell them without me?”

Nico sucks in a breath, his fingers flexing in your hair and you hear the way his heart jumps. “Yeah,” he says though, his words certain. “Of course I will.”

You curl up further into his chest, force him to wrap his arm around your head even tighter and shut your eyes. Finding the hand resting on his stomach, you wrap your fingers around his thumb, squeezing tightly.

“We’ll be ok,” you murmur, and Nico tucks his chin into the top of your head. You’re not sure what to worry about, if you should be concerned about the intention of the invite, of what this will all mean to Jack and Luke, what you and Nico will do if something goes wrong.

“Yeah,” Nico whispers, “we’ll be fine baby.”

~~~~

“I might be dying.”

Groaning as she reaches for her banana smoothie, Nola’s face scrunches in discomfort as she lifts her the straw to her lips, and it worsens as she leans back in her chair.

“Yeah that’ll last for a bit,” you say sympathetically, stirring around the pistachio syrup in your matcha. A week and half into her joining you and Timo for pilates and yoga and the occasional five mile run, and it’s clear this newfound regimen Nola’s put herself on is starting to hit her. Hard.

“It’s been two weeks,” Nola exclaims, holding up two fingers at you and Timo. She narrows her eyes at him. “I blame you. This is your workout plan isn’t it?”

Your best friend laughs, holding up his hands in innocence. “I do what I’m paid to do.” He nudges you with his elbow. “You should’ve seen her when she first started. Crying to Nico almost everyday when he got home. I’ve never seen someone get so many leg massages.”

“Hey!” You cry, offended. Maybe you were a bit dramatic for the first few weeks of training with Timo, but in your defense, he’s crazy. For days on end you were walking funny because your thighs and butt were so sore. Lifting your arms to wash your hair was like torture. So yeah, you complained to Nico. After all, he was the one asking you how it was going, how you were feeling.

“Weren’t you already training with Nico for months before that?” Nola questions, wincing as she reaches for her drink again.

“Well yeah,” you shrug, “but that was different.”

Timo looks all too amused when he adds, “Nico took it easy on her. He caved every time she whined.”

You roll your eyes, pretending to be annoyed but you can’t argue with him there. You know Nico took it easy on you, knew he was still worried about unhealed injuries from Philly, both physically and mentally. That was the whole reason you’d switched over to Timo being your trainer.

“I’m really starting to see how this relationship works,” Nola smirks, pointing a knowing finger at you. “You call all the shots and Nico pretends he does, huh?”

“No,” you laugh, but she’s not far off if you’re being honest. “He’s the head of the house of course. I just-am the neck. And the neck can turn the head any way it wants.”

Both Nola and Timo snicker, you giggling to yourself as you fiddle with the wrapper of your straw. Nola calls something to him in Swiss German and your head shoots up, frowning as you flick some of the wrapper at her.

“Hey that’s not fair! No Swiss with me.”

Her and Timo both share a look, Nola pursing her lips in apology before she flicks the wrapper away from her, it sliding across the table. “Sorry, sorry, I just said that you and Nico go good together.”

Your cheeks go warm at the compliment, the sincerity of her words making you beam with pride. You’re definitely not perfect and Nico isn’t either, but somehow the wrongs in both of you do make a right.

“Anyway,” you say, changing the subject back to Nola “Give it like another week and you’ll stop being sore. It’s just the beginning that’s brutal.”

Almost nervous, Nola taps her finger against the plastic lid of her drink, making the bubbled plastic crack as she pops it in and out.

“Yeah I hope so,” she says casually, “especially since I’ll have to keep my routine pretty steady with the baby and all.”

It takes a moment for you to hear the words, for them to actually ring in your brain. In the weeks following your engagement party, you’ve grown close with Nola. Jonas’s schedule is often the exact same as Nico’s so the two of you slowly started turning those hours without your men into hours of getting together, with Timo of course.

It was a slow process at first, you nervous to really tell her anything. You hadn’t made friends in a while and it seems the practice of it is not like riding a bike. Having Timo there to break the ice definitely helped though you’ll never admit out loud that you needed a crutch. Today though, you think you could fully say Nola is a real friend. Your friend.

Even so, her just blurting out the news of a baby like that has you astounded, jaw dropped open as you stare at her. Timo chokes on his iced coffee, hiding his face in his elbow and Nola laughs as you pat at his back.

“I’m sorry,” he croaks, “with the what now?”

“The baby,” she says, moving her hand to hold it over her stomach, and even though there’s no physical evidence of a baby being in there, she smiles almost giddy, something tender settling in her gaze.

“You’re having a baby,” you finally say, a huge smile breaking out across your face. “Oh my god you’re having a baby!”

You jump out of your seat, rounding the table and she laughs as you awkwardly crouch down to wrap your arms around her from behind. Her hands hold onto your arms, curling in like she’s hugging the limb back.

“Congrats, oh my god,” you breathe, and Timo smiles at the two of you, his voice still a little raw when he repeats the sentiment. Giving her one last squeeze, you return back to your seat, heart still racing from the excitement.

“So,” Timo sighs, a teasing look on his face. “Out of wedlock huh?”

Nola scoffs. “Oh shut up you.”

The cafe worker at the counter starts calling out order numbers, and you shove Timo off to collect the tray with all of your lunches.

“This is so crazy,” you say in disbelief, shaking your head. “I’ll get to say I have a friend with a baby. I don’t feel like I’m old enough to be saying that.”

Timo returns with your food, distributing your dishes before stacking the tray off to the side. Nola gives you an unimpressed look.

“Oh come on,” she waves you off, “as if a wedding and kids aren’t coming at you and Nico like a freight train.”

The thought makes you pause, fingers digging into the bread of your BLT as you stare at her in horror.

“Oh no,” Timo mumbles, “you’ve done the forbidden.”

Nola frowns, looking between the two of you. “What is the forbidden?”

“Mentioning any kind of plan with Nico and family to her.”

Shaking yourself out of your stupor, you glare at Timo, forcing yourself to take a bite of food. You need some time before having to answer him anyway. The forbidden. Any kind of plan. Sure you and Nico don’t have any crazy plans, no timelines for anything really but that’s ok.

You both know that if the day comes and you want kids it’ll be decided then. You had the conversation, the one where you asked him if that was a hard no for him and for this life. And he told you it wasn’t, that if it was right and something you both really wanted, you’d make a plan together. Make sure you could provide a safe and secure life for a child.

And that was it. No timeline. No urge to marry and have kids as soon as possible.

“We like to be spontaneous,” you defend. It’s worked for you and Nico so far. You started sleeping with him having no idea where it’d go and look how that turned out.

“You do,” Timo says, “everyone knows Nico always has a plan. Sometimes he doesn’t even mean to have a plan but he does.”

Maybe Timo is right you think. You’re the one that just decides things, will just jump in when you feel it. Or more likely, when Nico suggests it.

“I have a plan for us, in every universe I have a plan for us.”

Nico’s words all those weeks ago, spoken to you in the privacy of the bedroom, when you asked if he’d give you up. If it was what you wanted, would he let you go. He’d answered immediately, no hesitance, no second thought. As if he’d already been thinking about it, about what it’d take to keep you if the Devils were no longer safe for you. He already has a plan for something you’d never considered until then.

“S’not like I’m scared of having a plan,” you finally say, “I’ve just never needed one.”

Timo raises an eyebrow. “Because Nico always has one.”

“Yeah I guess,” you shrug.

“Mmm,” Nola hums, “so the head does do his own thinking.”

You give her an unamused look. “Yeah but I seriously doubt that head is thinking about kids right now.”

She stabs at a piece of fruit from her parfait, wiggling the piece of pineapple at you. “Are you sure? Because he seems like a 5 year plan guy.”

You take another bite of your sandwich, glaring at her as you eat. It’s not that you don’t think you’ll never want children, it’s just that as of right now you don’t. You like sleeping in on the weekend, like waking up to lazy kisses from Nico with no plans for the day. Him and Moose are your world, everything you could ever need right now.

And what about work? Nico just made the Devils legal and signed it all over to you. Between getting that running and him still managing the rest of the boys, there’s no time for kids.

“He’s not,” you say, “we’re a little preoccupied anyway with Jack and Luke right now.”

Nola perks up. “So you’re actually going? To Vancouver?”

“Mhm,” you nod, feeling Timo watching you. You will yourself to look fine, nonchalant even. He doesn’t need to know that you’re worried about this trip. Nico already knows anyway and that’s all that matters. “We leave this weekend.”

Timo’s hand finds your knee, squeezing reassuringly. “You ok?”

You take a deep breath, shrugging. You’re definitely not happy about Quinn’s sudden interest with his little brothers but you’re ok going out there, ok doing this for Jack and Luke.

After all, Jack was one of the boys to go get you in Philly, when you were still new, still just a girl hanging off Nico’s arm.

“Yeah I’m fine,” you promise, “I just don’t want this to go wrong for Luke and Jack.”

Both Nola and Timo give you sympathetic sounds of agreement, her head tilting sadly as she watches you pick at the rest of your food. You don’t even know what else to say.

All you know is that you’re so tired of the people you love being hurt.

~~~~

Jack is the chatterbox on the flight into Vancouver. Any and everything he can think to say comes out of his mouth, even if most of the time the conversation is with himself. It’s obvious he’s excited, not closing his eyes once on the nearly 6 hour flight.

You spend almost the whole trip curled up in Nico’s seat with him, head laying on his shoulder as you lazily hum and nod at Jack as if you’re actually listening. Most of what he says is lost on you though.

Nico doesn’t even bother pretending, eyes glued to the movie you put on half way through the flight after he decided he just couldn’t sleep.

Luke doesn’t really have any reactions. He sits in his seat, naps, picks through the snack bag you packed. He sleeps for a bit, plays his switch for a bit too. You don’t push him to say anything knowing it’d be futile. He shuts down when he doesn’t know what to do with himself, will just go blank. So there’s no point.

But when the jet lands and the crew pops open the door, he perches on the edge of his seat, elbows on his knees and you watch, worriedly, as he sucks in deep breaths.

He’s gone pale too, the purple bags under his eyes looking a shade deeper than they did earlier.

He’s gone be sick you think, shooting up from your seat. You perch on the arm rest of his seat, running your fingers through his flat curls, pushing them off his damp forehead.

“I’m ok,” he pants, voice rattled.

“You’re ok,” you repeat soothingly, pressing the palm of your hand to his forehead. His skin is cold and clammy.

“It was the snacks, maybe.”

Unconvinced, you hum. “Maybe.” You both know it’s not the snacks, it’s the fact that standing just outside this jet is the oldest brother he barely knows.

“Moose?” Jack questions in that protective tone only an older brother could have. “S’ok. You’re with us, remember?”

He ducks his head down to try and meet Luke’s eyes but the younger boy curls in on himself even more.

“Yeah,” Luke murmurs, the words coming out rattled. You don’t know if it’ll work, if Luke is spiraling in that way you often do when feelings become too much. Even so you move your hand to the back of his elongated neck, stroking your thumb over the knobs of his spine and then you press your fingers down, applying pressure to the side of his neck.

Your hands aren’t as heavy as Nico’s or as big, but it must be enough because his back rises with a deep inhale, the huff he lets out after steadier.

He doesn’t move to get up though and you can feel Jack watching him, unsure of what to do with himself, how to help his baby brother. Helpless, you shift to Nico, find him already on his feet. He’s looking at where your hand is holding onto Luke, trying to ground him in that same way Nico does to you.

You reach a hand out towards him and he moves forward, you ducking around him so he can take your place next to Luke.

“Luke,” he says firmly, squeezing his fingers around the boy’s shoulders. Loyal to his core, Luke lifts his head to meet Nico’s gaze, eyes a little dazed. “I told you all those years ago that I’ve got you, remember?”

As if on autopilot, he bobs his head.

“You and Jack, I’d always have your backs. And I still do. I wouldn’t let anything bad happen, you know that right?”

“Yes,” Luke croaks.

“You trust me?”

