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Never had Wolf imagined, as a rosy-cheeked kindergartener peering up into their teacher’s face responding to the question “What do you want to be when you grow up?”, that robbing banks would be among his many skill sets. Even more ludicrous would have been for him to picture a life where robbing small-time banks was an almost weekly occurrence; nevertheless, Wolf had teamed up with Hoxton, Dallas and Houston to liberate a Harvest & Trustee of its stored riches, and things were going successfully. The thermal drill was working away quietly, the civilians were cowering and sniffling and sobbing on the floor, and the bank tellers had been zip-tied and moved to avoid the heist going ‘loud’.
The crew had just about started to relax when a new hire, a security guard not on Bain’s staff role call showed up via the ‘staff only’ entrance, and Wolf turned to see him just in time. The rest of the gang hadn’t spotted him, being too busy sniggering and tutting as Hoxton swore at the stalled thermal drill. The Swede raised his weapon and darted forwards.
“Put your hands UP!” Wolf’s voice came out deeper than usual. The security guard flinched at the silenced shotgun thrust in his face. The guard’s eyes darted between it and then around at the civilians on the ground, some peering up at him in despair as he did as he was told, hands shaking. Behind him, Wolf sensed the trio point their own weapons at the guard.
“Down on your knees,” he snapped, brandishing his gun. Mentally he calculated that there were probably only 40, 30 seconds left on the drill - they were still able to successfully rob the bank without alerting the authorities. A civilian audibly gasped and stirred as the guard again did as he was told; Dallas strode over to do his own intimidation on him.
“Cuff yourself,” Wolf finished, disgust evident in his voice. The guard again did as he was told, hot tears of shame rolling down his cheeks. Wolf sneered - of course, the civilians couldn’t see this, but he did it all the same - and pointed his shotgun at those he thought were most likely to try and resist to keep them in check.
All things considered, it was a normal day for the gang.
Moments later the vault door creaked open, and Hoxton stepped inside, brandishing a saw.
What happened next was also normal. Houston stood outside the vault, apparently lost in his own world. Hoxton’s masked face reappeared around the edge of the vault door.
“Oi, Loverboy, come help me in here.”
Wolf’s insides lurched and squirmed. He gripped his shotgun more tightly. It was normal, he told himself, for Hoxton to yell at Houston. It was normal for him to call him all sorts of colourful and creative names, like ‘shit-for-brains’, ‘twat’ and ‘dickhead’. But loverboy ? What the fuck did that mean? Wolf was practically a native-level English speaker, and he couldn’t think of a single meaning beyond the obvious - a term of affection, or endearment, for a male romantic partner.
Wolf’s insides took on forms and feelings. The first was Jealousy.
‘They’re fucking ,’ Jealousy hissed, smirking like a playground bully uttering the exact words they knew would make their victim cry. Wolf squeezed his eyes shut and tried to control his breathing, which had inexplicably begun to speed up.
‘ Shut up shut up shut up- ’
‘Maybe they’re not fucking, but he wants to. He’s flirting with the boy,’ Paranoia murmured, in a wondering voice. Wolf ground his teeth together as unbidden, his mind recalled every interaction between Hoxton and Houston over the past month, dissecting it and examining it beneath a microscope for further flirtatious behaviour or words.
‘He’s not he’s not he’s not- ’
‘Why doesn’t he want to fuck us ?’ Anger spat, and at this Wolf shook his head as if loosening the thoughts from his head were possible, flinging them away from him into the dusty corners of the bank. It was uncomfortable breathing so heavily behind the mask, and his clothes suddenly felt too tight, too hot, even though some rational corner of his mind knew that his clothes were tailored specifically for him and he was standing near the air-con. But despite his best efforts, Jealousy, Paranoia and Anger continued whispering their nasty suspicions, and then as they continued their squabble Anxiety reared its ugly, stodgy self and spread, filling him until it was almost all Wolf could feel, from the crown of his sweating head down to the tips of his trembling fingers.
Then, the civilian in the white shirt and white sneakers moved again, the one who had been the most vocal, the one Dallas had snapped at earlier. Wolf’s eyes honed in on him, and then fell on the shivering, frightened, helpless security guard.
