I Hope The Entire Tkachuk Family Rots In Hell. Fucking Disgraceful Family.

tower fics are so back baby

bringing back this video for no reason

ahhhhh!!! this was so good! i have a question, did you research fire tips for this? cause i was thinking that for the whole p a s s part and just thought it was funny

All up in Flames

Pairing: Firefighter!Bucky x Reader

Summary: You just want your toxic ex-boyfriend’s things to stop haunting your apartment. So you let your friends lit the match. But then the sirens come, and with them Bucky Barnes, who puts out more than just the flames.

Word Count: 9.4k

Warning: destruction of personal property; toxic relationship themes (not Bucky); mentions of an ex-partner; anxiety symptoms; fire; consequences of own actions; reader’s ex is an oc; mentions of ghosting and manipulation; Wanda, Natasha and the Reader are roommates

Author’s Note: I'm not sure how this started, but I felt a strong urge to indulge my unexpected obsession with Bucky as a firefighter. This is ever so slightly inspired by a scene from the series friends. There is an, although fluffy, but also really angsty second part coming up to this in the next few days. The writing part is complete, but I still need to finish some editing. In the meantime, I would love to hear what you think. I hope you enjoy ♡

Part two

Masterlist

You are not okay.

You are so far from okay that if you sent a postcard to okay it would get lost in transit, eaten by a dog, and then set on fire.

Which sounds stupid. But that’s about the luck you are blessed with.

The sun is setting and it might be doing you a favor with that. Spilling soft gold across the city skyline, painting your apartment’s tiny rooftop garden in a glow so warm and gentle it almost feels like forgiveness.

But you’re not in the mood for forgiveness.

You are in the mood for revenge. The emotional, irrational, wonderfully dramatic kind. The kind that smells of smoke and fury and the remnants of a man who once claimed to love you but couldn’t even spell commitment if it came with a free fantasy football draft.

Nolan Aspey. Even his name is a rotting corpse in your mind.

You’re sitting on an old beanbag chair shaped like a strawberry. It squelches when you move. You suspect it might be leaking. You don’t care. Your body is wrapped in a bathrobe that isn’t yours. It’s Natasha’s. It’s also silk, red, and wildly inappropriate for rooftop lounging in May. Still, she insisted. Said heartbreak demands drama.

To your right is Wanda, perched on a rusted garden chair stolen from the community center’s Zumba class. She’s nursing a glass of something suspiciously green and swirling it as though it’s a portion, legs crossed, eyes twinkling with mischief. Her nails are black and so is her soul. You love her for it.

To your left is Natasha, preparing your small setup. She’s wearing aviator sunglasses even though the sun is barely hanging onto the sky, and you’re sure she’s doing it for the aesthetic.

You stare at the setup. There is a bottle of wine - half full, or half empty, depending on whether you’re crying or screaming at any given moment - and a Bluetooth speaker playing a playlist titled Sad Bitch Anthems Vol. 1

You don’t feel like a bitch, though. You feel more like 73% pathetic and 27% rage.

Because in front of you, next to the trash can Natasha is placing - on a cracked terracotta platter that used to house a very unfortunate basil plant - is the pile.

Your ex-boyfriend’s stuff. A pile of heartbreak. The skeletal remains of your relationship.

One hoodie that still holds traces of his cologne - a scent that haunts your dreams and also your laundry hamper. Four concert tickets from that indie band he dragged you to. Two dozen Polaroids of smiles that now feel counterfeit. A necklace he gave you from a kiosk in the mall and claimed was real moonstone but it was plastic, who would have guessed. A series of agonizingly handwritten love letters he sent you after ghosting you for a week. A book you lent him that he never returned, except now it’s water-damaged and somehow sticky. You don’t want to ask why. And a mug that says Boss Man.

You’ve always hated that mug.

You stare at the pile and the pile stares back.

“Okay,” Natasha starts, stretching the word out and flicking open a Zippo lighter with a casually pleasing look. “Let’s set this bitch ablaze.”

“I don’t know,” you hesitate, like a woman who knows this is a terrible idea and is about to do this anyway. “Is this even legal?”

“Is heartbreak legal?” Wanda asks dramatically, putting on oven mitts and holding a fire extinguisher as though it’s a designer clutch. “Is betrayal legal? Is gaslighting-”

“We get it,” you cut in quickly. “He sucked.”

“Oh he did more than suck,” Natasha exclaims, crouching beside the metal trash bin. “He emotionally vaporized you.”

“And that’s why we’re liberating his soul,” Wanda nods solemnly, her Sokovian accent making everything sound like a funeral dirge or a hex. “With fire.”

“Alright, you freaks,” you chuckle a little weakly, something tugging at your chest. “I just- I feel like we should say something,” you continue, voice low. As though you’re standing over a grave.

Wanda lifts an eyebrow. “An eulogy?”

Natasha, already about to strike the match, snorts. “A spell, more like.”

You ignore them. Or try to.

You reach down, pick up the hoodie. Hold it in your hands as though it still is something important to you. You hate that. And it’s ridiculous because he once wore this while spilling bean dip all over your white couch and didn’t even apologize.

Still, you hesitate.

“I mean,” you go on, voice small, “is this crazy? Like, should I be processing this more healthily?”

Natasha tosses the match into the bowl with all the ceremony of a seasoned arsonist. “This is healthy,” she says lowly. “You’re purging. This is emotional detox.”

Wanda nods. “Also, we brought marshmallows.”

You stare.

She lifts a grocery bag. “In case the fire gets big enough.”

You want to protest. To say something sensible. Something like, this surely is illegal, or this is definitely going to attract attention, or rooftop gardens are not structurally designed for bonfires. But instead, you sigh. Pick up one of the letters. Hold it above the flames that are just beginning to flicker.

“I hope he can feel this from wherever he’s ghosting people now.”

The paper catches as though it was waiting for this moment. As though it has always wanted to be free of the nonsense inked into it.

Wanda claps softly. “To ashes.”

“To cleansing,” Natasha adds, sipping her wine while watching you in satisfaction.

You pick up the mug next. Look at it one last time, the painted letters mocking you with their ceramic certainty. Then you chuck it into the trash can. The sound it makes - crack, splinter, dead - is gratifying in a way therapy can’t afford to be.

Your therapist would say this is unhealthy.