Luke nods again. “I trust you.”

“Then we’ve got this, yeah?”

He sucks in another breath, blinking a few times as he comes back to himself. The color still hasn’t returned to his face but he no longer looks like he’s going to puke as he gets up from his seat, grabbing his carryon and the snack bag from by his feet.

“Got this,” Luke affirms, and Nico claps him on the back. Jack rises to his feet too, both of them looking to you and Nico expectantly.

Nico links his fingers through yours, squishing around you in the aisle to lead you to the front of the cabin. Dutifully, Luke and Jack follow behind you, the three of you hidden behind Nico’s towering shoulders.

Descending the steps with your hand still locked in Nico’s, you follow his lead as you cross the tarmac to what awaits ahead. And even though both Hughes boys clear your height easily, you walk side by side with Nico, the two of you shielding the boys as much as possible.

Quinn Hughes looks exactly like a Hughes boy, though you weren’t expecting much else. Luke and Jack could pass for twins if they wanted, and you mentally line up Quinn alongside them, picture three boys with the same pale eyes and long faces, hair unruly.

His gaze falls on you first, the sun catching his eyes just right that they look almost clear as they look you up and down. Funnily, he doesn’t look at Nico as you come to a stop a few feet from him, refusing to concede in this unspoken staring contest.

Finally, he meets Nico’s gaze instead and you take in the man standing before you. Even from here it’s obvious he’s shorter than Nico, just as he most likely is his brothers, but his build is stockier than them, full where Jack and Luke are lanky.

It’s petty, you looking for a reason to dislike him more than you already do, but you’d imagine it has a little something to do with their lifestyle growing up. Quinn here in Vancouver, being trained and well fed while Luke and Jack fended for themselves.

“Hischier,” Quinn greets, friendly as he reaches out a hand and Nico engulfs it in his, veins in his forearm flexing as he shakes it.

“Hughes,” your fiancé greets, not as friendly and you can’t help but smirk with at least a little satisfaction. Nico’s never been known for being warm and fuzzy, at least not by anyone but you, and you’d imagine he’s definitely not aiming to fix that for the sake of Quinn Hughes.

The eldest Hughes, offering a crooked smile, offers his hand to you. “Quinn,” he introduces and because you can, because he’s not your brother, not a fellow mob boss to you, you ignore it.

“I thought it was Quintin?” You say overly polite, locking your free hand around Nico’s bicep, as if it weren’t already obvious that you have no interest in touching him.

“Oh uh yeah,” he clears his throat, awkwardly dropping his hand and his whole face seems to droop sadly. “It is but I’ve just always gone by Quinn.”

You hum, pursing your lips as you look him up and down. Subtly, Nico’s hand flexes around yours, not warningly but not lovingly either. If you weren’t so determined to make Quinn uncomfortable you’d spare a glance at Nico, see what’s he’s trying to tell you but you don’t.

“Jack and Luke tell you that?” He ask, shoving his hands in his coat pockets. “The Quintin thing?”

“No,” you shrug, because they didn’t. The files in Nico’s office, the ones on every boss in North America, did. You’ve never actually sifted through it but you figured the name thing would be off putting enough.

Quinn nods at you. “You gonna let me see ‘em or what?”

Unimpressed, you narrow your eyes at him. “Maybe if you were taller you’d be able to see them yourself.”

His jaw ticks in that same way Jack’s does, the expression almost a perfect mirror and it makes your heart clench. It’s hard, hating a man that looks so much like the boys you love.

Good thing you’re determined and stubborn and known for being bratty.

An amused huff comes out of Nico, the arm holding your hand maneuvering until it’s over your shoulder, your hand still hanging from his and he pulls you to the side.

Quinn’s face immediately lights up at the sight of his brothers, lips curling the same way Luke’s do when he’s trying not to smile too wide, holding back how excited he is. It annoys you, that he’s allowed to look like them, be anything like them.

That’s probably not a detail he even noticed in himself, a similarity he shared with Luke.

“Look at you two,” Quinn jests, “private jets and your own personal body guards huh?”

Jack’s face breaks into a smile, that giddy energy he had on the flight launching him at his brother and they embrace tightly, smacking each others back and sharing similar teasing remarks about their hair, their stubble, Jack’s height.

Luke stares at Quinn like a deer in headlights when he finally pulls away from Jack, knuckles going white where he’s holding the bags from the plane.

“Moose,” Quinn laughs, “I guess the name fits well. What are you, 7 feet tall?”

He makes a move to hug Luke and he flinches back, dragging his heels back a few inches and you jolt forward to grab Quinn, ready to yank him back. You’re held still by Nico’s arm restraining you.

If Quinn is offended by the action, he doesn’t show it, smiling just as effortlessly as he slips his hands back in his pockets.

“6’2,” Luke replies, eyeing Quinn with unfamiliarity. “What are you, like 5’2?”

Nico’s hand releases yours, clamping over your mouth just in time to stifle your snort and you grab at his forearm in protest. His fingers squeeze your jaw in warning before shifting back to hang by your shoulder, and you link your fingers with his again.

“Yeah alright,” Quinn laughs lightheartedly. “Gonna have to teach ya about the Canadian Charm. They don’t lie when they call us overly nice.”

Almost bored, Luke blinks. “I’m from Jersey. They call us assholes there.”

This time Nico is the one to stifle a laugh, hiding his smile in your hair and Luke meets your gaze over his brother’s shoulder, a little smile rising on his lips when he sees your amusement.

“I’d agree but I think that one back there would pull a knife on me,” Quinn jokes, jabbing his thumb over his shoulder at you and Luke laughs a little at that, knowing that that’s very plausible.

“I’m more of a gun person,” you deadpan, “but I’m sure you’ll have plenty of chances to learn that.”

Jack shoots you a petulant look, shaking his head and you sigh, giving him a nod of concession. Luke is the one to move on from this stalemate.

“Can we head to the hotel? I’m tired.”

For just the second time since arriving, Nico speaks up. “Yeah we can,” he nods towards the signature black SUV he always rents for trips, your suitcases already loaded into the back by the jet crew.

The slick silver sports car parked next to it chirps to life, Quinn motioning to his own vehicle. “Your hotel is pretty close to Rogers Place so you can follow me. Got some work to do while you all rest but I’d made dinner reservations downtown for later if that’s ok?”

“That’s perfect!” Jack says, chipper. “We can all walk over together.”

Nico walks you to the car while the boys say their brief goodbyes to Quinn, Jack’s far more enthusiastic than Luke’s. You slip into the front seat, lifting your arms when Nico tugs out the seatbelt and reaches over to click it for you. The belt tightens, sitting snug on your chest and Nico takes the chance to catch your lips in a kiss, his hand squeezing your thigh.

He pulls back, nose still brushing yours and his eyes shift over your face with admiration. “You’re so sexy, ya know that?”

A sly smirk lifts your lips, eyelashes fluttering as you glance down at his mouth. He chuckles, pecking your lips once more before leaning away from you.

“Jack, Luke,” he calls sternly, “car. Now.”

Giving you a wink, he shuts your car door as Luke and Jack make their way to the backseat. Quinn pauses in the open door of his own vehicle, meeting your gaze through the windshield and something heavy settles on his features, morphs them in to this pathetically sad expression.

Lifting your chin and straightening your shoulders, you stare back at him until Nico is slipping into the drivers seat, Quinn sifts a hand through his dark hair as he too climbs into his vehicle.

Nico shifts the car into gear and Jack pokes his head into the front seat, eyes zeroing in on you in annoyance.

“Are you serious?” He says “You’re not as funny as you think you are.”

Grumbling, Nico shoulders him back into the backseat as he starts driving and you turn to look at him and Luke, take in the way the younger boy is slumped against the door with that far away look on his face.

“It wasn’t a joke,” you reply, shifting to look out the windshield again. Nico’s hand falls to your thigh, his thumb rubbing circles through the fabric of your pants.