And there it was. The perfect outlet for his feelings. An opportunity to control something, anything, because inside Wolf was falling apart, and he needed to be in charge of something .
“Move!” Wolf snarled at the guard. He indicated the spot next to the civilian in the white shirt and white sneakers. The security guard released a fearful sob, and struggled to stand, unbalanced by his bound hands, but did as he was told. He sank to his knees next to the civilian in the white shirt and the white sneakers.
Then without another thought, Wolf took his shotgun and fired it in the guard’s face.
Jealousy, Paranoia and Anger fell silent.
Blood, bone and brains splattered the civilian. A woman screamed. But Wolf only had eyes on that misbehaving civilian, the one who could send this heist loud and messy and risk him or his teammates getting hurt (‘wouldn't mind if he got hurt though,’ Anger whispered).
Wolf leaned down, close to the civilian’s stunned face. “Move again and you’re next. Do you understand?” Every syllable was growled and clipped, cut short like the life of the decimated security guard. The civilian began hyperventilating, crying, sweating, but nodded, frantically.
It wasn’t enough. Anger forced itself out through Wolf’s mouth in a rising shout. “I said, DO YOU UNDERSTAND, MOTHER-FUCKER?” The shotgun was in his face. Wolf’s finger caressed the trigger.
“Yes!” the civilian wailed. His shirt and shoes were not the pure white they had once been. The grey sweatpants had a dark patch spreading outwards from the crotch.
Again Wolf sneered. He lowered the shotgun. He turned.
Dallas was standing there, guarding the entrance to the vault. Of course, he was still masked up, but the limp grip on his gun and the slackening of his posture spoke a thousand words. It spoke of confusion, of disgust - of judgement.
The brief, euphoric moment of nothingness had gone. Anxiety slinked back into place, and Wolf clenched the shotgun to stop his hands from shaking. Bain was yelling in his ear, warning him not to ‘go there’ when it came to civilians, but the Swede only half-listened to the crackly admonitions.
Loverboy. Loverboy. Loverboy.
The rest of the heist went off without a hitch. The saw made the safety deposit boxes a joke and the bank was robbed easily enough. Wolf took two bags on his shoulders to see if it would make him feel something. Though the straps of the bags cut into his body more heavily than usual, it did nothing to quell the insecurity inside him.
He wanted Hoxton. He wanted Hoxton to call him names like love, babe, loverboy. He wanted Hoxton to be his, even though he wasn’t his, even though he hadn’t said anything about his attraction to the Brit out loud. And his feelings had made him do something he was now being judged harshly for, and that was difficult for him to accept.
And then somehow they were in the escape van. Dallas wrenched the mask off his face as soon as the doors were shut and they were moving towards the safehouse.
“What the fuck was that about?” Wolf knew he was being spoken to, but chose to keep his mask on and his head down - funny, considering a few minutes (or had it been hours?) ago he had wanted nothing more than to rip the thing off his face so he could breathe.
Hoxton and Houston pulled their own masks off. They were sitting beside one another, shoulders jostling from time-to-time as the van moved through the city streets back to the Safehouse.
Dallas waited for Wolf to reply, unmask, or do anything, but eventually turned to the Brit. “Wolf blew a guard’s brain out just to keep a civilian in check. Went all over the poor sucker.”
Hoxton’s eyebrow quirked. “Is that all?” he asked mildly, as if it were the sort of thing that happened every day, “still not as bad as that time he drilled a ‘dozer’s faceplate.” He grinned, folding his arms behind his head. “Good times. That was the day you lot busted me out of prison.” The smile fell from his lips. “Too bad it was also when I met this dick’ead.” He nudged Houston with his elbow.
“Shut up,” Houston shot back, not really paying attention to the conversation.
Dallas was still frowning; Hoxton relaxed his arms and rolled his eyes. “Oh, for fuck’s sake Dallas, what’s yer point mate?”
“I just don’t think… we should do that sorta thing.”