Your landlord would say this is grounds for eviction.

Your heart says burn all of it to ashes.

You sit back. Watch as the fire grows bolder, licking up the fabric of his old hoodie. The smoke rises in ribbons, curling around the string lights above and the half-dead succulents in your rooftop sanctuary.

The flames kill fabric, memories, and lies. For a few seconds, it’s cathartic.

You feel free, weirdly, relaxing in your seat. Powerful. Slightly unhinged.

Wanda lets out a feral scream and throws in a pair of his socks.

Natasha sips wine straight from the bottle, smirking.

You’re laughing. Or crying. Or both.

Then there is a crackle.

A pop.

“Is it supposed to make that sound?” Wanda asks, a little too casually.

Natasha shades her eyes with her hand. “Oh.”

“Oh?” you repeat. There’s dread in your voice. A sweet, rising note of oh no I didn’t sign up for actual consequences.

“The candle wax spilled,” Natasha states, calm.

“Why was there wax?” you ask, less calm.

“I thought it would smell nice. Vanilla coconut. Seasonal.”

Wanda leans forward. “Um.”

The fire gets bigger.

It gets way bigger.

The flames lap - ever so enthusiastically - at the rim of the metal bin and start talking to the wind and now the wind is flirting back and suddenly this has escalated into something biblical.

“Uh,” you let out.

“Don’t panic,” Wanda says, panicking.

“I am panicking,” you shout, slapping at a spark that just landed on your blanket as though it’s a bug from hell.

Natasha grabs the fire extinguisher from Wanda after she only fumbles around with the handle.

Wanda holds out her wine as though it might help.

You just stare at the roaring column of flame that used to be your dignity and think you should have just blocked Nolan like a normal person.

“Should I call someone?”

“I mean,” Natasha says, still somewhat calm, brushing ash from her robe, “probably-”

Wanda does it for you.

You hear her muttering into her phone, giving your apartment number like it’s a confession while fanning the smoke with a pizza box.

And you sit there with that sinking, desperate feeling that comes only from realizing you made a terrible life choice, and you’re about to pay for it in paperwork and possibly a visit from the landlord.

The air is full of smoke and regret and singed hoodie.

At least his cologne no longer stings in your nose.

You fan the flames uselessly with a throw pillow and silently pray the neighbors of you three are too busy binge-watching reality TV to notice that the building might be on the brink of spontaneous combustion.

All you wanted was to burn some memories. Some manipulative words. A tiny, hoodie-shaped piece that saw you cry on two separate birthdays. The hoodie that watched you fall asleep restlessly on couches that weren’t yours. The hoodie he left behind as though it meant nothing, as though you meant nothing.

So now you are holding a pillow with shaking hands and a mouthful of second guesses, standing over a metal bin on your rooftop, trying not to make eye contact with the fire as it gets uglier.

And Natasha doesn’t seem to know how to use a fire extinguisher either, bits of foam leaving it, like tiny sprinkles.

You try to help with your blanket. The one with the flowers on it.

They start faintly.

The sirens.

Growing louder.

Like judgment. Or fate. Or the consequences of impulsively burning your romantic history without a permit.

That sound, loud and authoritative and promising rescue, bounces off the buildings and down alleyways like a soundtrack written just for your mental breakdown.

Somewhere in the distance, a car alarm starts wailing as though even it can’t handle the drama.

You hear the brakes of the fire truck before you see it. Hear the way they hiss and groan against the street as though the truck is just as tired of cleaning up after emotionally unstable civilians as you are of being one.

You lean over the ledge of the roof, peering down like Rapunzel mid-crisis, and there it is.

Big. Red. Serious.

Three firemen step out. Their silhouettes are backlit by flashing lights. You feel, absurdly, as though you’re in a heist film. Or a rom-com. Or a public service announcement.

One of them is talking into a radio.

One of them is already unloading equipment.

And one of them is looking up.

At you.

He squints. Cocks his head slightly. Takes you in.

A moment later, they’re clomping up the stairs, boots loud against the old steel.

The door to the rooftop bursts open.

You are trying very hard to look like someone who has not created a situation requiring professional intervention. But you know it’s not working.

You expect seriousness. Gruffness and unamused men, middle-aged with a mustache and a strong opinion on smoke detectors.

But the men walking onto your rooftop are none of that.

There is a blond one. Tall. Built like the world’s most polite oak tree.

Another one is smiling. Smirking. Radiating fun uncle energy despite the full turnout gear.

And the last one. He’s tall and broad and also wears the full gear - helmet tucked under one arm, soot-smudged gloves on the other - and still, he manages to look as though he walked off the set of a calendar shoot titled America’s Hottest Emergency. He’s the one who looked up at you from below.

“Evening, ladies,” he says, voice low and a little raspy, as though he chews gravel for breakfast but politely wipes his mouth after.

His eyes are blue. Clear. Kind.

His gear fits him as though it was pressed in heaven.

He’s calm. Collected. He glances once at the smoking bin, then at Natasha holding a fire extinguisher as though it might double as a weapon, then back at you.

“This the source?”

His voice is deep and even and somehow gentle. He gestures toward the bin, that’s now doing its best impersonation of a forge. The fire’s down to a few stubborn flames now, black smoke rising into the sky.

“Yes,” you answer, after what is definitely too long a pause.

His name tag says Barnes.

His uniform is clean and neat and slightly smudged at the knees. His hands are gloved. His expression is unreadable.

“We take it from here,” says the blond with the tag Rogers, already moving toward the bin.

“We’ve got a call about open flame, potential spread. You ladies okay?” Barnes speaks up again.

You open your mouth.

Wanda opens her mouth.

Natasha gets there first.

“It was controlled.”

He raises an eyebrow. Glances at the still-smoldering hoodie, the wine, the melted candle that now looks as though it’s auditioning for a horror movie.

“It was semi-controlled,” she clarifies.

Barnes exchanges a glance with his colleague, the one dousing the final embers. The patch on his jacket says Wilson.

“Uh-huh,” he simply lets out, though there is a hint of amusement in his tone. He doesn’t laugh. But his eyes sparkle as though he wants to.

You want the ground to open up and swallow you. You want to disappear, evaporate into smoke like the hoodie, the letters, the relationship, your pride.

You clear your throat.

Barnes already turns back to you. And oh. Oh.