Jack huffs but doesn’t say anything and then ever so gently, a pair of fingers are poking at your elbow through the crack between your seat and the car. Silently, you slip your hand back, the angle a little awkward but you ignore it when Luke threads his fingers through yours, squeezing twice as if he were saying thank you.

~~~~

“So how’s Vancouver?” Jack asks, hunched over his plate of appetizers at dinner. “You gotta tell us everything.”

Quinn, stabbing at his dinner salad, swipes his napkin across his mouth before he does in fact tell them everything.

That he loves Vancouver, loves the city. The people and the culture are amazing. That the old Canucks leader, Horvat taught him a lot. He leaned on him a lot when he first got here, when things were still really hard, when he missed home. Horvat taught him everything, helped him grow into a man.

It’s an odd way of telling that story, too vague to actually mean anything and it puts you on edge. Quinn is proud as he tells it and it’s wrong, this whole thing is wrong. He’s acting like they’re fine. Like they’re all normal brothers.

Oblivious to the fact that while Horvat was turning him into his great man, his own flesh and blood was forced to turn to strangers for help, Jack forced to beg on his knees for anything Nico could offer him, Luke forced to live in that house alone until he was legally allowed to join his brother under Nico’s protection.

His plan for them. Because he always has one. He always cares enough to have one.

You look around at the three brothers, how Jack is almost too eagerly listening to Quinn, crowding his space and chattering on and on. Luke, quiet and somber as he silently devours two main entrees and then finishes off your truffle fries. Not speaking, not asking follow up questions for Quinn, never offering more than a couple words when Jack tries to drag him into the conversation.

It’s almost like he’s not even here at the table with you all. Exactly how he retreats into his head when emotions overwhelm him, when something from his past won’t for the life of him come to mind, when he watches overly sad movies and instead of crying, his gaze just goes hazy.

Checking out, unable and unwilling to address that he can’t feel things right.

Maybe Quinn is the same. Maybe he acts like this so the boys won’t notice, won’t know if he thinks he messed up leaving them. Maybe he does feel guilty and this facade is the cover up.

It doesn’t change the fact that he’s got every resource in Vancouver available to him and Jack and Luke couldn’t even count on a birthday card from him.

It also doesn’t change the fact that he invited them out here with no explanation and instead of offering anything substantial or significant to them, he’s sharing impersonal tidbits of his training and life here.

“What about you guys, huh?” Quinn nudges Jack. “Tell me about Jersey!”

As if looking for permission, Jack looks to you and Nico questioningly. Next to you, Nico shifts, his knee pressing into your thigh as the spreads he legs out. You wonder what he told Jack and Luke when he told them you’d come with them. Things they couldn’t say, things Quinn has no right to know.

“Jersey is awesome,” Jack finally says after Nico gives him an encouraging nod. “We live in this sick loft with some of the other guys, and it’s huge. You’d love it. We all just get to hang out and chill, go to work together. And it’s really close to Y/n and Nico’s house so we go there a lot.”

“Y/n huh?” Quinn says, giving you a pleased smirk. “Good to finally put a name to the face.”

For the sake of Jack you don’t say anything, unaffectedly taking a sip of your wine as you hold his stare. Nico, knowing you’re biting your tongue, slips his arm over the back of the booth, dipping his fingers into your hair soothingly.

Not that it matters really.

“Hischier,” Luke corrects, sitting up a little straighter. “You’re not in the Devils. So you call her Hischier, not y/n.”

Not so subtly, Jack kicks at Luke under the table, making him wince before he kicks back. Quinn clears his throat, that smirk falling from his lips and he nods.

“Yeah, course. My bad Lukey.” He waves a hand between you and Nico. “I didn’t realize you too were…”

You’re not married, not yet but the low lights of the restaurant catch the diamond of your ring, glinting prettily as if proving Quinn wrong.

“She’s a Hischier,” Nico confirms, catching your left hand in his and tracing his thumb over the back of your hand, showing off the band on your ring finger.

Jack jumps back into the conversation. “Yeah sorry we call her that so I didn’t think to-“

“All good Rowdy,” Quinn assures, taking a sip of his beer. “Now come on, there’s gotta be more than just a sick loft. How’d you end up in Jersey?”

Under the table, Luke nudges his foot against yours. He doesn’t look at you as he stretches his leg over yours as if trying to lock your shoes together. Unsure of what to do with the action, you flex your foot up into his but don’t make him move. Then you lean into Nico’s side, resting your intertwined hands on his thigh and listen to Jack tell the story you’ve never fully heard.

They had a neighbor in Michigan that had been in a mob business once. A pretty big name, Jack says. When he was just seventeen and working a job of tearing tickets at the movie theater after school, Jack had decided it wouldn’t be enough. Their mom was still working to pay off hospital bills and even when she wasn’t, she wasn’t right. All she did was lay in bed. A sickness you were familiar with, one that still fills with you dread when you think about how lifeless you felt then.

You want to blame their mother, at least a little bit, but you can’t. You think about how you felt then, how Nico was the one to keep you going, keep you breathing. You can’t imagine going through that without him, not having the support of someone who loves you. And on top of that, having three little boys relying on you, needing you for things you can’t provide.

Jack couldn’t provide them either, not entirely. So he’d gone to the neighbor that had been out of the game for almost 20 years and was still set for life, him and his family.

Jack needed names, a phone number, a connection. Anything. It goes unsaid, but you all know the connection he should’ve had through Quinn was severed. The neighbor told him he’d reach out to someone in Toronto, ask if he knows if anyone is recruiting some younger guys.

The only catch was that Jack had Luke, and he wouldn’t go anywhere without him. Over the next year Jack talked to four other bosses, all of which were either hesitant to take an almost 18 year old jack and downright refused to take 16 year old Luke. He was too young. He needed to finish school. He needed a parent. None of them seemed to understand that Jack was that parent.

Two months before his 18th birthday, the boss of Detroit told him about Nico and the Devils. A fresh group, not inherited by Nico but built. They were small and probably needed guys, could maybe make some deal with Jack about Luke since they needed as much man power as possible.

He gave Jack Nico’s full name and the address of the Rock. Him and Luke, on summer break paid for a trip to Newark. Between buses and trains it wasn’t too bad and they showed up at the Rock, unable to even get in without an ID. But they waited outside all night until the bar closed and Nico came out to the two kids sitting on the curb in the back alley.

It was late and they were all tired, but he heard them out for five minutes. They told him they came all the way from Michigan, that they wanted to be a part of the business. Nico took them to their hotel, made sure they got checked in and put his card on file for them. Told them to sleep and order room service and he’d come back in the morning.

Which he did. He sat in the cafe attached to the lobby with Jack, Luke still asleep in their room, and Jack plead their case. He doesn’t go into details, but he does say that he told Nico all he wanted was to be able to stay together with his brother.

That was the kicker. Nico would take Jack but until Luke was 18 he couldn’t bring him to Jersey. He couldn’t put a child in danger like that and even Jack’s young age was pushing it. But he could make a deal with him. They both home for the summer, Luke will go back to school in the fall and Jack will come to Jersey. Jack will get his earnings and benefits of being a Devil, and Luke will graduate high school. All the while, Nico can offer Luke smaller wages, sent to him monthly so that he can feed and take care of himself. It’s a loop in mob law, Nico doing this, but he can make it work if he claims it as recruitment funding.

So that was it. The two boys went home the next day with Nico’s phone number in their phones and two plane tickets back to Michigan, courtesy of the Devils. And they spent the summer together just being teenage boys until Jack packed a suitcase in September and moved out to Hoboken. Luke finished high school, spent his last summer in Michigan with his mom who was starting to get better. And then in the fall he moved out to Jersey too, only a little delayed because the Devils were still recovering from Philly.

“Now we’re with each other all the time,” Jack finishes up, “and we send mom money and stuff sometimes, talk to her. We haven’t really gone to see her but she writes letters so that’s cool.”

Quinn’s eyes go wide, looking at them in disbelief. “You guys talk to mom?”

“Yeah,” Luke says, nodding his head towards you. “She talks to mom too. That way she knows we’re ok and all that.”

“Thank god,” Jack huffs, “She threatened to come out to Jersey and see if we were actually ok a few times. She trusts her and Nico though. I think all that keeps her at bay is know we have…”

“A real mom watching out for us,” Luke finishes, knocking his shoulder into yours. Heat crawls up your neck and ears, a loving smile taking over your face as him and Jack both give you those signature Hughes smirks.

“She just likes me because I can talk about you two for hours,” you admit “which is a big deal compared to the monthly texts Nico used to send that just said ‘Jack and Luke are alive’.”

You and the boys all laugh at Nico, your fiancé rolling his eyes but he’s fighting back a smile of his own. “Seems like a good enough update to me.” He defends.

“You guys are close,” Quinn mumbles, a little sadly and you’re unsure if he’s talking about the four of you or the boys with their mother. “I haven’t spoken to mom in years. Not since…”

“Since you left,” Luke fills in, “once you got in here and stopped talking to all of us.”

Quinn sighs. “Come on Lukey-“

“Luke,” he interrupts gruffly “it’s just Luke. Not Moose, not Lukey.”

The whole table looks taken aback by his tone, the hardness of it. Because Luke is never like that, never angry or mean or hateful. He’s always been sweet, always been nothing but appreciative for the things everyone has done for him.

You’ve heard him like that before. Nico and Jack had gone on a weekend work trip and Luke stayed home with you. He was off almost the whole time, not as chipper, not as easy going, and worst of all, not hungry. Nico was the one to tell you about it when you called him that morning for your daily FaceTime.

“It’s the anniversary,” he explained when you expressed your worry about Luke “of their dad’s death. It’s today. Jack is acting a little off too.”

You’d remembered then about how Luke told you he never remembered it. What happened, if they saw their father before he was taken from the hospital, if they saw him at the funeral. He doesn’t even remember who was there, what car they took, if his mom drove.

So you’d taken Luke to the only place you could think would help. A rage room, under the guise that you had always wanted to try it. But Luke exploded the moment you started egging him on, smashing dishes and furniture with a bat like a man gone mad, screaming things you couldn’t even understand.

That was the first and only time you’d ever heard him sound like that.

Hearing it again has you sitting up straighter, pulling away from Nico in preparation to reach out for Luke, to push Quinn away.

“I’ve never called you that, Moose,” Quinn argues, “it’s not that big of a deal-“

“Luke,” you correct him, stretching your arm out over him protectively. “The last time you called him Moose to his face he was still wearing Darth Vader pajamas-“ you don’t tell him that Luke and Jack still wear Star Wars pajamas to this day. “So if he says it’s Luke, you’re gonna call him Luke, capisce?”

The table has gone silent, and you can feel the eyes of your three boys cautiously looking between you and Quinn. But the two of you glare at each other, unwavering in the clear disdain you both hold for each other.

Though he really has no right to feel that way about you.

“Alright Hischier,” Quinn mutters, “I get that you’re their new mom or whatever, but I’m their real brother so-“

“Real brother?” You laugh coldly, “As if you were ever there for them. Tucked up here in Vancouver with all the money and protection in the world, never once bothering to make sure that they had food and a house and safety of their own. That they were even still alive. I don’t see a real brother sitting across from me, I see a stronzo that abandoned his family when they needed him. All you ever did was fend for yourself.”

Quinn scoffs. “Whether you like it or not I’m real family, me. Not you. You’re not their real-“

“Enough,” Nico barks, silencing the words you already know were coming out of Quinn’s mouth. You’re not blood, not a Hughes. You’re not their actual mother, not on paper at least.

His hand locks around your bicep, tugging you out of the rounded booth with him. Towering over Quinn, Nico jabs a finger into Quinn’s shoulder, pressing him back into the pleather seats.

“I didn’t come here to fight you Hughes, but talk to her or any of them like that again and it won’t be her gun you’re worrying about.”

Luke follows you up from the booth, pressing his shoulder into yours and Jack gives his older brother one last fleeting glance before following.

“Dinner is on you.” Nico spits, then he’s taking your hand and pushing you in front of him, away from Quinn, away from the restaurant. The four of you walk in silence back to the hotel, Nico’s arm over your shoulder, Luke’s hand in yours, and Jack’s elbow brushing his brothers.

~~~~

Everyone is still on edge when you get back to the hotel, lingering around the living room of the suite because no one really knows what to do now. You know you’ve upset Jack, probably even more than you had at the airport. And he’s probably upset with Nico too for threatening Quinn far more clearly than you had. Most shockingly though, he’s upset with Luke.

“Luke, really?” He asks tiredly, slumping into the couch. “We’ve called you Moose since you were a baby. That’s what he knows.”

“That’s all he knows,” Luke argues, falling into the recliner across from his brother, crossing his arms over his chest. “The only thing he knows about me is my name and he’s acting like that’s all he needs to know.”

“And you two!” Jack huffs, pointing his finger at you and then at Nico. “You said you had our backs! And all you’ve done is fight with Quinn and all you’ve done is ignore him and then threaten him.”

You can feel Nico go tense, the bicep brushing your arm going rigid. He’ll do a lot for Jack, has done a lot for Jack. And he’ll let a lot slide with him that he wouldn’t the other boys. When it comes to you though, standing up for you, it’s a different story.

“Shut it Jack,” Nico snaps, “I do have your back, but I also have to have Luke’s and I really have to have hers. And you don’t get a say in how I go about that. End of discussion.”

Jack shoots Nico a mean look, lips curling into an angry snarl but Luke cuts him off.

“What’s wrong with you?” He shakes his head in disgust, “Did you not hear the way Quinn spoke to us? To her? You told him all about how shitty are lives were after he left and he didn’t even react. He didn’t care that we still talk to mom, didn’t ask if she was better or anything. He doesn’t care about us!”

Fuming, Jack rises to the edge of his seat, face going red and splotchy. “Oh shut up Luke, you think he would invite us out here if he didn’t care? You’re not even giving him a chance to show it, to say anything. And you made it worse by forcing him to let us bring them, surrounding him with people he doesn’t know.”

“It’s us!” Luke screams, “he doesn’t know us! We’re the strangers too! All he’s done since he saw me is poke fun, is tease. And then he disrespected her. Did you hear him? He was trying to say that this isn’t real, that our family isn’t real! It was real to me when Nico was picking us up off the curb and into his car. And it was real to me when y/n was tucking us into bed and fixing every cut and holding us together!”

It’s that same yell, that same edge he’d used when speaking to Quinn, when he was wailing in the rage room. And now, in the freedom of the overly large hotel room Nico rented and amongst his actual family, he doesn’t cut back. Not even with Jack slack jawed in front of him, stunned by his brother’s words.

“I get to be angry. I don’t care if you’re not but I get to be. Because I wasn’t allowed to be angry when dad got sick. And I wasn’t allowed to be angry when he died. And I wasn’t allowed to be angry when Quinn left. Or when I had to live in that house by myself for two years! I was never allowed to be angry because then I would be difficult and ungrateful, undeserving.

“But I get to be angry now! Because we finally have a family Jack! An actual one, one that loves us more than he ever did. So I’ll be fucking angry when he tries to tell y/n that she’s not our family because she is and you know it!”

Luke’s gotten to his feet now, pacing back and forth wildly in front of his chair and tangling his hands in his messy curls. Nico makes a move to step towards him, knowing how you explained Luke’s rage as explosive once, but you stop him, locking your hand on his wrist.

Because Luke won’t make a move towards hurting anyone, you know that. These are words you know he’s been holding for years, ones that have weighed heavier on him than anyone could’ve thought.

“Of course she’s family Luke,” Jack murmurs weakly, terrified. You’re not sure if it’s directed at his brother or for him. “The Devils are a family, but especially us-“

“Then why are you on his side?” Luke’s demands, his voice cracking. “How could you sit there and let him say those things?”

“Because it’s Quinn,” Jack says lifelessly, a look of pure desperation taking over his face. “It’s still Huggy and I know you don’t remember but before dad, he was the best. He did love us and he wanted us. And if he did it once before he can do it again.”