“Yeah? And how many cops have you killed, eh? How many mobsters? Fucking ‘ell mate, if you wanna start totting things up, we’ll be stuck in here ‘til bloody Christmas.” Hoxton wasn’t being particularly vicious in making his point, but Dallas’ frown deepened, clearly unhappy with this defence of Wolf’s actions.
An uncomfortable silence filled the van. Muffled sounds of traffic and city life filtered through the thick walls of the getaway vehicle.
Hoxton rubbed a hand over the scarred half of his face. It tended to get slightly raised and irritated in hot weather - Wolf knew this from listening to the man’s grumbles after work-outs together, or heists, or even if he too found the temperature in the workshop to be too warm. The scars would become flushed and itchy - but Wolf never minded, and he never told Hoxton what to do about his scars or how he ought to feel about them. “Look, we got out with the cash. I killed a guard today, and Wolf killed a guard today. What’s the problem?”
Slowly, Wolf glanced up at Hoxton, his worries easing ever so slightly. It was nice to be defended, especially by Hoxton. His words meant more to him than Dallas’, even though Dallas was essentially their boss. A tremulous smile crept on his lips. The van slowed to a halt, and the engine switched off. Wolf raised a hand to remove his mask, ready to expose his true face to the world again-
“-alright loverboy, help me with these bags before you run off to play with yer toy cars,” Hoxton said to Houston.
Wolf snapped his mask back into place.
*
Dissatisfied with Hoxton’s words, Dallas pulled Wolf to one side.
“Look, I don’t know what happened today - because something did happen - but it shouldn’t have.” Dallas kept his hand firmly on Wolf’s shoulder, preventing the younger man from leaving without aggressively pushing Dallas aside. Wolf glared beneath his mask, and kept his silence.
“Well?” Dallas was waiting for an answer. Wolf was incredibly stubborn and held the other man’s gaze through the mask.
Instead of getting angrier, Dallas took an audible breath of air, and the large hand rested more gently on Wolf’s shoulder.
“Listen. Are you okay?”
Wolf didn’t reply.
“Wolf? Please.” Dallas’ tone was softer, quieter. Even their crewmates, honed as their hearing was, would struggle to identify exactly what was being said. “I’ve known you for a long time. I know when something’s up. Maybe you need to take some time off.”
The response was immediate - Wolf shook his head; heisting was what he loved, what he was good at. Without it, he’d spiral, and he didn’t want to return to that dark and lonely place again.
Dallas’ fingers twitched, as if he wanted to pull the mask up and off, but he knew better. Slowly he let his hand fall and the frustration on his face smoothed away, like water sliding down a window, and was replaced by concern.
“Alright. You’re a big boy, you don’t need me to tell you what to do. But I would suggest-” Dallas thought for a moment, averting his eyes as he did so, “-taking some rest. Doing something you like doing. Er, something constructive, rather than destructive. You know what I mean.” Wolf nodded to show he understood. “Okay. And hey… I’m here for you, man. My office is always open.”
Not quite knowing what else to do, Dallas clapped a friendly hand on Wolf’s shoulder, then let the younger man go.
*
Dallas’ suggestion was a good one - to unwind, to relax, to allow himself to become distracted by something. But still Wolf was stricken by his anxiety, by how unfair it all was, because dammit, he wanted Hoxton for himself. He didn’t want Hoxton to want or think about or even to flirt with anyone else, even though that was totally irrational and selfish. At the same time, confronting one’s feelings is not exactly a pleasant exercise, so Wolf tried occupying himself first.
He spent some time with Jacket playing video games, knowing there was less pressure to talk with the voluntary mute. He huffed and swore violently in Swedish when he was beaten and when Jacket glanced at him warily, Wolf just mumbled, “It’s not you,” before leaving the other man as quickly as he could. He fired a fully automatic rifle in Wick’s shooting range without releasing the trigger, mowing down cut-out after cut-out of cop after cop, but still his feelings persisted. He tried working out, but knew he risked hurting himself when Sokol whistled at the sight of him loading too many weights onto the barbell.
It was awful. It was maddening, doing different things to distract yourself and failing. Wolf licked his lips, thirsty, and allowed himself to feel an intense craving for alcohol.