His intense gaze is doing things to you.

And it doesn’t help that your face probably is covered in soot and existential shame.

“Just out of curiosity,” Bucky says slowly, a small tug at the corner of his mouth. “What exactly were you trying to do?”

Natasha folds her arms.

“Therapy,” she responds, as though it’s obvious. “We were doing therapy.”

“With fire?” Wilson chimes in, skeptical and mildly delighted.

“Had a rough night,” Wanda offers suddenly. “Her ex. Real piece of work.”

You inhale sharply. “Wanda,” you warn, wobbling with the effort to appear dignified while wearing fuzzy socks and an aggressively red bathrobe that’s slowly coming untied.

“No, he was,” she insists. “He lied. Manipulated her. Ghosted her after a year of dating. Said he wasn’t ready for a relationship, for commitment, and whatnot, and then got engaged. Two weeks later. To someone who doesn’t even like dogs.”

You see Barnes wince.

“Damn,” Wilson lets out.

You close your eyes for a moment.

The rooftop is very still, save for the hiss of water on ashes.

Barnes doesn’t laugh.

He doesn’t say anything for a second. Just looks at you. Measures you.

“That’s rough.” His voice comes low. Even. However, there is more to it.

You nod once. You’re not sure what else to say.

He runs a hand over the back of his neck. He looks as though he wants to say something else. Something a little softer. But the blond speaks up.

“Next time you feel like getting rid of things,” he says, voice sympathetic, but firm, “might want to try a donation bin.”

Natasha smirks. “Not as satisfying.”

Roger’s lips twitch. Just barley. “Well, if you’re going to keep burning stuff, maybe give us a heads-up next time.”

You just want to be swallowed by something. The earth maybe while we’re at it.

Bucky’s eyes are soft. Subtle. Like watching an iron door swing open just a crack.

“Did it help, though?” he asks, seeming sincere.

You blink.

You certainly didn’t expect a question like that. You might have expected teasing. Or mockery. Not gentleness. Understanding. As though he stood where you are. As though maybe he tried to burn his past too.

You nod, a little shyly. “A little.”

The fire has now been extinguished. Wilson and Rogers share a few words, poking the ashes with a metal rod.

And Bucky still looks at you as though you are not ridiculous. As though you are not ash-streaked and emotionally unstable.

Then he clears his throat. Smiles a slow, crooked, criminally charming smile. It’s the kind of smile that makes you want to confess things. Dreams. Secrets. Your social security number.

“Well,” he starts smoothly. “Fire’s out. No citation this time, but maybe go easy on the candle sacrifices.”

You feel something in your chest flutter. Or combust. Honestly, hard to tell at this point.

You want to thank him. You want to say something easy. But you are still a hot, melted candle of a person yourself.

So instead, you nod. “Okay,” you promise, voice rather small.

He tips an imaginary hat. Then turns back to his team. Taps his helmet once against his leg and gives the others a low command you can’t hear.

The moment is over. Clean-up begins. The fire is out. The chaos is settling.

But for some reason, your heart is still making noise.

****

Time doesn’t tiptoe.

It lumbers, loud and unbalanced, dragging itself across your days with all the grace of a wounded elephant.

But still, it moves. And you start to feel like yourself again. Piece by piece.

You sweep the ash out of your ribcage. You remember what it feels like to listen to music without flinching. To laugh and mean it. To make pasta at two in the morning just because you want to. To exist without waiting for the next disappointment.

It’s enough for you to walk barefoot again without stepping on invisible landmines disguised as memory - his coffee mug, his toothbrush, his phone charger, his smell stuck to your pillowcase like grief with a cologne subscription.

But all of that is gone now. Burned.

Literally.

Charcoal in a rooftop bin. Ashes scattered to the wind like bad omens. The hoodie’s gone. Melted into memory. Along with the notes, the tickets, the Polaroid of the two of you at that Halloween party where he said he loved you for the first time with sugar on his lips and a lie in his mouth.

You’re better now.

And on a Thursday, you find yourself sitting cross-legged on the couch, wrapped in a blanket that smells of Wanda’s lemon detergent and safety, your head in Wanda’s lap, legs draped over Natasha’s thighs, all of you filled with late breakfast and post-shower hair and the warm, sleepy glow of late morning.

Wanda is ranting about her dream journal. She always tries to analyze her dreams for some reason.

“But I was a tree, Y/n,” she’s saying, balancing a mug on your shoulder. “An emotional tree. I cried leaves.”

Natasha doesn’t blink. “That’s tracks.”

You hum amused. “You’ve always been sympathizing with nature, Wan.”

Wanda points her spoon at you as though it’s a wand. “You get it. Nature is screaming and I hear her.”

A worn novel lay on your shins on Natasha’s lap, cracked open. But she’s been on the same page for twenty minutes. You think she’s listening more than she lets on.

The apartment smells of roasted bread. The sun is slanting in through the windows just right - those lazy golden stripes that make even your chipped coffee table look cinematic.

“Do you think he knows?” you voice after a silent moment.

Natasha raises an eyebrow. “Knows what?”

“That I burned his stuff?”

Wanda hums, carding her fingers through your hair. “Don’t think about that. It doesn’t matter if he knows. The universe knows. That’s enough.”

You glance at the windows. You wonder if the hoodie screamed when it caught fire. You hope it did.

“Honestly,” you say around a handful of cereal, voice lighter, “burning that stuff was the healthiest decision I’ve ever made.”

Natasha smirks. “Aside from therapy.”

“Obviously.”

“And cutting your bangs.”

“That was a journey.”

Wanda lifts her mug. “To combustion and personal growth.”

You clink your cereal box against her cup. “Amen.”

There were, of course, consequences. A polite but stern letter from the landlord. An eye-roll of a fine from the city. For future ceremonial burnings, please contact the fire department in advance, it read.

But it was worth it.

Every last spark.

There’s a comfort here, in the clutter, in the way time is moving again. Not fast, not smooth, but forward. You’ve started reading books again. You’ve stopped stalking his Instagram. Well, mostly.

“You seem about a few steps away from writing a memoir called How to Set Men on Fire (and Still Make It to Brunch)” Natasha muses.

“I’d buy that,” Wanda immediately chimes in.

You snort.