Luke takes a raspy inhale, his pacing slowing enough that he starts to resemble a sane person again. “You don’t know that Jack. We fixed things with mom and she still doesn’t want us, not really. She never asked us to come home. She may care that we’re safe and alive, but she doesn’t want us. Why would Quinn?”

A lump has formed in your throat, so big it threatens to choke you when Jack’s watery blue eyes find Nico, pathetic and pleading. “He could want us again. Tell him Nico, you did it. You got your family back-“

“Jack,” Nico sighs sadly, his shoulder slumping. He wishes he could tell Jack what he wants to hear, but he can’t. Because he doesn’t have his family back. Things are better, but they’ll never be the same. And Nico never got any part of his father back.

It’s devastating to watch the way Jack’s whole face crumples, eyes filling with tears and he shakes his head, hooks his fingers into the collar of his hoodie like it’s choking him.

Finally, move towards Luke, press your hand between his shoulders blades in a calming way and he turns to you, nose scrunched in pain.

“It’s ok,” you whisper and he collapses forward, his forehead falling to your shoulder as he clings to you. “It’s ok, Luke,” you promise, “and you’re right, you get to be angry. Because none of this is fair to either of you.”

Rubbing his back, you give him a moment to just breathe, watching over his hunched shoulders as Nico moves towards Jack. Pressing his hand to the top of Jack’s head, he ruffles his hair a bit before perching on the arm of the couch, throwing his arm around his shoulders.

“Come on babe,” you murmur, “let’s sit down, yeah?”

Luke lets you guide him back into the chair, shoulders hunched in on himself as he stares sadly at the coffee table. You run your hand through his hair, careful to not yank on any knots as you do.

“It’s ok for Luke to be angry,” you say firmly, to both him and Jack this time. “And it’s ok for you to forgive Quinn, Jack. But at the end of the day, you two are more than brothers. You’re both family inside and outside of the Devs. So you have to be on the same side.”

Jack sniffles, eyeing Luke sadly. You can’t imagine what he’s thinking, what the revelation of this whole new side of his brother has done to him.

“It’s always been you two together. Jack you’ve always refused to leave Luke’s side, don’t start doing it now. Not when you two need each other the most. Nico and I can hug you and promise it’ll be ok but only you two know what you’re going through. So stick together, even if you want different things.”

Luke tilts his head up, meeting Jack’s gaze and they share this silent look, this silent conversation of agreement.

“We don’t know him,” Jack mutters, shaking his head in disbelief. “You’re right Luke, we don’t know him anymore. So even if he doesn’t really want to talk about it, let’s just spend the rest of the weekend getting to know him again, ok?”

Petulantly, Luke counters, “I won’t call him Huggy.”

Jack laughs a bit, flashing those pearly white teeth at his brother. “You don’t have to. And I’ll stop him if he calls you Moose or Lukey.”

It’s Luke’s turn to laugh, chuckling as he mumbles a thanks and you tuck your nose into the top of his head, squeezing him in a tight hug.

“It’s late and you two barely slept on the plane,” Nico says, clapping his hand on Jack’s shoulder. “Go get ready for bed, yeah?”

You let them go, Jack easily tugging Luke down into a headlock as they squeeze through the doorway into their room and kick the door shut. Then you wait a moment, listen for the sounds of suitcases unzipping and the bathroom sink turning on.

Letting out a huge breath, you lean all your weight into Nico as he engulfs you in a hug, pressing a smattering of sweet kisses to your hairline. You cling to his arm, eyes slipping shut as you let tension of the night seep from your body.

Nico pecks a kiss under your ear, his breath hot on your skin when he whispers, “I would do ungodly things for you, ya know that?”

His beard tickles at your neck when he ducks down to kiss you more nipping kisses and you scrunch up at the feeling, giggling.

“Haven’t you already?”

His mouth finds yours. “I could do worse,” he promises. “And I would’ve tonight, if we were anywhere else but the middle Canucks territory.”

You know that, know if for some reason Quinn had spoken to you like that in Jersey, Nico would’ve done actual damage. Hell, he probably would’ve stopped Quinn as soon as the man looked at you the wrong way.

“You did enough,” you assure, cupping his face but he’s already shaking his head in disagreement.

“I didn’t. Not when he said that you’re not their mom.”

You flinch, eyes squeezing shut as the words hit you. It’s obvious all of you know the truth, that Luke and Jack don’t agree with what Quinn was trying to say but that doesn’t mean it doesn’t hurt.

“He was a little right,” you murmur, “I’m not their blood mother, no matter how much I try to be.”

Nico shushes you, running a hand through your hair and tucking your head into his shoulder. “That doesn’t matter,” he insists, “blood doesn’t matter. Biologically they may not be your sons, but that doesn’t change the fact that they’re still yours.”

“Yeah?”

“Are you kidding? Did you not see Luke today? There’s only one person that could’ve made him that sassy. And Jack? Who do you think taught him to have such an open heart? To care so much?”

It’s funny, you think, that Nico sees you in Jack and Luke so much, especially within the traits they exhibited today. Because all you saw was Nico. Protective, biting, and somehow so loving.

He presses another kiss to the top of your head before pulling back, cupping your face softly. “Come on, let’s go get changed.”

~~~~

The next morning is grey, thick clouds pressing down on the city through the window of your top floor hotel room. You lay, sprawled out across the rumpled white sheets, hand laying in the dip of the mattress that is still warm from Nico slept all night.

The door to the room clicks as it opens, Nico toeing off his shoes at the entryway as he balances a tray with two drinks in his hand. You don’t make a sound, burrowing into the blankets and just admiring him.

Still in the athletic shorts he wore to bed last night, a wrinkled t-shirt on his chest that reads I Raised Hell in Newark, NJ with the logo of the Rock underneath it. It’s one those stupid ones the boys would give out as prizes on trivia and karaoke nights.

His feet drag on the carpet floor as he places the tray down on the TV stand, a cup of bright green matcha in one holder and a small hot coffee in the other. Yours and his favorite order.

Lifting his head, his eyes fall on yours and a lazy smile takes over his face. “Hey,” he greets quietly, coming back to his side of the bed and sitting down “You’re up early.” You lay your head on his thigh, yawning as he dips in his fingers into your messy hair.

“My body pillow had gone missing,” you tease, slipping your arm over his legs, the fuzz of his leg hair tickling your fingertips.

“The body pillow brought drinks though,” he sings, tucking your hair behind your ear. You smile, pressing a kiss to his thigh in thanks before returning to gazing out the window, taking in the new city.

After a moment, Nico gently tugs on your hair. “What are you thinking about?”

He knows the real reason why you’re up so early. Not because you felt him slip out of the bed this morning or heard the door clicking shut as he left. But because you couldn’t stop thinking.

“I didn’t know you did all that for Jack and Luke,” you admit, that they actually went out to Jersey to meet you.”

Nico hums, his fingers coming to a halt on your temple and you peer up to find him also looking out the window. “You should’ve seen them,” he begins softly, gaze unfocused on the view. Like he’s elsewhere in his mind.

“I thought Jack was like 16, he was so small. And Luke, oh my god you wouldn’t believe me. He was just as tall then as he is now, his knees practically in his face while he sat there. I could tell right away they needed help. Luke looked like he hadn’t eaten in days which he probably hadn’t. And Jack just started babbling at me, throwing Larkin’s name out and saying he would do anything just to talk to me.”

It’s an easy thing to picture, the two of them pressed together outside the Rock. You bet Luke didn’t even get a chance to stand up before Jack was talking, tripping over himself to get a totally clueless Nico.

“I couldn’t just leave them out there. All they had with them were backpacks. And in the car,” he lets out a soft laugh, a dimple slowly sinking into his cheek “Jack was pressing every fucking button he could reach. The seat warmers, turning the air temp up and then back down, checking all the lights. And Luke ordered about a week’s worth of room service in two nights.”

He sounds so fond as he recalls it, like Jack and Luke were the best thing to happen to him. You can’t help but smile seeing that look on his face, the way he lights up.

“So he’s always eaten a lot, huh?” You laugh and Nico snorts.

“He’s just always hungry, never had enough growing up I guess,” he murmurs, and his fingers resume they’re fiddling with your hair. “You have no idea how badly I wanted to keep them there, both of them. I didn’t have a lot of details on their mom or their home but I could see it on Jack, when I said Luke was too young. He panicked, he almost freaked on me.

“But I was already pushing it with letting Jack after he turned 18 and I knew if I broke any rules for Luke and someone found out, I’d have every eastern mob org at my doorstep.”

“You protected them,” you whisper, “even if it hurt them at the time.”

Silently, he nods and you realize that while Jack and Luke are your boys now, they’ve been Nico’s for far longer. Even before Luke could actually be a Devil, Nico loved him. He was barely an adult himself and a part of you wonders if Nico saw them outside the Rock, trapped in circumstance, and thought of himself.

He had the money to change his situation. Luke and Jack had only each other.

As if on autopilot, the same question that’s been on your mind for years spills out. “How could Quinn ever leave them behind?”

There’s no answer, at least not one that will make the situation feel any better. So you press another kiss to Nico’s thigh, nuzzle into the cool fabric of his shorts and wait for Jack and Luke to get up for the day.

~~~~

“You run everything out of a hockey arena?”

There’s an awe to Jack’s tone as he says it, peering up out of the tunnel with wide eyes, him and Luke both spinning in a wide circle.

“The sport of Canada,” Quinn says proudly, leaning against the bleachers, watching his brothers with a closed smile.

You’ll admit, it is impressive. You’ve been to your fair share of sports arenas around Jersey and New York, sat court-side at a Knicks game with Nico, propped up your feet in his suite as the Jets played, sat in overly stuffed seats behind home plate at Citi Field. They were all fun, all incredible things to see.

But Rogers Place, with its thousand of seats and its banners, packed tightly around the sheet of ice, well it’s a whole new sight in itself. You don’t ooh and ahh over it like Jack and Luke, and neither does Nico.

For the both of you, it’s got nothing compared to the ice Nico taught you skate on, your laughter hanging in white clouds in the night air, bundled in winter clothes as he kept you steady and smooth.

“You’d be surprised by how easy it is to do business out of here,” Quinn says, nodding to Nico. “Big enough we don’t need to run money through anywhere else. The league security on top of our own is perfect. The games are good covers for deals.”

Perfect, perfect, perfect, you think. How nice it is that Quinn Hughes life turned out to great, so easy. Him in his big arena that provides everything he could ever need to be successful.

“I bet,” Nico replies casually, not all that interested. Luke and Jack have wondered up close to the ice, crowding against the doors and then they’re clanking open the locks, a gust of cool air breezing through as they tug open the panes.

Jack toes at the ice, staring out at it in childlike wonder. Luke takes a full step out into it, let himself slide a bit in his shoes and chuckling happily.

“You guys wanna skate?” Quinn offers, his brother’s heads snapping to look at him. “We’ve got skates down here you can borrow. Some sticks and stuff too if you really want.”

Which is how you end up in a back room with one of Quinn’s men, a tall and lanky blonde guy, his hair close cropped and eyes even bluer than the Hughes boys. He’s sifting through rubber made boxes of hockey skates, swiping the nail of his thumb across the blades questioningly before handing them off to Jack and Luke.

“Thanks man,” Jack tells him, and the man smiles before turning to you and Nico expectantly.

“The Hischier’s,” he says in greeting, voice thick with a familiar accent. He holds out a hand to Nico, “Elias but the boys all call me-“

“Petey,” your fiancé supplies, shaking his hand. “Good to see ya man.”

Elias or Petey or whatever, nods politely. “You too, Jesp tells me things have been good out there?”

Jesper, you think and you’re finally able to place the accent, the easy smile and energy of him. He’s Swedish, obviously a friend of Jesper’s, enough so that he’s somewhat familiar with Nico and the Devils.

“Yeah we’re all doing good,” Nico nods towards you, “this is my wife, y/n.”

A friend then, you decide if Nico is letting him call you by name. Or at least someone trustworthy to Nico, whose judgment has always been pretty impeccable.

