Chapter Text
The streets of Evergreen stretched empty under the moon, so quiet Chris could hear the ticking of the engine as their patrol car coasted through another turn. These peaceful nights had become his favorite—just him and Adrian, the radio silent for once, no emergencies blaring through the comm. Chris glanced sideways at Adrian, who sat with perfect posture, scanning the buildings as they passed. When he caught Chris looking, Adrian's face lit up with that painfully eager smile that used to annoy the shit out of him but now did something warm and uncomfortable to his chest.
"You know what you call a cow with no legs?" Chris asked, breaking the comfortable silence.
Adrian tilted his head. "A disabled bovine requiring specialized care?"
"Ground beef." Chris snorted at his own joke.
Adrian's laughter erupted like a surprise attack—too loud, too enthusiastic, bouncing off the car windows. It was always like this. Chris's jokes weren't that funny; he knew they weren't. But Adrian laughed like each one was the pinnacle of comedy, his whole body shaking with it.
"That's fucking terrible," Adrian gasped between laughs, wiping at his eyes.
"Yeah, well, so's your face," Chris retorted with no heat, fighting the smile tugging at his lips. The fact that Adrian found him hilarious made him feel… good. Actually good. It wasn't something he analyzed much, but these nights, cruising empty streets with Adrian vibrating with energy beside him, felt like something he might have missed his whole life without knowing it. Furthermore, in a world where it seemed like everyone disliked him, or at least found him unappealing or unfunny—from his deceased father to Harcourt, Economos, and Adebayo—it was refreshing that Adrian never hesitated to laugh at his silly jokes.
The patrol car's headlights swept across vacant storefronts, catching the occasional raccoon diving for cover. Evergreen after midnight was almost peaceful, if you ignored its history of alien invasions and superhuman incidents. Chris had lived here his whole life, knew every pothole and alley, but it felt different now with Adrian riding shotgun. Like the town had somehow become more his own.
"You're staring at me again," Adrian said without looking away from the window. "Is there something on my face? Because I checked three times before we left. Did I miss something? Sometimes I miss things."
"Just making sure you're not falling asleep on duty," Chris lied, quickly returning his attention to the road.
"I don't sleep during missions. Or patrol. Or stakeouts. I can stay awake for seventy-three hours before hallucinations begin. I tested it."
"Of course you fucking did," Chris muttered, but the words came out softer than intended.
They turned onto Main Street, and the neon lights of The Rusty Pike splashed red and blue across the dashboard. The bar's windows glowed, silhouettes moving inside suggesting a decent crowd for a Tuesday.
"I'm stopping for a beer," Chris announced, already pulling into a parking space.
"We shouldn't drink on duty," Adrian replied automatically, but his objection lacked conviction. He was already unbuckling his seatbelt, eyes tracking every movement in the bar's vicinity with the focus of a bird of prey.
"Come on, Vig, I'm thirsty." Chris killed the engine and got out of the car. He took two steps into the parking lot and turned around to make sure Adrian had put on his mask and was following him. "One beer won't hurt. Town's dead anyway."
Before Adrian could respond, a woman's voice called out, "Holy shit! Chris Smith!"
Chris turned to see Casey Miller approaching from the bar entrance, her walk slow and purposeful, hips swaying in a way that automatically pulled his gaze. She looked different from high school—more confident, her auburn-brown hair swept up in a messy bun that somehow looked intentional. Her smile was wider, her eyes more knowing.
"Casey? Casey Miller?" He felt a grin spread across his face as recognition kicked in. "Damn, it's been what, fifteen years?"
"At least." She closed the distance between them and wrapped her arms around him without hesitation. The hug lasted a beat too long, her hands sliding over his biceps and across his chest as she pulled away, fingertips lingering. "You got big, Smith. You were already tall and well-built, but this? Your muscles have muscles."
His cheeks warmed. "Puberty happened. Eventually. And I hit the gym, like hard."
"Eventually is right," she laughed, her eyes making a slow, appreciative sweep of him from head to toe. Her hand stayed on his arm, thumb tracing small circles on his skin. "Looks like it was worth the wait, though."
Chris felt his chest puff up automatically, a peacock response he couldn't control. Most people in Evergreen still remembered him as Auggie Smith's weird kid. Casey was looking at him like he was someone worth seeing. But Chris had always been successful enough with women to know when one was interested.
"I heard you were back in town," she continued, her voice dropping to a more intimate register. "Bartending at The Pike now. You should stop by when you're off duty." Her fingers squeezed his arm slightly. "I should have given you a chance years ago."
The line hit him right in the ego, warming places that hadn't felt warm in a while. He was aware of Adrian standing somewhere behind him, but his focus had narrowed to Casey's hand on his arm, her eyes on his face.
"Well, if you want your chance now, give me a call," Chris replied with a laugh that came out deeper than intended. He didn't mean anything serious by it—just playing the game, responding to flirtation with flirtation. It was automatic, like breathing.