Outside, someone yells at their dog. A siren shrieks in the far-off distance like an unfinished thought. Your apartment smells of burnt toast and coffee grounds, and it’s home.

You’re okay.

Almost.

And then the fire alarm goes off.

It screams. A wailing, shrieking, banshee of a sound, as though the building is having a panic attack and wants you to join in. Lights flash. The walls vibrate. Your soul tries to exit your body.

Wanda’s spoon hovers in the air.

Natasha glances at the ceiling with an unimpressed look.

You feel your pulse do a little skip. Not in a full panic. But a creeping suspicion unfurls behind your ribs.

Natasha is already standing, moving, with the efficiency of a woman who’s never been surprised in her life.

“Is this us?” Wanda asks, voice high and uncertain. She looks around your shared apartment. “Did we- was it the oven?”

You bolt upright. “Nothing’s in the oven.”

“Well then who-”

“I swear I didn’t light anything.” You raise your hands.

“Well, I didn’t either,” Wanda insists.

“Doesn’t smell like us,” Natasha says, sniffing the air like a human smoke detector.

But none of that matters because the building has made a decision and that decision is everyone out now.

You’re still sitting. You’re in pajamas. You all are. And not the cute kind either. The kind that suggests you’ve been crying into a tub of ice cream while watching documentaries about whales. The kind with ducks on the pants and a sweatshirt that’s two sizes too big and maybe has a mustard stain from Tuesday.

You hear doors opening. Feet on stairs. Someone is yelling about their cat.

Natasha grabs her phone and keys. “Let’s go before it turns into the Hunger Games.”

You move. Slowly.

You’ve made your peace with fire, sure - but only the kind you start on purpose. Symbolic. Controlled. Supervised by emotionally repressed firefighters with sharp jaws and suspicious amounts of upper body strength.

But this is unexpected.

This is the kind of thing that sends a hot flood of unease down your spine, because what if the universe is laughing at you again? What if you are, yet again, being punished for trying to let go?

You follow Wanda and Natasha out the door.

The hallway is bright with flashing lights - red, urgent. The sound is louder out here. So loud it makes your teeth vibrate. You can’t tell if it’s coming from your floor or somewhere above, but there’s a smell this time. Faint, sharp, ugly. Plastic and heat and something bitter curling in the air.

There’s a river of bathrobes and sweatpants and panicked neighbors. The stairwell smells like old takeout and anxiety. A toddler is crying. Someone’s dog is barking. A woman herds two cats into a carrier with shaking hands.

Mr. Feldman from 3B is arguing with someone on speakerphone about whether he unplugged the coffee maker, and you think the fire alarm might actually be the least chaotic sound happening right now.

“Was this us?” you repeat Wanda’s question, a little unsure, as you file down the stairs like middle-class refugees.

“No,” Natasha mutters coolly. “But I’m still blaming you.”

You clutch the railing and follow, ducking your head, trying not to make eye contact with any of your neighbors as your duck-printed pajama pants flap dramatically behind you.

You shouldn’t care. No one looks good during evacuation. And Wanda and Natasha look the same.

And yet. Your heart is doing something strange again.

It isn’t panic. It is expectation.

Your chest knows something your brain refuses to name.

At the bottom of the stairwell, someone holds the door open and you all spill into the daylight. The whole building is out now, buzzing like bees, people muttering and shielding their eyes.

You breathe in. Sharp. Cool. You try to ignore the knot forming in your stomach.

Smoke - real and thick - drifts from one of the kitchen windows on the fourth floor.

The crowd shifts around you - barefoot neighbors, a couple wrapped in matching bathrobes, one guy in boxers and cowboy boots holding a microwave. Someone brought their goldfish out in a bowl.

You stand near the hedges with Natasha on one side, arms crossed, and Wanda on the other, biting a fingernail and muttering something about how she definitely turned off the stove.

And then - like something out of a fever dream or a scene you didn’t realize you were still starring in - you hear it.

The sirens.

Louder this time. Close.

You freeze.

Wanda gives you a side-eye.

Natasha is already smirking. Already watching the street like a woman with a secret.

There’s a rumble. A hiss. The low growl of something inevitable.

And there it is.

The truck.

Big. Glossy red. Familiar. Like a mouth ready to swallow your dignity whole. Lights flash, the crew leaps down, gear gleams in the late morning light.

Fife firefighters fan out with mechanical movements. Their boots hit the pavement.

And one of them is Barnes.

He swings out of the cab with the ease of someone who does this for a living, the kind of grace that comes from muscle memory and a thousand repetitions.

Helmet under one arm. Radio clipped to his shoulder. That same uniform hugging his frame beautifully, as though even his clothes know how lucky they are.

He doesn’t see you at first.

He’s too busy scanning the building, hollering orders. Wilson and Rogers follow behind, already moving. You watch them as though this is a movie.

Barnes is all lines and velocity. His body moves as though he doesn’t need to think, as though instinct lives in his spine. The heavy jacket makes his shoulders look even broader, the suspenders visible where the coat parts, and everything about him suggests competence with a capital C. He’s not just handsome, he’s horrifyingly capable.

Your mouth is dry.

His eyes sweep the crowd.

And then he sees you.

He stops. Only for a second. His face changes.

You wish you had the words to explain it, to bottle it, to pin it down like a butterfly under glass. It’s not surprise exactly.

It’s something softer. Smaller. Recognition.

His eyes travel down your frame like a soft inventory. Not lewd, not invasive. Just checking to make sure you’re still whole.

Your whole body wants to shrink into itself like an accordion. You are in duck pajama pants. You have mascara from yesterday smeared beneath one eye and your socks don’t match and you have nothing to use as a shield against judgment.

Barnes doesn’t say anything as he walks past your cluster, but his gaze brushes yours again. A flicker. Like a note passed under the table. You feel it in your spine.

And then he’s gone, slipping into the building.

The door swings closed behind him.

And your whole body forgets what it was doing.

The tall blond and another man whose name tag you’re not able to make out follow him, shouting something into the radio as they rush through the front doors. Wilson stays near the truck, communicating with a woman in a blazer. Another circles the building’s exterior, already unraveling the hose in a way that feels choreographed.

Wanda exhales beside you. “Okay but why do I feel like I need to sit down.”

Natasha keeps smirking. “Girl’s not even on fire and he still looked like he wanted to carry her out bridal style.”