“Ahh the Mrs. Devil,” he says lightheartedly, glancing to the door behind you before leaning in. “Holtzy’s favorite gal, huh?”

You startle, not only caught off guard by the mention of the boy not with you, but also by the secretive body language of Petey, the way he keeps glancing at the door.

“You know Alex?”

A fond expression settles on his face. “Yes I do. We were friends when we’re younger. When everything happened Jesper called, was hoping I could help but that’s not how things work here. I was going to just take him in until he turned 18 but then you and Nico got him.”

You don’t know what to say, what to think about this odd man before you but you know you like him. Probably the only other person in the world that was willing to accept 17 year old Alex, to go against the rules the same way you and Nico did even though he didn’t have the same pull and influence you and Nico did.

“He’s doing ok, right?” Petey whispers, “he’s safe.”

“Yes,” you promise, “he’s perfect. I didn’t know or I would’ve brought him or-“

“It’s ok,” he interrupts, holding out a hand to you. On his bicep, a traditional Chinese tattoo is inked into the skin, the perfect shape of the letter C but the top end morphs into a whale. You gently wrap your fingers around his, squeezing tightly. “Just let him know Petey says hi, ok?”

“I will,” you smile, letting his hand go and he returns to his full height, sharing an easy grin with Nico before motioning back to the box of skates.

“What size Hischier’s?”

Jack and Luke are already zipping around the ice when you and Nico get back to the open tunnel. You pause, shoes hanging from your fingertips and just watch them. They skate like it’s easier than walking, shifting this way and that, switching edges and leaning around corners.

They’re passing a puck back and forth, the rubber clacking against their sticks and echoing throughout the silent arena. The only other noise accompanying it is their laughter, happy and full of life.

“You think in another life you all played hockey instead or something?” You ask Nico, recalling the trophies in his childhood bedroom, the synthetic ice in one of the shacks on his parents estate, the way he lead you around the rink that night with grace.

Nico hums, smiling a bit as he piles his shoes with Jack and Luke’s. “Maybe,” he says, adding yours to the pile. Then he’s taking your hand, walking you to the edge of the ice and stepping out. “You’re definitely on the team with us though.”

You laugh, the toe of your blade barely grazing the ice and he waits patiently, a little amused as you simply hold his hand and stand there.

“Not on the team, I run the team,” you correct and he lights up as if that’s the best idea you’ve ever had, as if you could ever tell them what to do in a hockey game. You, still stranded just off to the ice.

“You hitting the ice or what boss?”

It’s Jack, that taunting lilt to his voice as he juggles a puck on his stick, slowly skating towards you guys. Childishly, you stick your tongue out at him before reaching for Nico’s other hand and letting him help you out into the ice.

The first step is a little wobbly, the fresh sheet of ice slick under your skates but Nico is just as solid as he always is, hands holding yours with a comfortable strength.

“Don’t play damsel this time,” he tells you, “I know better now.”

“I really didn’t know last time!” You defend, letting go of one hand now that you have your bearings. Nico does a slow loop around you, his finger rotating in your fist as he goes until he’s at your side, offering the crook of his elbow to you.

“Quick learner then.” He says, effortlessly moving forward with you, just as he did the first time he took you skating.

“Good teacher maybe,” you counter and he makes a happy noise, glancing down at his skates shyly.

Feeling more comfortable, trusting the bend of your knees and adjusted balance, you push off your left foot, pulling Nico forward, and then your right.

He laughs under his breath, easily catching up to match your stride. Jack and Luke come zipping by you, each parting to either side until the meet in the middle in front of you, swiftly turning until they’re skating backwards.

“You got pretty good form,” Luke compliments, watching your feet stay in perfect time with Nico’s.

“I’ve had some practice,” you admit, squeezing your fingers around Nico’s elbow as you glance at him.

Jack scoffs, “You and Nico went skating without us?”

You’ve all slowed to a lazy pace, more caught up in each other than the fun of whipping around the ice. Even so, Jack and Luke still glow with happiness, cheeks red from the cold air.

“We do a lot of things without you,” Nico replies, making them both pout dramatically. You shush him.

“It was after Philly,” you admit, “just me and him. The Met deal had gone through and he had access to the stadium now so when they put the ice in…”

Luke and Jack both go a little somber at your words, those dramatic pouts straightening into a look of sympathy.

“You never talk about then,” Jack murmurs quietly, and suddenly you can’t look at them, too overwhelmed by they’re imploring eyes. Trusting Nico to keep you from hitting the boards, you drop your gaze to your feet, watch the white ice pass under the blades.

“I know,” you nod, “to be honest I don’t remember a lot of it. But I remember skating on the field, with those big lights on. And it was so quiet, just us out there. Nico practically carried the first flew laps around because I was so scared of falling.”

More of falling and not being able to get back up, if you’re honest. Nico knew it too, had seen the way you came out of therapy earlier that morning, like everything in your body was just too heavy, too hard to carry. It all felt lighter when you were skating in the dark with him, under thousands of unseen stars. You still worried though, not wanting to slip up and have everything hit you at once, end up in tears in the middle of MetLife with him.

“I think she was faking,” Nico says, cutting through the heaviness that had settled between you two and you can’t help but snort, looking up to find him grinning. “You should’ve seen her wobbling like Bambi.”

It had been his joke that night, when you clearly weren’t having fun at first, plastered to his body for safety. He’d teased that if you wanted to touch him so badly you didn’t have to pretend to be scared. He was all yours to grab at.

A lame joke maybe but it made you laugh for the first time all day, unlocked your knees and eased your tensed shoulders. And yeah you kept a hold on him all night still, but the skating was smoother, the fear gone.

“Didn’t help that it was so cold I was shaking like a leaf,” you defend and he hums, unconvinced still. Jack and Luke are watching you in silence, a soft look on their faces but you and feel the lingering of Luke’s eyes and know immediately what he’s latched onto.

The same response to fear he has. The forgetting. It was something he only ever admitted to you, the knowledge only passed onto Nico when you couldn’t keep it to yourself.

You don’t even know if Jack has realized it.

“We’re not kids anymore ya know?” Luke says, “you could talk about it if you wanted. If anyone kinda understood, it’d be us.”

Because of their mom, who went through the same thing as you just different circumstances. They were just kids for that, unable to understand what was happening but it’s different now. They know the truth, know that’s it an almost unstoppable illness. They get it now.

“I’m fine now,” you swear, though the sentiment is sweet. They’ve got your back the same way you have theirs. But in your eyes, they are still kids, they’re yours and Nico’s kids and everything that drug you down after Philly doesn’t need to be brought to light.

Not just because it’s them but because it doesn’t matter anymore. You’re all better. You haven’t needed meds in over a year, you stopped going to weekly therapy, you stopped feeling like everything was slowly trying to suffocate you. And you don’t want to drudge up that mess, relive it for the boys.

They both give you a hard stare.

“I swear I’m good, I don’t need to talk about anything. It was a long time ago.”

Jack looks you up and down through narrowed eyes, “Well if you ever need a pretty face to share all your troubles with, M’here.”

“I have Nico’s pretty face.”

He scrunched his nose, sharing a mischievous look with Luke. “A prettier face then,”

Nico slips his elbow from your hold, taking a few quick strides until he’s practically nose to nose with Jack, bumping him with his chest.

“Stop hitting on my wife,” he grumbles, no real heat to his words and him and Jack begin lightly scuffling with each other, shoving and jabbing playfully.

You skate slowly behind them, smiling softly as Luke jumps in and starts wrestling with them. How they manage to stay up right while grabbing at each others necks and hair, you don’t know.

Together they manage to pull Nico to center ice where they’d abandoned their sticks and a bucket of pucks early. You decide to stop by the benches, perching yourself up on the boards, skates hitting the plastic as your legs sway.

You watch as Nico swipes at Jack with his a stick, smacking him in the thigh so hard he yelps. Then they’re off to the races, Nico flying down the ice with his stick in one hand, cradling the puck and the other holding Jack at arms length as he tries to poke at it with his stick.

Last minute, Nico gets a better grip, manages to slap the puck in the top corner of the net with a loud ding off the post, even with Jack jabbing at his shot.

“Ooo silky Schao,” Luke calls out teasingly as they loop back to center ice, Nico’s dimpled cheeks blooming with color at their jesting.

The sound of skates hitting the boards pulls your attention away, looking over your shoulder to find none other than Quinn Hughes there. You two stare at each other for a moment before you turn back to the ice, choosing to enjoy the view of your family horsing around rather than fight with Quinn.

He comes to stand next to you, far enough away that you couldn’t hit him if you tried but you can easily hear when he speaks in a soft tone.

“I can see you love them, so is there a reason you don’t want them around me?”

You don’t look at him, instead letting your gaze roam around the empty seats, up at the rafters. “I don’t want to fight you Quinn. And I don’t want to keep them from you either. But it’s been two days now and we still don’t know why you bothered to hit them up in the first place.”

That’s when you see the first flash of bright blue fabric, directly above center ice.

You can feel him still watching you, studying your body language as if that would give away something, a weakness maybe. He forgets you’ve been trained by the best, taught to not show anything. The same detached, cold personality that Nico pulls off so well is also engrained in you.

“You ever think that maybe I didn’t have a real reason? Maybe I just missed them and decided to do something about it?”

You look back at the seats, spotting the dark shadows sitting all the way in the top where the stadium lights don’t reach. Now that you’re looking for them, it’s easy to see.

Quinn Hughes is smart, you think. He had to be to get himself here, to survive. He somehow got himself to the top rung of the Canucks ladder, is leading a Canadian based mob when he himself isn’t even Canadian.

Which means he has tactics and plans, ways of bullying himself into places he shouldn’t be.

“No,” you answer truthfully, because you don’t think Quinn did this out of the kindness of his heart. He wants or needs something from Jack and Luke. “I know there’s always a reason, but I have no intention of getting in the way of that. I’m just here to make sure that intention doesn’t get my boys hurt.”

He raps his knuckles on the boards. “That’s that then. You stay out of my way and I’ll stay out of yours.”

Luke and Jack are juggling pucks on the blades of their sticks, laughing and hollering as Nico flips more and more of them into the air, trying to see how many they can keep in the air.

Behind them, the shadow of someone lingers in the dark tunnel of the stands.

“Deal,” you tell Quinn, “but if your way involves stepping on them to get where you’re going, then you’re tenure here in Vancouver is going to be a lot shorter then you wanted.”

He lets out a low scoff, almost a laugh and you can feel him lean in closer, dropping his tone to a whisper. “You’d be the one hurting them then,” he says, amused. “Like I said, at the end of the day, they’re my brothers.”

You think of the way Luke and Jack had screamed at each other last night, how they fought over being loyal to their family in Jersey or the family they grew up with. The sweet way they looked at you earlier, the way they’re the happiest you’ve ever seen them with Nico around.

And there’s no rattle to your voice when you finally turn to Quinn with a confident smirk. “Maybe you should go bond with your brothers,” you sneer, “after all that’s what we’re here for, right?”

He doesn’t say anything before stepping out of the bench and onto the ice, skating just as gracefully as the others to center ice.

Unsurprisingly, Nico is the one to break from the group, handing his stick off to Jack and nodding towards you. Then he’s crossing back to you, thighs straining in his already tight jeans with his each stride and you unashamedly stare at him, a sly grin on your face by the time he comes to a stop in front of you.

Parting your legs for him, he runs his hands up your thighs and to your hips until he’s standing flush against you, your arms slinking around his neck.

“What are you doing over here all by yourself?” He murmurs, leaning in to leave a tickle of a kiss to your temple.

“Watching,” you reply, “watching Jack and Luke look like they’re finally having fun. Watching the way my super hot fiancé really fills out those jeans,”

He lets out a snicker, eyes crinkling sweetly.

“And watching the way every Canuck in the building is watching us.”

Almost immediately his smile drops, eyebrows pinching together in confusion but you stop him, reaching up to cup his face and pressing your thumbs to the wrinkles, smoothing them out.