Wolf knew alcohol would not make him feel better in the long run. He knew that alcohol was a depressant. But he also knew it would numb him in the short-term, giving him a few hours of hazy nothingness before Anxiety and her crew returned.
Alcohol was not a smart choice, but Wolf was not making smart choices.
*
Nuclear was the nearest gay bar to the safehouse, and that was exactly where Wolf headed. It had taken him a lot longer than he had anticipated in leaving the safehouse - he had needed to shower, then he’d needed to find something that wasn’t his ‘work uniform’, and then after all that he’d needed to summon the desire to get up and leave - only the need to dance and the craving for alcohol got him moving.
At times like these, Wolf regretted not having a more extensive civilian wardrobe, like Chains and Dallas had. Most of his clothes were designed for comfortable days watching movies (with Hoxton, on the couch) or working out (with Hoxton). In the end, he’d found a nice-ish pair of black jeans that fit him decently, and a loose-fitting, short-sleeved button-down. Fortunately for him, Nuclear wasn’t terribly picky when it came to dress codes, so the bouncer waved him in with no fuss, and after hasty shots of whatever the neon blue ‘Buy one get one free’ offer was, he hit the dancefloor.
As it was midweek, there were not too many people dancing. It gave Wolf the space to do whatever he wanted, whether it was energetic and frantic or something more contained. Initially the DJ called out to him, the bartender watching with unrestrained surprise, and at one point a group of giggling girls (who he suspected were straight women tired of fending off men in other nightclubs) joined him, but after a while he was left to do his thing alone - just as he preferred.
After a few high-energy tracks, the DJ played something newer that Wolf was frankly less familiar with, and he stalked off the dancefloor, needing another drink. The bartender gave him another two shots of whatever he’d drunk when he’d first arrived, and Wolf swallowed one immediately but saved the other, waiting for a better song to come on.
If he had been in a better state of mind, Wolf would have considered why he was approached by two different men and why others watched him appreciatively, and it was because he looked damned good. His body was in great shape, maintained well by his active lifestyle. He was young, his features untouched by the fine lines that work or family-related stress exacerbated and multiplied (which wasn’t to say that his line of work wasn’t stressful, but he had immense job satisfaction and financial security, which amounts to a lot). Still he knocked back the men, even though they were handsome and appeared to be friendly enough.
As he waited, Wolf took a surreptitious glance around the club. Since entering he hadn’t been able to shake the feeling of being watched - and he had initially chalked it up to Anxiety and her minions - but he was now certain that he was being monitored very carefully.
The man in question sat in a booth to himself. Although Wolf’s eyes were well-adjusted to the relative gloom indoors, he couldn’t determine anything more distinctive about his silent watchman other than the fact that he was bearded.
Just as Wolf was toying with the idea of approaching the man, telling him it was rude to stare, the music changed and he threw back his drink without a second thought and returned to the dancefloor.
*
After another hour, Wolf was all danced out, but still not particularly in the mood to return to the safehouse. After a quick glance at his GPS, he walked the short distance to a quiet bar nearby. It was a pleasant evening, the warmth of the day comfortably dimmed, and Wolf was able to cool himself down during his journey.
It was also on this walk that he ascertained, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that the bearded man from the club was following him. Wolf was not particularly perturbed - he was more than capable of protecting himself, crew or no crew - but Paranoia had begun whispering that it was the Rat, or an FBI Agent, or maybe even Captain Winters himself, ready to pounce and surround and arrest him. He shot off messages to Hoxton, Dallas and Chains just to let them know his intended destination, but eventually made it to the bar without incident.
It was a quiet bar that mostly served locals, a low-key place. Wolf took a seat at the bar and decided to set up camp there until he felt like making the walk back to the safehouse, or hailing a cab to some nondescript drop-off point near enough that he’d probably make it back even if he did get shitfaced.
The bearded man did not enter the bar through the same entrance as Wolf had, which surprised the Swede when a deep, husky voice spoke to the barman from his left as he accepted his drink: “I’ll pick up the gentlemen’s tab.”