You don’t answer. You pretend not to hear them. You’re too busy trying to teach your lungs how to work.

A woman nearby is having a loud conversation with her parrot in a travel cage. An older man keeps pointing at the sky and saying something about chemtrails.

Across the street, a woman with curlers in her hair cradles a barking Pomeranian. A man in flannel pajama bottoms is life-streaming on Instagram, offering uninformed commentary like, “Yeah, looks like they’re going in hot. You seen that one dude? That’s the captain. I think. Or maybe the lieutenant? I don’t know, he’s got the vibe.”

But you are watching the front door.

Five minutes pass. Maybe ten. It feels like too long. You chew the inside of your cheek until it tastes of metal.

Then the door opens again.

Barnes steps out first.

He’s holding a cat.

A full-grown orange tabby against his chest. It meows furiously but stays nestled against his jacket, one paw resting just under his collarbone.

The crowd parts for him as though he is Moses with a fireproof jacket.

“Oh would you look at that,” Wanda whispers delighted. “A true hero.”

You inhale through your nose. It doesn’t help.

You continue watching how he walks across the street and hands the cat to a sobbing teenage girl who is engulfed in a comforter and clutching the fabric with trembling hands. He squats in front of her. Saying something. Something soft, gentle, reassuring. And she laughs through her tears. You watch her nod. You watch her wipe her face with her sleeve.

You want to ask what he said.

You want to ask a thousand things.

But mostly, you want to stand still in this feeling a little longer.

It’s something shaped like interest, tilted toward longing, balanced on the lip of something you never expected to feel just yet.

“Just smoke from a toaster,” one of the other firefighters calls out. His name tag says Torres. “No damage. False alarm.”

The neighbors sigh. Groan. Someone claps.

You still can’t look away from him.

He stands again. And then there’s another glance.

His posture is relaxed now. The light hits the silver of his belt buckle and makes your eyes squint. A breeze picks up and he runs a hand through his hair.

God, he looks human in a way that makes you forget you’re made of skin and not glass.

People are filing back into the building, muttering about smoke detectors and building codes, their faces pulled into various expressions of relief, annoyance, and boredom.

You’re still on the curb.

The sirens have stopped. The smoke has thinned.

And then suddenly, Barnes turns. Starts walking. Straight toward you.

Your pulse is pounding as though the building is about to fall.

You pull your sleeves over your hands because it’s all you can do with them.

You’re staring at a crack in the pavement. One that branches like lightning across the sidewalk. One you’ve never noticed before, though you must have stepped over it a hundred times. It looks like something trying to split open, as though even the concrete is tired of pretending.

You look up and he’s already halfway to you.

He is walking as though he means to. Not rushing, but not wandering, either.

He’s got his jacket slung over one shoulder this time, sloppily, as though he forgot it mattered. The suspenders are still visible, stretched over a plain navy shirt that shouldn’t be as flattering as it is. His gloves are tucked in the crook of his elbow. The radio clipped to his belt is crackling with static and shorthand codes, but he doesn’t reach for it. A smudge of soot streaks his jaw like a shadow of what he just walked through.

His boots are heavy, but his steps aren’t. His eyes are on you.

He walks like someone who isn’t thinking too hard about where he’s going but definitely knows where he wants to stop.

You blink twice. Your heartbeat forgets what tempo it’s supposed to be playing.

Natasha says nothing, but you feel her lean imperceptibly to the side, just out of the line. Wanda pretends to scroll on her phone, though the screen is black and upside down.

There is still the faint scent of smoke in the air. But his scent cuts through it - soap, metal, something warm and masculine that probably shouldn’t make your knees wobble, but does.

You consider digging a hole in the sidewalk and folding yourself into it like a collapsible chair.

But you don’t. You don’t move.

You don’t breathe.

And then he’s there. Right there.

Boots planted on pavement. A hair’s breadth too close for casual, a hair’s breadth too far for intentional.

You look up at him.

He looks down at you.

“Well,” he starts, rough voice, but you see a twitch of amusement in his mouth that seeps warmly into his tone, “this isn’t gonna turn into a habit, is it?”

Your pulse makes poor decisions. You forget every single word you’ve ever learned in any language, including your native one.

A corner of his mouth quirks up further. “Because if it is, I’m gonna start thinking you just like havin’ us over.”

You find scratches of your voice somewhere in your throat. “Wasn’t us this time, gladly,” you say, a bashful and breathless laugh fleeing your lips. You turn to Natasha and Wanda for a moment but it seems they expect you to lead this conversation.

“Glad to hear it,” he says, tilting his head. “Had me worried for a second. Fire call, same building. Whole lotta commotion. Coulda been you tryin’ to burn something again.” His tone holds a teasing edge. His eyes are glinting.

You cringe. “Right. Sorry about that, again.”

A smile breaks fully across his face - slowly, as if it’s deciding whether it’s allowed to exist. It changes his whole face. Brightens him, somehow. As though there is a light inside his chest and someone just flipped the switch.

“Ah, no worries. S’ what we’re here for,” he rumbles, amused but soft.

He’s still smiling. Still watching you with that calm, unreadable focus that makes you feel as if you’re standing under a magnifying glass, but not in a cruel way.

“Name’s Bucky, by the way,” he says, like a gift.

You stare. “Sorry, what?”

He smiles wider. “My name. Bucky. Captain Barnes, technically, but Bucky’s fine. You know, in case you decide to burn anything again and want a direct line.”

Your mouth parts.

“Oh,” is all that comes out. Brilliantly. Eloquently. Like a poet in the throes of emotional ruin.

Bucky chuckles softly, a little small. Then scratches the back of his neck.

“I, uh-” he starts, then stops. Then shifts his weight a little. “I didn’t get your name last time.”

You study the smudge on his ridiculously handsome face. The square of his jaw. The lashes too long for fairness. The scar, faint and silvery, placed just under his left eye like a comma he forgot to erase.

You tell him your name.

His smile deepens when he hears it. Grows softer. He repeats it once, quietly, as though he is trying it out. You wish he wouldn’t do that. You wish he’d do it again.

“Well,” he notes, glancing down at the pavement, then back at you. “Nice to meet you officially. Under slightly less dramatic circumstances.”

You smile. “Slightly.”

There is a beat. A quiet one. His eyes flicker down your frame and back up - quick, respectful, but curious. You swear he clocks the fact that your hands are shaking a little.