“Unguarded,” you remind him, not wanting his expression to raise any alarms. He softens, squeezing your hip gratefully and you watch as he subtly looks into the stands behind, eyes alway moving as if he were just trying to take in the arena.

“Two behind you,” he mumbles, on the second level.

“More up top,” you say, “in the walkways around the Jumbotron.”

Nico hums, letting his gaze fall back to your face, watching you search the side of the arena behind him. Not that you need to. There’s only one figure there, the same shadow in the tunnel, his only distinguishable features being his bright blue eyes, the ones that have been watching Nico.

“Someone directly across,” you say, looking to Nico before the pair of eyes can notice you. “Watching just you, this whole time. Can’t see his face but he’s got blue eyes. They like reflect the light of the ice.”

“Petey?” He asks, though he sounds unsure. And you are too. That’s not Petey, there’s something different about the gaze. It’s doesn’t hold the same friendly nature Petey seemed to have.

“No,” you say, certain. “Someone else.”

“How long have they been there?”

They could’ve been there longer, while you were all skating. Coincidentally Quinn only came out once you were alone. Meaning he either has impeccable timing or he was waiting for that moment.

You trail your thumb down the bridge of his nose, unalarmed when you say, “I don’t know. Noticed them when Quinn came out.”

Nico sighs through his nose, looking nothing but sweet and curious as he grumbles, “what did he want?”

It’s cute how can he manage to keep his face so adoring like that even when his tone is the exact opposite. You know he has to do it, has to act like whatever threatening behavior you’ve picked up on is still unknown but it endears you every time.

“For us to stay out of his way.”

Like you, Nico doesn’t have any visible reaction. The comment from Quinn definitely didn’t make you hate him any less but you’re not scared of him. Even before him the Canucks have never been any serious threat, somehow always in a rebuild. You doubt in his first year as boss that Quinn has made them the heavy hitters they need to be to get through Nico.

Something like amusement shines in Nico’s gaze. “If that’s what he really wants,” he agrees and you can’t help but smile in relief, grateful for the beautiful, overthink brain in his head that always has a plan, always knows what to do.

~~~~

“Ew did you two shower together?”

Mouth full of French fries, you freeze at the sight of Jack and Luke in the doorway, their hair messy and eyes still swollen from their naps.

They look almost amused watching you and Nico sprawled out on the bed, snuggled in your matching white hotel robes and towels twisted over your wet hair. You look to Nico, take in the way a strand of damp hair has fallen out of his towel and across his forehead, and you decide yeah this is funny.

Nico, still watching the movie you rented off the tv guide, answers them. “Do you want the real answer or the acceptable one?”

You have to choke down your bite of fries around the giggle that bubbles up from your chest. Both Jack and Luke make a face of disgust, looking to each other in horror at the implied activities that you and Nico partook in while they were resting.

“I don’t want an answer,” Jack finally mumbles, crossing the room to sit on the desk chair, the wheels of it creaking under his weight. Luke stays in the doorway, looking almost sad as Nico digs his hand into the takeout bag of fries in your lap.

“There’s more in the microwave out there,” you say, realizing that he thought you and Nico had the audacity to order food and not think about him. Not that that has ever happened before. If Luke is around, you always know to have extras waiting for him.

“Rented cartoons, bath robes, and takeout on a Saturday night,” Jack says conversationally. “You sure you two aren’t married yet?”

“Didn’t you just wake up from a nap?” Nico says dryly. “Who naps on a Saturday night? What are you, five?”

Smiling with amusement, you nudge Nico’s calf with your sock clad toes, your mirth only growing when he looks to you, the towel on his head tilting sideways at the abrupt movement.

“No,” Jack says moodily, “I was actually coming to ask you two spa princess if we could go out.”

Nico frowns, sitting up on the pillows to look around you and at Jack. “Out? Where?”

Jack shrugs. “Quinn said the Nucks have this bar they go too. I guess most of the guys are on a job tonight but him. Thought maybe we could all hang out?”

“Alone?” Nico presses.

“No with you two of course,” Jack says, kicking his feet up onto the mattress by your legs. “We know to stick with you guys.”

You press your toes harder into Nico’s leg, eyebrows pinching together questioningly. “And Luke wants to go?”

A proud smile takes over Jack’s face, sitting up straighter and with an air of superiority he says, “yes we talked all about it. United front and all that.”

Quinn’s last minute invite isn’t your favorite thing in the world, especially after everything you saw at the rink today. To be honest, it feels more like bait, wanting all of you to show up at a bar, defenses down and ready to drink. And he included the detail that the Canucks men wouldn’t be there.

Why would you car if they’re there or not? You wouldn’t, as long as they were no threat to you. Which means Quinn has a plan for his guys tonight and whether or not that includes you all is unknown.

But likely. Apparently you’re not the only one thinking that too because Nico grabs your hand, squeezing your fingers to get you to look at him. When you do, he tilts his head just a bit, brown eyes boring into yours with a stormy look.

The same look he gets before a deal.

A look that says be ready, be on your toes, be a Devil.

“Yeah,” you call back to Jack, “yeah we can go.”

~~~~

The Canucks bar for some odd reason is no where near Rogers Place.

You suppose they keep the distance for alibi reasons. If anything about a deal going down at the arena gets out, the bar tenders can cover for them, claim they were here. And with the distance between this place and their actual place of business, the time stamp would be enough to clear their names.

They also have more room here, the western territories not bleeding into each other as closely as they do on the East Coast. Nico’s said that California’s does, the three families they’re pressing in on each other like they do in New York and Jersey. It’s different though. There’s no old school rivalries out here, not like they are at home.

Even so you don’t like having this much space between the bar and the hotel, between you and safety. You’re not worried about rival gangs attacking, you’re worried about the man leaning against his sports car, smiling all too welcoming.

Jack and Luke jump out of the car as soon as Nico has shut the engine off, slamming the doors shut behind them. Taking advantage of the last moment of privacy you have, Nico reaches for your thigh, pushing your skirt up just enough Tom for him to slip his fingers under the straps of your holster, tugging on the taut fabric.

“It’s good,” you say, knowing if he tightens it anymore your leg might turn purple. Which it already might with how fucking cold it is tonight. A skirt in Vancouver in the winter isn’t ideal, but it was the safest way for you to get a weapon in without being caught. And in the event that Nico can’t reach the one in the back of his waistband quick enough, yours is handy for him and you.

“I know,” he says, giving your thigh a light swat and you wince at the sting, shooing his hand away. “Eyes peeled, ok?” He reminds you, laughing to himself as you pout and yank your skirt back down, concealing the pistol.

“I know,” you mock his tone, unbuckling your seat belt and reaching for the door. He squeezes your knee to stop you, gaze serious when you look to him.

“Be safe baby.”

You swallow, nodding. “You too,” and then because you have to be sure you add, “and keep them safe Nico, ok? Even if it means them over me-“

“No,” he shakes his head, “no I’m not going to be tracking you down from some abandoned house again. We’re all getting out of here safely.”

“We are,” you promise, “but in the off chance we can’t, you pick them.”

Annoyed, he huffs through his nose. “Even if I did, you know they’d pick you. Then what?”

That’s the point though isn’t it? You and him know Jack and Luke’s gut reaction would be to get you to safety. That’s what they were trained to do. Even if it was at the expense of themselves. So they pick you, and you pick Nico, and he picks them, everyone should get out fine.

“Then we’ll all be covered, right?”

Nico shakes his head in disbelief but time is running out and you two have to get out of the car now, before it becomes suspicious.

“Fine,” he agrees, “but only because they’re unarmed you got it? Every other time it’s you.”

Heart warming, you lean over the console to kiss him. “I know Schao.”

The air is biting when you slip out of the car, raising goosebumps on your exposed legs and stinging at your eyes and cheeks. You quickly round the front of the car, Nico awaiting you with his arm outstretched. You tuck into the warmth of his wool coat, looking to the Hughes boys.

“Alright,” Quinn says, “let’s go.”

The Canuck’s bar goes by the name of Fin’s, a large red and yellow neon sign boasting the name alongside a depiction of a whale standing on two legs.

It’s smaller than the Rock, no big open space for dancing or live music. Just the bar in the far side when you enter, booths and dark wood tables filling the rest of the space. And like Luca’s bar in Switzerland, two pool tables sit dead center.

“Are bars like the first investment every business makes?” You mutter to Nico as Quinn leads you all to a large table near the back, near the restrooms and back hallway.

He chuckles, moving to slip off your jacket for you. “Yeah,” he says, taking the chance to lean in close and whisper in your ear. “Think about what we do at the Rock. Why everyone has one.”

Then he’s ducking back, draping your jacket over the back of your chair before removing his own. You sit at the round table, Luke to your right and Nico to your left, leaving you in sight of the back entryway while he gets perfect sight of the front door.

A round of drinks gets ordered, yours and Nico’s going mostly untouched though no one comments on it. The same empty conversations from that first dinner fill in the space, the three boys sharing vague mob tales with the occasional chiming in from Nico.

You spend the night observing, playing the quiet and docile girl Quinn told you to be. Staying out of his way. And he does the same with you, no passive aggressive comments or taunting looks. He’s the perfect host, waving over more drinks when one runs low, a bowl of pretzels is offered for you and Nico to snack on but you decline that too.

Instead you smile, lay your head on Nico’s shoulder and pretend you’re simply listening the boys talk, fondly admiring them bonding with each other. Nico, broodingly sits and listens too, looking almost bored when you glance up at him. Like always though, he softens at the sight of you, his eyes going all moony and eyebrows drooping in that same sweet way a puppy’s would.

A couple hours into your bar night is when you notice a shift. The man that had been bartending when you arrived is swapped out, the newcomer immediate going about laying out clean glasses. That’s when you spot the tattoo on his arm, in the exact same area as Petey’s had been. You can’t make out the details from here but the shape is clear.

A letter C.

You want to turn to Quinn, grab his right arm and yank the sleeve of his Henley up. If you were a betting girl, you’d guess that Quinn also has the same tattoo.

It’s their mark, their pendant. More permanent and more serious than the necklace and ring you all wear in New Jersey. Higher stakes to get in and even higher ones to get out. Which means getting entry into the Canucks requires a lot more sacrifice.

A sacrifice as big as flesh and blood.

Your hand on Nico’s thigh, you squish just once to get his attention. Instantly he’s leaning forward, stretching his other arm across your lap and you grab at his forearm. Under the guise of simply petting at your fiancé, you trace your fingers over the soft hair on his arm, giving him a tender smile as you draw out the letter C.

After a few times, he seems to get it, ducking down to press a kiss to the side of your head and relaxing back into his seat.

The bar steadily fills up, the Saturday night crowd filtering in for rounds of pool and beer pitchers. Jack tells Quinn about his rookie year in Jersey, animatedly telling a story about getting into a scuffle in the Rock, one that left him with a separated shoulder and he spent most of the time on bouncer duty at the bar after that.

In with the crowd comes a couple more men with the same C tattoo on their arms. It’s ironic too because even with such a big indicator of who these men are, you maybe wouldn’t have noticed them. Except for the fact that they all keeping looking at your table. And not in the way people stare and look at Nico and the boys when they realize who they are. This is like they’re waiting for something.

A sign.

Nico is the one to realize it. You don’t know what it is, if it’s the way Quinn begins to fiddle with his ear lobe, if it’s the sound of broken glass coming from behind the bar, or something else.

Suddenly, Nico is shoving his chair back, his hand locking on the back of yours and he yanks you back. You get just enough time to catch the sight of reflective blue eyes, the same pair that watched him from the stands early today, and then you’re lunging for Luke, wrapping your arms around his shoulders and yanking him down.

“Down!” Nico yells as you cover Luke, flinching when the table gets flipped over to its side, the thick wood acting as a shield as the first couple bullets sink into it.

Nico has one hand on the back of your head, his body crouched over Jack’s but you can see him reaching for his own gun.