Wolf didn’t want to give the mystery man the satisfaction of seeing him taken aback, or trying to stare into his face. He kept his eyes on the bar, his fingers twiddling idly. “That won’t be necessary,” he said, loudly and firmly.
The barman shrugged, accepting the bearded man’s money and moving off to serve other customers.
For some time, the two men sat in silence. The bearded man had his own drink, and every now and then Wolf took discrete glances in his direction. Sunglasses obscured part of the man’s face, but judging from his hands the other man was definitely older than him, and well-groomed. His beard was maintained well, not being wild or overgrown like some men were wont to do; his hair was long and sleek-looking, although Wolf had little knowledge about what healthy hair looked like - he had been shaving his own head since his twenties. Despite gun ownership laws in D.C being restrictive at best, Wolf was almost certain the other man was carrying something on his person, judging from how he did not remove his leather jacket. He was also, judging from his behaviour thus far, likely in Wolf’s line of business, which made him potentially very dangerous.
“You’ve got some good moves,” the bearded man said after a while, and Wolf took a heavy drink from his beer. He was in no mood for idle chit-chat.
The bearded man chuckled to himself when he received no response, as if he hadn’t been expecting otherwise, and was undeterred.
“Saw you turning away a lot of guys at Nuclear .”
“I’m not gay,” Wolf lied.
“Bullshit,” the bearded man replied, but not maliciously. “Do you kiss your mother with that lying mouth?” There was humour in his voice; Wolf felt no need to continue the conversation. Again he tried to catch a glimpse of the other man, but the bearded man was doing well to conceal himself just enough to appear perfectly nonchalant in his behaviour, making a direct call-out challenging.
“Seems to me,” the bearded man began after another extended pause of drinking and failed surreptitious glances, “the only reason a handsome guy like you’d turn away handsome guys like those was because you’ve got somebody waiting for you at home.”
Something must have betrayed him - a slight frown or slouch in posture - because after a short pause the bearded man spoke again, softly, understanding. “Ah. You’ve got your eye on someone already. That must be it.”
“What’s it to you?” Wolf took another long drink of his beer. His words were stronger than he felt, because he was swiftly becoming uncomfortable with how much this mystery man was deciphering about him. Was he always this obvious? He eyed his beer suspiciously, as if the drink were somehow responsible for his transparency.
The bearded man took a little while to answer. Sounds of laughter and snippets of quiet conversation filled the silence between them. “Let’s just say…” the bearded man took a drink of his own beer, speaking slowly, “... I’m your Fairy Gay Mother.”
At this, Wolf did turn his head openly, staring at the other man. The bearded man kept his face turned towards the bar, which had few to no reflective surfaces for Wolf to examine. “You don’t look like a fairy,” he said doubtfully.
“You have no idea,” the bearded man gestured to the barman, who wordlessly brought over another round of drinks and a pitcher of water. Wolf wanted to rebut the other man’s silent offer, but was secretly grateful for the water - he would be in for an awful hangover if he didn’t drink something non-alcoholic soon, especially as he had begun mixing drinks.
More time passed between the two men, but the silence had settled into something comfortable, if not completely amicable. The bearded man was not put off by Wolf’s silence.
“The best way to get over someone,” he was saying after a while, “is to get under someone else.”
Wolf shook his head. “I don’t want anyone else,” he said. Why was this mystery man so doggedly insistent about this? Why the interest in his love-life? It occurred to him that perhaps the older man was flirting with him, but Paranoia whispered insecurities into his ear and Wolf dismissed the thought.
“Wait-” the bearded man tilted his head ever so slightly. Although Wolf couldn’t see the bearded man’s eyes - the sunglasses were far too dark to allow for that - it seemed as if the other man was staring at him. “Are you in love with him?”
Wolf huffed out a dismissive laugh, but his stomach lurched because his heart said, ‘yes’ .
Leaving Hoxton behind had been soul-wrenching. Dallas and Chains were forced to hold Wolf back to keep him from launching himself out of the escape vehicle. True to his namesake, Wolf howled in the ride back to the safehouse, crying and swearing the vilest curses he could think of in Swedish and English, because it didn’t feel right riding home without Hoxton’s rapid-fire banter.