He rebalances, a ripple passing down his spine to his heels. “You okay, though? Really?”

You nod, heart hammering too loudly in your ears. “Yeah, we’re okay. It’s a relief that it was only a false alarm. And it wasn’t us.”

You gesture lamely at the girls. Wanda waves with exactly one finger. Natasha stands there with the corner of her mouth tugged up smugly. She barely nods.

Bucky doesn’t take his eyes off you.

It’s not overt. Not predatory or invasive. But it’s not nothing, either. Just direct.

He nods slowly. As though your answer passed inspection.

“You girls all live together?”

You nod again, teeth catching the inside of your cheek. “Yeah. All three of us. Since last spring.”

He hums. Doesn’t look away.

Doesn’t look at Natasha. Doesn’t look at Wanda.

Just you.

“Good,” he says finally. “That’s good. You’ve got backup.”

You smile, tentatively. “They’re alright.”

“Sure are,” Natasha deadpans.

Wanda throws a heart at you with her hands.

Bucky’s eyes crinkle a little at the edges. You want to bottle that look. Hide it in your drawer. Peek at it when the day is quiet and you forget what warmth feels like.

A pause.

You think maybe that’s it. Maybe he’ll tip his head, excuse himself, go back to his team. That would make sense. That would be the responsible, professional thing to do.

Instead, he points to your pants. “Nice ducks, by the way.”

You stare at him. You absolutely, completely stare.

Natasha makes a pretty unattractive snorting sound behind you.

Wanda is suddenly very interested in retying her shoelaces.

“Thanks,” you manage. “They’re vintage.” You hope you sound less embarrassed than you feel.

He lets out a rumbling laugh.

Then the tall blond calls his name. Rogers. Sharp. Quick. Business.

Bucky turns, lifts a hand in acknowledgment. “Duty calls.”

He takes a step backward, but his eyes stay on yours a second too long.

And then he winks. It’s absurd. It’s illegal. It’s completely unnecessary.

“It was nice seeing you again.”

Then he walks back to the truck. Climbs in.

The engine roars. The lights flash once more for good measure. The truck eases into the street, and he is gone.

But you don’t move.

You just stand there, blinking into the smoke-tinged sunlight, your names still hanging between you.

You roll his name around in your head like a stone you’re not ready to skip.

Wanda steps up beside you, peering after the truck. She sighs like a Victorian ghost. “I love that you didn’t blink that entire time.”

“I blinked,” you grumble.

“You didn’t,” Natasha confirms flatly.

You inhale deeply.

Wanda grins. “So, what are we going to burn next.”

You exhale. Laugh, light and shocked and a little bit lost.

And you don’t answer.

But you’ve never wanted to set something on fire so badly, just to see if he’d come back.

****

You don’t want to go.

Not even a little. Not even at all.

You say it with your whole chest, with your arms crossed and your face stuffed into the corner of the couch cushion.

Wanda is painting her toenails on the coffee table. “Come one. It’ll be fun.”

Natasha doesn’t look up from her phone. “It’s good for team bonding.”

“Team bonding?” you squeak. “What are we, a softball league?”

Natasha shrugs. “I’m just saying. If there’s ever another toaster incident, I’d rather not die because you were emotionally incapacitated by a bread product.”

You groan into the pillow.

Wanda and Natasha signed you up for a fire safety class.

And you’re terrified.

Because it’s been weeks since you saw him last. Weeks since the smoke, and the heat, and the stupid lingering eye contact. Since he said your name as though he meant to keep it in his mouth for a while.

And you know - because your spine told you before your brain caught up - you know Bucky Barnes is going to be there.

You know this because Wanda knows things, and Natasha forces things into being.

And yes, okay, you miss him. You do. You hate that you do. You met the guy two times and still, your heart folds a little at the sound of diesel engines, you started keeping your hair brushed and your lips soft just in case the universe decides to toss him back into your orbit.

But seeing him again would surely feel like touching a sunburn.

You don’t want to burn.

You don’t want to heal, either.

You want to stay in this in-between where you get to miss him quietly without having to do anything about it.

So naturally, you end up in a folding chair in the local fire station’s multi-purpose room at 6:59 pm on a Wednesday.

There is a faint scent of metal and ash in the air. The kind that stays on walls no matter how many layers of institutional paint try to hide it. The overhead fluorescents are buzzing as though they are irritated by your presence. A series of old community flyers hang crookedly by the entrance. One says Stop, Drop, and Roll Your Way Into Preparedness! with a cartoon Dalmatian smiling as if it has secrets.

And although you would rather perish than admit it to your best friends, you came prepared.

You’ve been preparing for this moment the way some people prepare for court trials or emotionally complex family dinners.

You know the difference between a Class A and Class B fire.

You know the ideal temperature range from smoke detectors to function.

You know that a grease fire should never be doused with water and that lots of people don’t find this fact to be obvious.

You even practiced saying pull, aim, squeeze, sweep in a tone of detached casual interest while brushing your teeth last night.

Because you thought maybe if he sees you as competent, as calm, as someone who doesn’t panic around fire or men with broad shoulders, then maybe he’d-

You don’t finish the thought.

Because it’s dangerous.

Because although you didn’t agree to go here, you technically didn’t say no, which Natasha argued was basically a signed contract in this household and Wanda only hummed from the kitchen while printing out the registration forms.

Because your stomach flipped when Wanda said his name earlier. Because it flips every time. It still flips now.

Because you think about him too much. And you know you shouldn’t.

You’ve been doing well. Truly, objectively, almost scientifically well. You burned the things of your ex. You deleted his number. You ignored the last two texts, even when they got mean. You ignored phone calls from anonymous numbers because you knew he had his ways of reaching you. You told yourself it was done.

But it was Wanda who said it last night, curled into your couch with her knees tucked under your blanket and sympathy as well as concern in her eyes.

“He’s going to keep trying, you know. That kind of man always does. The trick is to stop listening before he gets loud enough to convince you you’re still his.”

You didn’t say anything then.

But now, sitting here, hands tucked under your thighs, ankles crossed awkwardly, the words feel like something still echoing inside your chest.

You’re trying not to sweat through your light sweater, trying not to pull at your sleeves as though you are twelve again and back in gym class, trying very hard not to imagine what it’s going to feel like when he walks in.