You’d spent enough time staring down the back hall tonight to know where to go. “Second door, move!” You demand, and Quinn being the closest takes off. Nico rises next, still guarding Jack with his body as he moves and you follow behind, doing the same with Luke.

The bar has turned into chaos, drunken Canadians stumbling for the front doors, shrieking and panicking and while it’s a little pathetic, it provides a cover.

The Canucks are unwilling to shoot their own.

Nico however holds no reservation, pausing at the intersection of the bar and hall to fire a shot straight down the hall. It meets the target with a grunt and the wet sound of wounded flesh.

Eyes still watching the patrons scramble to the front doors as the Canucks attempt to push in the opposite direction to you, Nico fires a few warning shots at the flooring, waving you and the boys to the back door.

“Y/n, come on!” Luke exclaims, rising to his full height and taking a hold of your wrist. His legs move quick, strides bigger as he yanks you down the hall.

Quinn goes crashing through the door first, an ear chattering horn noise erupting throughout the bar. Jack follows behind him and then you and Luke, stumbling into a gravel lot. Trusting Nico to be close behind, you take a moment to look around.

There’s no way of getting to the cars you arrived in. It’s a whole new lot, blocked by a large wall of hedges and the bar, a few oldie cars in the lot. You spot an old black one, still slick and well cared for, windows tinted.

“That on, go!” You shove Luke towards it and he scrambles forward with the others. You get to the passenger door, yanking the hoop out of your ear and shoving the long end into the lock.

The lock releases with a click and you yank open the door, unlocking all the doors for the boys. The three Hughes pile into the backseat as Nico bursts through the back door of the bar.

You’ve already thrown yourself over the bench seat of the car, clawing at the compartment under the wheel to get to the wires. They spring free and you strip them with your nails, unable to feel the sting on the bed of your nails even though blood blooms from underneath them.

Something metal crashes to the ground as you twist the wires, manipulating the ignition wire to the battery wire.

“What are you doing?” Jack calls frantically from the back seat, “we have to move!”

You don’t bother shushing him as you hold the bare copper of the starter wire to the others, flinching when the sparks burn at your hands.

The car sputters and you try again, holding the wires tightly in one hand and stretching the other out to press the gas. The car rumbles to life, headlights and radio flickering on and you scramble up from the seat.

Nico is in the doorway, looking down at you with wild eyes and panting. You slide back, making room for him to get in but he pauses.

“I can’t drive stick,” he says, glancing over his shoulder and letting out a “fuck, we gotta go.”

“Oh my god,” you groan, “passenger seat, go.” You shove him away, slamming the driver door shut. Everything feels like it’s moving too fast, your hands shaking and breaths coming out too quick as you shift the car into reverse.

Nico fires a few shots as he scrambles around the front of the car, aiming for the last few in the lot. The tires you realize, that way you can’t be followed.

He’s barely flung himself into the seat before you backing out of the spot. “Seatbelts, all of you!” You bark, and through the windshield you notice that Nico’s has thrown something in front of the door, a large hunk of metal that had been in the back alley and it’s enough to delay the men trying to get out.

Arms peek out, clawing and shoving at whatever it is he found to show them down. Nico reaches over your head, getting a hold of your seatbelt and yanking it across your chest as you peel out of the lot, sending him flying back into the leather seats.

“Who were those guys?” Luke asks from the backseat, breathless and frantic. You don’t get a chance to answer him, flinging the car out of the alley and down the road, pressing the clutch in to quickly shift up to second gear, then third.

Behind you, headlights shine into the rear windshield, flickering as the car recklessly bounds over the road and you know immediately it’s unwanted company.

“Nico,” you warn, getting cut off by the dinging of bullets hitting the back of the vehicle. In the backseat Luke and Jack duck down, hiding their heads behind the seat and covering each other.

You can’t see Quinn not that you even care too. He wasn’t in your protection plan tonight, not that he’d need it with his own men being the perpetrators. Yet here he is, perfectly safe in the backseat of your getaway vehicle.

After offering no help, no assistance to his brothers. His supposed family.

Nico cranks his window open, shoving the top half of his body out and you want to reach out, to grab at his leg to offer some sort of safety but you can’t.

All you can do is drive. The single lane road turns into the four lane drive you came down when you drove out to the bar. Faintly, you can hear Nico firing shots of his own back towards the vehicle but you’ve joined Saturday traffic now, cutting between cars to weave your way through traffic.

Nico wobbles where he’s perched on the window, slipping back into the seat when it becomes clear he can no longer fire into cars full of citizens.

“How many of them?” You ask as he anxiously looks through the mirrors for the car trying to match your driving, following you through red lights and scraping by cars you pass on the shoulder.

But they’re slower and bulkier, unable to keep up enough.

“Just the one,” he pants, “I think your losing them-“

A bullet hits the front hood of the car, ricocheting into the windshield and splintering it. Nico flinches, makes a move to dive in front of you but stops, knowing he can’t block your view.

Just ahead, coming at you straight on from the other side of the overpass is a silver SUV, the barrel of a gun sticking out the passenger window.

Gripping the wheel, you hit the gas harder, yanking on the gear shift. Barreling at the oncoming car, Nico braces himself on the dash, glancing at you worriedly.

“Baby you can’t win a game of chicken when they have a gun,” he exclaims but you’re not trying to. You just have to beat them to the overpass of the highway.

You don’t know if they’re stupid or caught off guard by you heading straight for them, but the shots have ceased, at least for the moment and by the time they have their bearings back, your yanking the wheel to the left, just barely scraping past the SUV as more bullets ping into the side of the trunk.

Nico slides into the side of the door with a thump, the boys in the back letting out exclamations you can’t even understand as you ramp the car across the median and up the ramp.

“Holy fuck,” Nico gasps, and you weave through traffic, ignoring the blaring horns as you try to put as much space as possible between you and the two vehicles before they can get flipped around and join you on the highway.

You glance in the review mirror, find Jack and Luke both turned around and peering out the back windshield. Nico, chest heaving is watching his side mirror, knuckles white on his gun.

“Do you see anyone?” You ask Nico, still barreling down the left lane of the highway at 120.

“No I think you lost them at the highway. At least for now.”

You shifts down, slipping over into the next lane, steadily making your way until you’re cruising in the right lane. Then you take the next exit, running the yellow light as you direct the car down a commercial street, the buildings compact and streets narrow now that you’re nearing downtown.

Finding a public parking sign, you yank the car into a parking garage, tire squealing on the cement. You stay on the first level, navigating to the back far corner where you pull in between two cars, hoping they’ll hide your damaged one if they somehow manage to track you down.

Throwing the car in the park, you cling to the steering wheel, fingers numb and arms jittery. The boys don’t move either but you can hear them all taking deep breathes, no doubt trying to calm their racing hearts the way you are.

You slump forward, the horn letting out a hunk when you rest your head on the steering wheel. The sound makes Nico jump, his knee hitting the dash and he winces but it seems to shake him out of his stupor.

His hand finds the back of your neck, fingers digging into the tense muscle and you’re thankful your hair is hiding your face when tears sting at your eyes.

You force back the lump in your throat, squeezing your eyes shut. “Are you ok?” You ask, your voice just a croak but he hears it.

“M’fine, he swears, massaging at the lower spot on your neck. “A little turned on I’m not gonna lie.”

“Same.”

“Me too.”

“Yeah me too.”

You can’t see him, but you can feel Nico turning to the back seat, glaring at three boys back there and you could laugh if it were for the way something is bubbling in your chest, expanding into a terrible pain.

Suddenly you remember Quinn, feel his presence in the car like rotten leftovers forgotten in the fridge. You bolt up right, shoving open the door and it bangs into the car next to you with a crunch but you don’t care.

It’s like something else is moving your body, jittery as you rip open Quinn’s door and grab at him, catching the collar of his shirt.

“Whoa, whoa, wait!” He yelps but you’re yanking him out, his legs stumbling and hitting the door as you drag him out and onto the concrete. By now the other boys are clambering out of the car, coming around the trunk to find Quinn on his knees, your skirt hitched up as you grab your gun.

“What are you doing?” Jack asks, reaching for your arm but Nico wraps his arms around him, pinning him to his chest. “Stop! Let me go!” He demands but he won’t fight Nico. You both know that.

Clicking the safety, Quinn looks up into the barrel of your pistol.

“Talk,” you spit, watching him shift into his haunches, his arms hanging pathetically at his sides. Even so, he looks up at you with wide, terrified eyes.

“W-what did I do?” He whines, lip wobbling, “they were shooting at me too ya know?”

“Bullshit!” You kick at his knee, pressing the gun in closer. “I saw them today. All of them at the rink, watching us.”

Quinn trembles, “I don’t know what you’re talking about!” He looks to his brothers. “Luke, Jack come on. You know I wouldn’t! I wouldn’t!”

You don’t take your eyes off Quinn and it’s Luke that steps closer, reaching a tentative hand out to you. “Y/n,” he whispers, “you don’t know it was him, let’s at least talk-“

“Pull his sleeve back,” you demand, “the right sleeve pull it back.”

The color drains from Quinn’s face, his fingers shaking as Luke crouches down and grabs his wrist, pushing the sleeve up to his elbow. Sure enough, inked proudly into his skin, in the Canuck C.

“The bartender had one too,” you say, Luke backing away from his brother “and the one playing pool.”

“And the one Nico shot,” Jack says weakly, a hint of disbelief in his voice. “I-I didn’t see what it was but it was that same spot.”

Finally, a look of defeat washes over Quinn and he slumps down into a pathetic mess at your feet, yanking his sleeve back down and squeezing his eyes shut in frustration.

“No one was actually going to get hurt,” he says through a sigh and you let out a disbelieving laugh.

“We were shot at!” Jack exclaims with a hysterical lilt.

“I know, I know,” Quinn concedes, hanging his head as he spills the rest. “It was part of the plan.”

The story tumbles from his lips in a low tone, heavy as they hit the two boys beside you. Quinn swears to them that he did want them to visit, did want to see them now that he was no longer under the boot of Horvat. Now that he could make decisions.

But the mob here is different, he claims. It’s religion, it’s life, it’s everything. He can’t have any hint of disloyalty or they’re kill him. He had to prove he was a Canuck through and through. The only real way he could do that is by offering up the only thing away from the Canucks that he cares about: His brothers.

He set the plan, promised he’d get them out here and in the bar tonight so the other men could take their best shots. If they missed tonight, that was it. Quinn had done his part and they fumbled theirs. He was all clear.

Which is why he let you and Nico come along. The safety of Jack and Luke was supposed to come down to you two, exactly how it had. He knew he couldn’t do anything to throw off the plan, but he could ensure you and Nico were suspicious enough to read it all. So he pushed your buttons, put you on edge, threatened you until you hated him. Until you were angry enough to analyze everything about him. And he knew Nico would follow you, could tell from the minute you stepped off the jet that while Nico led all the boys, you led him.

“I wanted you guys to be safe,” he croaks, eyes red and teary as he looks to his brothers. “But you wouldn’t be safe with me, I couldn’t do it. I swear I did it all to protect you.”

The story hangs in the air, a pathetic excuse for the selfish actions of an older brother. All of this, the hope he gave the boys when he invited them, playing into their past with the nicknames and jokes, putting them at ease at the rink was all for his own benefit.

All to save his own skin.

A hand locks around the front of your gun, thin fingers wrapping around the barrel and nudging it down. You slowly drop it, watching on edge as Luke comes to stand in front of his brother.

Wiggling out of Nico’s hold, Jack joins him.

“Say something,” Quinn sniffles, “say you believe me, please.”

“We believe you,” Luke nods, voice sounding detached. You glance at Nico, find his gun held readily in front of him as he analyzes Quinn, just in case. “But we don’t care.”

Quinn’s mouth drops open, lip quivering as he blinks up at Jack. “Rowdy, I had no choice. I made sure you wouldn’t get hurt.”

Shaking his head, Jack croaks, “You were right Moose, he’s not our family.”