Casey's smile widened, pleased with his response. "I might just do that." She let her hand trail down his arm as she stepped back. "See you around, Smith." She threw a final smirk over her shoulder as she walked away, clearly aware he was watching her go.
It wasn't until she disappeared back into the bar that Chris remembered they'd come for a beer. And that Adrian was still standing there, motionless in the neon glow, his face unreadable under his mask.
***
Adrian's world narrowed to a tunnel of red and blue neon light, framing the image of Chris's arm under Casey's fingers. He couldn't move. His body, usually so responsive to his commands, locked in place like his joints had rusted solid. The sound dropped out—the bar noise, the street traffic, everything—replaced by a high, thin whine in his ears. Breathing became a conscious effort, each inhale catching halfway up his throat as if snagged on fishhooks. This wasn't right. Adrian knew every emotion in his limited repertoire—rage, excitement, devotion—but this was new. This was wrong.
What if Chris wanted someone else?
The thought crashed through his consciousness with the force of a wrecking ball. Adrian's fingers curled into fists at his sides, nails digging half-moons into his palms. The pain barely registered.
What if Chris could look at someone else the way he looks at me?
Casey's hand sliding down Chris's arm replayed in Adrian's mind on a nauseating loop. His eyes fixated on Chris's face—the flush spreading across his cheeks, the automatic squaring of his shoulders, the deep rumble of his laugh that Adrian had always believed belonged to him alone. Now this woman was extracting it with nothing more than a touch and a smile.
"I should have given you a chance years ago," she'd said. Years ago. Before Adrian. When Chris was alone and didn't have someone who would literally kill for him.
"If you want your chance now, give me a call," Chris had replied, and something inside Adrian splintered.
His hands began to tremble, an unusual sensation for someone who could hold a knife steady enough to carve his initials into a moving target. Adrian hid them behind his back, gripping one wrist with the opposite hand so tightly he could feel his pulse hammering against his fingers. His breathing turned shallow, each exhale hissing between clenched teeth.
He didn't like this feeling. It was worse than being shot, and he'd been shot six times. (Seven if you counted the graze wound from that time whit the Butterflies, which Chris didn't, but Adrian insisted on accuracy in all things.) This was an internal wound, messy and uncontainable.
His mind flashed to the nights before they were together—to threesomes in dingy motel rooms, to women whose faces he couldn't remember because he'd only watched Chris. Those encounters had been clinical exercises for Adrian, anthropological studies of human behavior. He'd participated because Chris wanted him to, because it meant being close to Chris, because afterward they'd high-five and Chris would say, "You're fucking weird, man, but I love you," and Adrian would store those words away like treasures.
It was different now. Now Chris was his. Now when they fucked, it was just the two of them, Chris's hands rough in Adrian's hair, Chris's voice growling filthy praise against his skin. Now Adrian knew what it felt like to be the sole focus of Chris's attention, knew the specific weight of Chris's body pressing him into the mattress, knew exactly how many seconds it took for Chris to fall asleep after sex (ninety-seven, on average).
This woman thought she could take that away with her perfect lips and her strategically messy hair?
The thought struck a match inside him, igniting something primal and vicious. Adrian had only ever felt this level of emotional intensity in two scenarios: when overcome with his love for Chris, and when dispatching criminals with particularly satisfying efficiency. This new feeling burned with similar heat but tasted bitter on the back of his tongue.
Was this jealousy? He'd heard people describe it, had seen it depicted in the romantic comedies he studied to understand human coupling rituals, but he'd never understood it as more than an abstract concept. He'd never had anything worth being jealous over before Chris. Also because Chris was usually the jealous one, for some stupid reason.
Well, now it didn't seem so stupid anymore.
Adrian's gaze sharpened, focusing on Casey's retreating figure. He cataloged details automatically: height, weight, gait, vulnerable points, reaction time. The bartender posed no physical threat—he could neutralize her in 2.8 seconds if necessary—but that wasn't the danger she represented. The threat was in Chris's smile, in the way he'd responded to her attention like a flower turning toward the sun.
The possibility of losing Chris to someone else had never occurred to Adrian until this moment. He'd believed their connection was as fixed and immutable as the stars. He'd believed—with the absolute certainty that characterized his thinking—that Chris was his now, exclusively and permanently. The introduction of doubt felt like a system malfunction, like someone had rewired his brain without permission.
Adrian forced himself to inhale fully, counting to four as he did so. His therapist had suggested this for moments of "emotional dysregulation," though she'd been thinking of his rage issues, not whatever this was. The air caught in his lungs, refusing to follow the orderly pattern he demanded.
The neon lights of The Rusty Pike buzzed overhead, the sound suddenly piercing through the white noise in Adrian's head. He became aware of his surroundings again: the cool night air, the distant laughter from inside the bar, Chris turning back toward him with a casual smile, as if he hadn't just upended Adrian's entire world.
Adrian needed to get Chris away from here. Away from her. Away from everyone who wasn't Adrian. The impulse was overwhelming, a physical ache in his bones.