Bucky.

God, even his name feels like a bruise you keep poking on purpose.

“Just relax,” Wanda eases from beside you, all calm and legs crossed and sipping her chamomile tea in a travel mug she smuggled in as though it’s not against the rules. “It’s just a class.”

“And not just any,” Natasha adds sultry, flipping her ponytail over her shoulder with the kind of confidence you’re not able to possess at the moment. “It’s fire safety. You’ll learn to stop, drop, and roll, and make eye contact with your future husband.”

You turn to look at her. “I hate you.”

She nods. “But in a sexy, grateful way.”

You sigh. Cross your arms. Chew on the edge of your thumbnail and silently negotiate with god.

And then he walks in.

You feel him before you see him. Like gravity shifting. Like a magnetic field drawing your molecules to the surface of your skin.

Bucky Barnes steps through the doorway in a dark navy station polo, sleeves hugging his biceps with zero regard for your emotional stability. His uniform is not the big, intimidating, soot-stained kind with suspenders and the heavy boots and the sense that something is burning. This is the community outreach uniform. His dark hair is swept back but a little tousled, as though maybe he was in a rush. There is a clipboard under one arm, a radio attached to his belt, and he looks like competence in human form.

You exhale as though you’ve been underwater.

The entire class - about twelve people in total - turn to look at him as though they’ve never seen a firefighter before in their lives. There are a few women in yoga pants, a very enthusiastic grandpa, one teenager who looks as though he was dragged here as punishment, and a few genuinely interested looking men.

He doesn’t see you right away. He’s scanning the front row, muttering something to one of the other firefighters - Danvers, her name tag reads, a straight-standing, no-nonsense woman with a kind smile. She looks as though she could carry a refrigerator up a mountain, and you sink further into your chair.

Wanda leans into your space. “I can basically hear your ovaries-”

“Shut up,” you grit out, feeling as though you might melt into the fabric of the chair beneath you.

Bucky scans the room, nods a polite greeting.

And then he sees you.

You freeze.

He doesn’t.

It’s not dramatic. Not some cinematic double-take.

It’s worse. It’s soft.

His eyes catch yours and he smiles. Just a small curve of the lips. But it’s tender. Not performative. Not polite.

Your heart cartwheels straight out of the window.

You try to smile back but you’re pretty sure what happens on your face is chaotic.

Wanda makes a sound into your ear that can only be described as a squeal disguised as a cough. Natasha looks far too smug.

Bucky turns back to the room as though nothing happened. As though he hasn’t just detonated something in your bloodstream.

But he does stand a little straighter. Taller. Composed.

Then he claps his hands once, enough to bring the room to attention. As though he didn’t already have all eyes on him.

“Alright, folks,” he begins, voice even and low and warm enough to steep tea in. “Thanks for showing up. I’m Bucky, this is Carol. We’re going to run through some fire safety basics tonight. Shouldn’t take too long. Might even be fun.”

He grins now, looking around, landing just short of you this time.

You are a molecule. You are made of panic and possibility.

“But,” he speaks up, adjusting the clipboard. His voice is still doing that low rumble thing, like warm honey poured over rock. “Before I start throwing a bunch of information at you, I wanna know where everyone’s at. What you know, what you don’t, if anyone’s set anything on fire recently - accident or otherwise.”

His gaze snaps to you for just a second.

Your face bursts into flames.

Natasha and Wanda both lean in sideways and you shut them both up with a glare.

Bucky paces slowly across the room as he talks, like someone stretching his legs, taking his time. He gestures toward the group with a nod.

“Let’s start simple,” he continues. “Say your smoke alarm goes off in the middle of the night. What’s the first thing you do?”

Silence.

A few people shift in their seats. One woman raises her hand. “Grab my purse?”

“Put on pants?” remarks one of the guys.

Bucky smiles. “Valid. But not ideal.”

You raise your hand, heart thudding. Bucky raises an eyebrow, facing you fully and nodding at you.

“Check the door for heat before opening it,” you say, voice clearer than expected. “Use the back of your hand. If it’s hot, find an alternate escape route. It not, open it slowly and stay low.”

Bucky grins. It’s real and blinding. Pulling up slowly, tugging at the corners of his mouth as though he forgot how good it feels to smile that way. A glint sparks in his eyes.

“Exactly,” he confirms, nodding. “Textbook.”

You smile back shyly before you can stop yourself.

Natasha exhales beside you as though she is watching a soap opera. “She’s showing off.”

“I’m so proud,” Wanda whispers, misty-eyed.

You ignore them both.

Bucky keeps going, asking questions you mostly end up answering.

And he keeps watching you. Keeps studying you. And every time he does, something tightens behind your ribs.

A woman behind you mutters something about you being a teacher’s pet, but you don’t care. You’re not trying to be perfect. You’re trying to show him you learned from your mistakes.

And his eyes - blue and gentle and a little too amused - sparkle when you catch him glancing again. He ducks his chin once, as if to say you got me, and moves on to demonstrate how to deploy a fire extinguisher.

When he picks one up with two fingers as though it’s a soda can, several women gasp delighted.

Your skin prickles.

Natasha takes a slow sip of her coffee and watches you as though she is analyzing battlefield tactics.

When Bucky explains PASS - Pull, Aim, Squeeze, Sweep - you mouth the words along with him without meaning to.

He notices. You know he does.

There’s this almost smirk on his face.

And you can see the softness in his expression.

He talks through the basics - smoke alarms, evacuation plans, kitchen hazards. There are visuals. Charts. A slideshow. Wanda takes notes. Natasha twirls her pen like a knife.

You try to pay attention.

But your eyes keep drifting.

To him.

To the way he gestures with his hands. The way his fingers touch the edge of the table when he leans forward. The way he makes everyone laugh when he admits he once set off a fire alarm in the station trying to microwave a burrito on one of his first days.

He glances up when you laugh.

Your hands are fiddling with the fabric of your trousers. Your nerves are a concert hall. Every thought sounds loud inside your skull.

And when you think your heart might climb fully out of your throat, he turns back to the class. “Alright,” he announces, “now that we’ve scared you enough with PowerPoint, we’re gonna break into small groups and run a few practice drills. Let’s get into the fun part.”