Quinn scrambles forward, shaking his head desperately. “You don’t mean that,” he insists, “you don’t mean that. It’s us guys, it’s always been us.”

“No,” Jack spits, “it’s always been me and Luke. And now it’s us,” he waves an arm out towards you and Nico. “Us, no you.”

“What’s the difference Jack?” Quinn asks, “what’s the difference between me rigging a deal and what Nico throws you into everyday?

“I know about Philly, how you all shot up Fargo, how it burned. Did they think about you Jack, about your safety when you ran in there?”

“I did it to save my family,” Jack scoffs, “not to prove myself. And Nico wouldn’t even let me in the building anyway. Because it was too dangerous. He’s never put us in something like this. Especially not without us knowing.”

Throwing an arm around his brother, Luke stands taller. “We choose to go into fights with them. We choose them every time. Because they chose us when no one else did.”

Just like that, the door for any more begging is closed. Jack steps back, guiding Luke with him as they move to huddle behind Nico. In sync, you and Nico surround him, guns still armed and ready.

Quinn wipes at his wet cheeks, face tormented and pitiful. “Hischier,” he murmurs, “you gotta know I didn’t want them to get hurt. I trusted you and you did exactly what I thought you would. Tell them please.”

You don’t know what to do if you’re being honest. Quinn used them, he walked all over them exactly how you thought he would. They were a stepping stone to his legacy here. Even if he seems genuine in his belief that you and Nico would keep the boys safe, even if he were certain that they’d be ok, he still used them. He still broke that trust.

“You told me to stay out of your way,” you remind him, clicking the safety on your gun and letting it drop to your side “so I am.”

All that stands before him now is Nico. The devil himself, the last person you want hovering over you. Skillfully, Nico lifts the gun to Quinn’s forehead, finger on the trigger. For the first time, you notice the trail of crimson red blood smeared down his right arm, not enough to be concerning, but your throat goes dry realizing that somewhere along the way, he got caught.

“Nico…” Quinn trembles.

“I’ll kill him,” your fiancé calls over his shoulder, muscles tense under his black shirt, strained with anger. “They’ll come after us eventually, but I’ll do it.”

Jack and Luke duck their heads together, clinging to each other the way they did in the car, protecting each other. You think of Nico’s story about them, huddled together on the curb outside the Rock. Did they look just like this? Faces shrunken from hunger and exhaustion, the smaller frames of teenagers?

“No,” Jack says after he’s lifted his head. “We just want to go home.”

It takes Nico a moment to drop the gun, to fully accept the decision Jack has made and you know it’s because he doesn’t agree. He wants to kill Quinn, he wants to keep him away from Jack and Luke forever. His boys, you recall, from the moment he first met them.

He does listen though, dropping the gun to his side and backing away from Quinn. You stop him with a hand on his lower back, half hiding behind his large frame. Without looking away from Quinn, he nods towards the parking garage exit.

“Let’s go, I’ll call a car.”

You let the boys go first, arms still wrapped around each other as they lifelessly trudge towards the street. Nico nudges you to follow, but you can’t. Because no matter what he did, no matter how much Quinn hurt Jack and Luke, you know it’s not enough.

They’ll always love him. They’ll always ache for him.

“You can fix it,” you say and his head snaps up to look at you. “Not anytime soon but you’re right about one thing. You’re their brother. If you decide that means something though, it’ll be them or the Canucks. You can’t have both.”

With that you and Nico turn, following after your boys and leaving Quinn Hughes behind.

~~~~

The room is dark, only the yellow glow of the city lights coming through the window acting as a guide for you to round the bed on the far side of the room. The one closest to the door lay empty, the sheets pristine and untouched after housekeeping refreshed the room earlier.

It’s Jack’s bed, his clothes thrown in a ball on top and his half open suitcase on top. Silently, you pick up the inside socks littering the floor, tossing them onto the bed with the rest of his clothes.

Jack and Luke are tucked into the bed, soft snores coming from the younger boys mouth. He’s curled up small, a pillow mashed and folded to his chest. Despite the events of the night, he sleeps like the dead.

And Jack, as usual is star-fished across most of the bed, his arm thrown over Luke and mouth hanging open.

With careful fingers, you ease the blankets out from under Jack’s limbs, pulling them up and over his chest. Gently, you tuck them in around his neck, leaning down to press a kiss to forehead, cautious to not ruffle the hair fallen into his eyes or wake him.

Then you tiptoe to Luke’s side, tucking him in the same and leaving a kiss on top of his head. For a moment, you just watch them, reminding yourself that they’re okay, that they’re safe. You already checked the locks on their door, made sure the deadbolt was turned and chain in place. You’re about to go check again, just in case when Nico stops you.

You can’t make out his face in the shadow of the doorway, the silhouette of him taking up the whole frame. He’s propped up against it, arms crossed over his torso and still as a statue. But when you don’t move, just look at him and feel that same bubble of rage from earlier still pressing on your heart, he reaches an arm out to you.

His palm is rough and warm in yours, strong as you pulls you into his chest. Pressing a kiss to your forehead, he grabs the back of your neck in gentle fingers, urging you out of the room.

You stop, reaching back to close the door until it’s just cracked open. Enough so that if the boys need you, if they call out you can still hear them.

Clinging to Nico’s arm, cheek against the bicep that had flexed as he toyed with the trigger of his gun, as he protected you and the boys, you walk in silence back to your room. You heart pounds in your chest, painful and all consuming.

By the time you’ve crossed the threshold, Nico leaving your door open just a hair too, your breathing is ragged and panicked. Not a panic attack though, not something heavy and sinking.

No this is rage. Hot and burning, rising in your gut and chest, up your throat until you feel like you’re going to explode. Faintly you can hear Nico shushing you, walking you back into the elegant bathroom until your back hits the cool tile of the sink.

Two hands catch under your arms, heaving you up onto the counter and you bite at the inside of your cheek, feel tears rolling down your cheeks, hot and fat.

“Talk to me baby,” Nico says, cupping your face and you blink, the hazy blobs of color you were looking through focusing into him, into his dark eyes, his handsome face.

“ I shouldn’t have said that,” you mutter angrily, “I shouldn’t have told Quinn he could fix it, that he could be better. I should’ve let Jack and Luke walk away and then put a bullet through his head.”

If he’s taken aback by your anger, he doesn’t show it, not really. His eyebrows simply knit together in concern, lips parting. “No you couldn’t have, they never would’ve forgiven you. The same way you did with Rino, you made the right decision, the one a boss makes. You didn’t listen to your emotions, didn’t let it get personal-“

“It was personal!” You shout, furious at him for disagreeing, at yourself for even coming out here in the first place, at Quinn for every decision he’s made since getting to Vancouver. “It’s more personal than Rino and Lena, Nico because they’re kids!”

You feel hysterical, out of your body and you cry and yell at him as if any of this is his fault at all. Later, when your same again hopefully, you’ll apologize but right now you can’t stop.

“They were just kids and he left them,” you wail, spewing out more hurtful words about how Quinn abandoned them. How he left them in Michigan with just an ill mother, knowing they wouldn’t be able to survive alone. He never checked on them, never visited. Lied about coming back for them. All before Luke was even old enough to have hair on his chest and before Jack could even call himself a teenager.

“He put them in danger,” you hiccup, furiously wiping at your cheeks “Kids, Nico, our kids!”

He helplessly shushing you, grabbing at your wrists and pulling them down from your face. Two strong arms wrap around you, pinning you into his shoulder and you bury your woeful sobs into his shirt.

“He was supposed to protect them. Why did no one protect them? Why did-“

Nico strokes through your hair, his lips pressed in tight by your ear when he starts pleading with you, voice tight and certain.

“We did,” he interrupts, “we protected them baby. You did, did you see yourself tonight? You were smarter and quicker than all of us, you spotted everything before it happened and had a plan for it. You protected them, you saved them.”

“I was too late,” you argue pathetically, squeezing your eyes shut. “It’s too late Nico. They’ll never get over being left like that, being unwanted by your family, it doesn’t go away Nico and I couldn’t keep them from that, I couldn’t-“

“That’s not on you,” Nico insist harshly, his hand tightening on your neck. “You can’t go back and fix things that happened before you knew them, can’t wrap them in bubble wrap. But you can do it now, you can help them heal now and you have.

“They know they have a family, that they’re ours and they’re ok. They picked us today, did you see that? They trusted you when you lead them to that car, when you threw yourself in front of them. Because that’s what family does, is protect.”

Hiccuping, you sniffle sadly. “I can’t do it anymore,” you whimper, “I can’t take how much it hurts to do this. I can’t live knowing that their family didn’t save them, Alex’s didn’t save him, even yours Nico..how am I supposed to just accept that? To fix that?”

He pulls back, eyes wet and pained as they trail over your face. “You don’t have to fix it, you just need to shoulder it for a bit. Until they can carry it themselves.”

You shake your head, a fresh wave of tears streaming down your cheeks. His grip on your chin tightens, forcing you to keep looking at him.

“You can do it, you’ve been doing it. There’s a reason they come to you, a reason Jack loved you from the first night he met you. A reason Alex comes to your side of the bed when he can’t sleep, when something goes wrong your his first call. And Luke, almost everything about him is you. His strength, his sense of humor, his protectiveness was drawn in by yours.

“Because you see them, you see these kids that have been left behind and instead of turning them away, you love them. You make them accept love.”

His palm dries your cheeks, thumb tracing a soothing line over your trembling lip. “And you did it for me first baby. I was a stupid kid when we met, not ready for any of this and you saw right through it. You picked me. And you carried things you never should’ve had to until I could deal with it.

“Yours the strongest person I’ve ever met, baby. So you can do this and you will because that’s who you are. That’s what makes you, you.”

He’s panting by the end of his speech, chest heaving and eyes wild, begging you to see, to understand. And he’s right. You’ve never looked at the boys and ever thought of turning them away. Everything about them pulled you in, tugged at your heartstrings, made you love them.

You saw yourself in them, with no family to love or want you. You saw Nico, used and tossed to the side by his family. No one saved him, but you could save these ones.

“Drag racing,” you cough out and his whole face twists in confusing.

“What?”

“The car,” you explain, taking in a ragged breath. “The driving and hot wiring. I learned it in high school. With a friend that used to drag race.”

A devastatingly beautiful smile takes over his face, eyes glossy and so full of love as they look at you. He presses his thumb into the dip of your chin, laughing softly.

“It was smart,” he says, “you were smart. And I mean it, you saved us.”

Slowly, you lift your hand to show him the finger’s you used to claw at the wires in the car, the cracks under your nails stained with blood from where they broke back.

“It’s easier with a knife,” you murmur, and he leans in, pressed a gentle kiss to the pads of them. You’ve never done that before, stripped a wire with your hands like that. You didn’t even know if it was possible, how you did it.

“I should’ve given you mine,” he murmurs, and he’s leaning back, hands falling to your waist. With the newfound space you take in a deep breath, look over his figure. “You would’ve been better off with it.”

“I lost the earring you gave me,” you say, eyes falling onto his bandaged arm. It ended up being just a nick, not even deep enough for stitches. A bullet had just barely caught him, popped off the taillight and up at his arm while he was hanging out the window.

“I’ll buy you new ones,” he promises, grabbing at your chin again, tilting your head to look at him instead of the covered wound. “You saved us all tonight,” he repeats, “more than once. And that’s how I know you can do this.”

You take another deep breath, let his words sink in, let them press down on that bubble of rage until it deflates back into nothing. Nico’s never been wrong about you before, even when he was keeping you away for protection. He’s always known what you could do, what you could carry.

“Will you help me?” You whisper, fisting the hem of his shirt in your hand. He strokes through your hair, nodding.

“Of course I will,” he promises, “they’re our kids right? So we’ll do it together.”

Whatever comes tomorrow, whatever Jack and Luke you wake up to, if they’re angry, if they’re sad, if you have to drag them back to life the way Nico once did for you, you’ll handle it. You and him will carry it always.

i said i was a fan of lando…. i never said i was a lando fan….