He would not share Chris. Not his attention, not his smile, not his cock, not a single fucking moment that could be Adrian's instead. The realization settled over him with cold clarity, bringing with it a strange calmness that steadied his shaking hands. He knew what he needed to do now.
Get Chris alone. Make him remember who he belonged to.
Adrian squared his shoulders, ready to reclaim what was his.
***
Chris watched Casey disappear back into the bar, the ghost of her perfume still hanging in the air between them. He turned to Adrian, ready to continue with their plan. "So, that beer?" he said, already taking a step toward The Rusty Pike's entrance. The neon sign buzzed overhead, painting Adrian's face in alternating shades of red and blue. Something was off. Adrian stood unnaturally still, his usual fidgeting absent, his eyes fixed on Chris through the red visor of his mask with an intensity that made the hair on the back of his neck stand up.
"Let's go home. Now." Adrian's voice cut through the night air, sharp as a knife edge.
The command hung between them, so unexpected that Chris actually looked over his shoulder to make sure Adrian was talking to him. In all their time together, Adrian had never spoken to him with that tone—flat, cold, almost mechanical. It was the voice Adrian used on criminals right before things got messy.
"Home?" Chris furrowed his brow, his posture shifting uncertainly. "We've got three more blocks to patrol." He gestured vaguely down the street. "And I thought we were getting a beer. That was the whole point of stopping."
Adrian didn't blink. "Shut up. You have beer at home."
Chris's mouth opened, then closed again. What the fuck was happening? Ten minutes ago, they'd been cruising through Evergreen, laughing at his shitty jokes, everything normal. Now Adrian looked like he might snap someone's neck, preferably Casey's, given the way his eyes kept darting toward the bar entrance.
"Did I… miss something?" Chris asked, an uncomfortable heat crawling up his neck. He hated these moments—when people's emotions shifted without warning or explanation, leaving him floundering in unfamiliar waters. It reminded him too much of his childhood, of never knowing what might set his father off.
"No," Adrian replied, the single syllable clipped and final. He turned toward their car, his movements stiff and precise. "We're leaving."
Chris stood frozen, watching Adrian's retreating back. This wasn't like Adrian at all. Adrian, who followed him around with puppy-dog eagerness. Adrian, who laughed too loud at his jokes and remembered how he liked his coffee and always sat too close on the couch. This Adrian was a stranger wearing his partner's face.
"Wait. Since when do you want to finish patrolling early?" Chris called after him, frustration edging into his voice. "And what about the beer?"
Adrian stopped but didn't turn around. His shoulders rose and fell with a deep breath, as if he was counting to ten in his head. When he finally looked back, the red visor didn't quite hide the storm behind his eyes.
"The beer isn't important," Adrian said, each word measured and even. "And I'm tired of patrolling. There's nothing happening tonight."
Chris felt the disconnect like a physical ache. Adrian was never tired of patrolling. Adrian would chase criminals for days without sleep, would stake out a location until his legs cramped, would insist on "one more sweep" even when Chris was ready to call it quits. Adrian loved this shit more than anyone Chris had ever met.
"Bullshit," Chris said, crossing his arms. "What's really going on?"
Adrian's gaze flicked toward the bar again, then back to Chris. For a split second, something raw and pained flashed across his face before disappearing behind that eerily controlled expression.
"Nothing's going on," Adrian said. "I just want to go home. With you." He emphasized the last two words with unusual intensity.
The penny finally dropped, and Chris felt a chill that had nothing to do with the night air. Casey. The flirting. Adrian watching the whole thing. Could he possibly be…? Nah. That was ridiculous. They'd had threesomes together before, for fuck's sake. Adrian had never cared about that stuff.
But they hadn't done that since they'd started whatever this was between them. Since Adrian had gone from "guy I sometimes fuck" to "guy who sleeps in my bed every night." Since Chris had started feeling that weird, warm thing in his chest whenever Adrian smiled at him.
"Adrian," Chris started, then stopped, unsure what to say. Emotional conversations weren't exactly his strong suit. "It was just talking. She's an old friend."
"You told her to call you," Adrian stated, his voice flat. "You told her she could 'have her chance now.'"
When Adrian repeated his words back to him, Chris winced. Yeah, that sounded bad out of context. But it was just bullshit flirting, the kind he'd done his whole life without thinking.
"That's just how people talk," Chris tried to explain, taking a step toward Adrian. "It doesn't mean anything."
"Sure," Adrian replied, his gaze unwavering.
"Can we not do this here?" Chris muttered, suddenly aware they were having this conversation in a public parking lot. "Let's just get in the car."
Adrian nodded once, sharp and decisive, before turning to walk to the passenger side. Chris followed, the distance between them charged with an electricity that hadn't been there before. As he slid behind the wheel, he glanced at Adrian, who sat rigidly beside him, staring straight ahead through the windshield.
The silence felt like a third passenger as Chris started the engine. Whatever was happening between them wasn't going to be resolved with a beer and a bad joke. He had a feeling the night was about to get a whole lot more complicated.