A few people chuckle. One woman near the front giggles, flipping her hair over her shoulder as though she’s about to audition for a shampoo commercial.

You look down at your shoes.

Wanda leans in. “Can you believe how hard she’s trying? That’s actually pathetic.”

“Shh.”

“She’s wearing heels. To a fire safety class. Who does she think she is?”

“Wanda-”

“I bet she-”

“Ladies,” Natasha interrupts, lazily observant. “We’re moving.”

You watch the people file out of the room to move to the next one.

And you want to die. Or melt. Or somehow escape through the vents like a cartoon ghost.

But you have no other choice than to get up.

Prepared. Composed. A little bit on fire.

And the first thing you notice is how warm the training hall is. Not uncomfortable, but undeniably warm, as though the air has been steeped in sunshine and engine oil and the memory of things burning. The industrial lights make a low sound above, a metallic echo rolling across the tall ceiling. The whole place smells faintly of rubber, extinguishing foam, and steel that’s been handled too many times.

The practice area is marked by orange cones and taped grids on the floor.

Bucky steps into the middle of it with a kind of slow-motion certainty that makes the floor feel as though it’s tilting gently toward him.

You watch the veins on his exposed forearms, mapping them like routes to forgotten cities.

He and Carol Danvers start with group demos. Together, they run through the basics again. People are listening, nodding, pretending they aren’t mostly watching him.

You are watching him too.

But you’re also pretending not to. A lifelong skill, fine-tuned by heartbreak.

“Now let’s try hands-on,” Bucky decides, setting down the extinguisher and glancing around. “We’ll split into smaller groups. Carol and I will come around and help out. Just don’t point the thing at your friends.”

Laughter, light and scattered.

People start pairing off. A trio of women - dressed as though they expected a photoshop - flutter toward Bucky with hopeful eyes and strategically slouched shoulders.

“Oh my god, I don’t get this at all,” one of them breathes.

The others are leaning slightly forward. “Me neither.”

Bucky doesn’t even pause. Doesn’t glance over at them. “Danvers, you good taking that group?”

Carol nods. “My pleasure.”

And Bucky walks away without another word.

Straight toward you.

Your hands are clammy.

He stops in front of your group.

“So,” he starts, eyes moving around you three before landing back on you and then on the prop extinguisher in Natasha’s hand. “Who wants to go first?”

Wanda elbows you so hard your soul might have been knocked out.

You step forward.

He hands you a fresh extinguisher, this one heavier than expected, and you try not to look as though it surprises you. He steps closer, one arm already reaching out to steady it when your grip fumbles. His hand brushes over yours. Warm. Firm. He doesn’t move away immediately.

He’s watching you. Smiling, slow, a little crooked.

“Just like that,” he mutters gently.

You are a marshmallow in a microwave.

“Okay,” he says gently, letting go slowly - painfully slowly. “Now I’m gonna walk you through it, all right?”

You nod. Words are impossible. Language is a memory. You’re not sure your legs exist anymore.

“P.A.S.S,” he says. “Pull. Aim. Squeeze. Sweep. Easy.”

You repeat the words in your head another time.

Behind you, someone clears their throat - loudly. It’s the shampoo commercial woman. You glance back and see her smiling up at Bucky as though she’s already sewn his name into a couple of throw pillows.

“Could you maybe show me next?” she asks, eyelashes fluttering like a wind turbine.

Bucky’s expression doesn’t change.

“Carol?” he calls over his shoulder.

Carol looks up from her own demo station across the room. “Yeah?”

“Got one more for you.”

The woman visibly wilts.

Carol grins and waves her over.

Bucky turns back to you without missing a beat.

And maybe it’s your imagination but he’s standing just a little closer now.

“Ready?” he asks.

You nod. Your grip tightens around the handle.

“Okay. First, pull the pin - here.” His hand finds yours again, fingers brushing over yours as he guides them toward the small metal piece near the top. It’s gentle. Confident. His breath is warm near your cheek, and you wonder if he always smells this good or if you’re hallucinating.

“Good. Now aim,” he instructs, voice lower now, not for any reason you can define. “Low, at the base of the fire. Like this.”

His arm brushes against yours as he shifts the nozzle, touching the outside of your elbow, guiding your arm as though you are made of delicate machinery.

“Then squeeze. Controlled, firm pressure.” His voice is deep. Soothing. Lulling.

He glances at you.

You do your best not to break out into a sweat.

Foam spurts out in a satisfying arc toward the mock flame target. He grins.

“Perfect,” he praises, and your breath stalls. “Last one, is sweep. Just like that.”

And he guides your hands - both of them - side to side, mimicking the motion.

You finish the drill. Exhale. Your hands tremble slightly, not from nerves. From the startling thrill of his proximity.

He steps back. You miss the warmth immediately.

“Nicely done,” he comments, and his voice is soft. Almost proud. “You did great. Handled it like a pro.”

You look away, flustered. Your fingers are tingling.

Wanda is making a face behind him as though she’s at a wedding. Natasha just raises one eyebrow.

“Thanks,” you say, and it comes out rather quiet.

Something churns in his face. A kind of satisfaction takes place.

He opens his mouth to say something else, but Carol calls from the front. “Barnes, we’re starting the fire blanket demo.”

He sighs.

And steps back.

“Alright, well,” he says, winking. Winking. “Don’t run off.”

As if you could.

As if your legs weren’t still made of goo and your brain wasn’t currently rebooting.

He walks away, and you feel every step like a loss.

You hadn’t thought you could feel like this again.

Not after him. Not after everything.

But here you are.

And Bucky Barnes just taught you how to put out a fire.

Still, your heart goes all up in flames.

“I am made for fire, for breaking and bending and healing in all the places that used to ache.”

- Nikita Gill

Part Two

yes.

does leafs hockey make you feel like you're being tied to railroad tracks? consider smoking a 2 gram joint and weightlifting out of fear

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.

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

I work for the people (click for higher quality)

they absolutely tore each other to pieces during karting days

@pewpewshooter @heartsforjh @autonoae @laundrytalks

You can only reblog this today.

DOMIII OH MY GOD

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goodnight lb. sleep tight, remember the wise words

“why you so mad. it’s only game”

i’m going to read that one knies fic that’s been at the top of matthew knies x reader for forever and then i’m gonna find the saddest woll fic and read that.

was fun while it lasted 🫡

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