In the heists that followed Wolf took increasingly dangerous risks, his behaviour wild as grief drove him to recklessness. It escalated to the point where Dallas snapped and threatened him with expulsion from the Payday gang, and despite his battered, bloodied state - he’d run full-pelt and head-on at a Bulldozer - Wolf resisted, begged, cried. The older man must have sensed sincerity in the frantic pleas, because he eventually relented and allowed Wolf to remain on the condition that he stopped endangering himself and his crewmates. After that very real, very terrifying possibility, Wolf’s behaviour simmered to something closer to how he had been before Hoxton went to prison and they were a mere group of four.
At that point, Wolf threw himself into investigating Hoxton’s arrest. Too many things had fallen into place at exactly the right moment to work against them, and he knew someone was behind it. He spent hour after hour trawling through security footage, FBI documents and his own memories, but always ran up against dead ends. Through it all, he never stopped thinking about Hoxton, wondering how the other man was, how he was coping ‘on the inside’. From time to time he wrote letters to the incarcerated man, even posing as a Christian missionary at one point in the hopes he would get through to the Brit, that he’d be smart enough to crack the code and realise who was really behind the name ‘Brother Anders’, but he never received a reply. His dreams regularly featured the other man, and whilst not all of them were sexual in nature they exposed Wolf’s feelings more than he’d liked, so he’d not allowed himself to consider the true extent of his emotions. It was far easier to bury the feelings, to swallow them down with alcohol or the high of an adrenaline-fuelled heist.
After what had felt like an agonising wait, the Dentist agreed that they were well-positioned to break Hoxton out of prison. As soon as Dallas got the necessary intel from Bain, Wolf jumped at the chance to be on the crew masterminding the heist. Wolf recalled the very moment he stepped through the blast-hole before anyone else, before the dust had had any time to settle from the botched C4 explosion, just so he could be the first to see Hoxton with his own eyes.
When his eyes finally fell on the other man, it was like his vitality had been replenished. His ribcage seemed to expand, the swell of his emotions so powerful and intoxicating, because Hoxton was there, he was okay, he was free. The rest of the mission failed to faze the Swede, even as obstacle after obstacle stood in their path - he felt invincible. Why else would he have tackled a Bulldozer with nothing more than a drill in hand? The others had chalked it up to mental instability, to some craziness that charged through him and emerged at random moments, but Wolf knew better.
It was love. He loved Hoxton. He was in love with his best friend.
The realisation took just a moment in real time, but somehow it drained Wolf. He sagged in his seat, sapped of strength, and rested his forehead against the sticky surface of the bar.
The bearded man didn’t make any attempt to touch the other man, or interrogate him further; his body language told him all he needed to know.
Eventually, the wonder of the revelation subsided and Anxiety resurfaced. Wolf sat upright at last, drinking more water. “I don’t know what to do,” he said, in a quiet voice. It was a confession. Despite not knowing the true identity of the bearded man, he felt as though the advice he could give as an older, more experienced gay could help him.
The bearded man did not disappoint. Wolf was grateful for the other man’s calm, gentle demeanour. “Choice is yours,” the bearded man said simply, “but if I were you, I’d start by doing something nice together with him, something no one else would think to do. Then you’ll be in a good position to take things further, if that’s what you want. Even if you don’t do anything, you’ll have had a nice time with him, so you’ve nothing to lose.” The bearded man spoke with confidence, but was not forceful about it. Wolf found himself nodding along as he listened, the cogs in his mind already turning as he thought of exactly what he would do. Then, a smile appeared on his face - the first since the moment he’d heard the word ‘loverboy’.
“I know what I’ve gotta do.” Wolf drained the last of his drink and was on his feet before he remembered his manners. He stood awkwardly behind the bearded man, who had not turned around at all, but Wolf got the strong feeling he was smiling. “Thank you,” Wolf said, placing a hand on the other man’s shoulder and forcing as much gratitude as he knew how into the phrase. Then without another word he made for the exit.
Bain chuckled to himself, watching the younger man practically run out of the bar. “Good luck, Wolf,” he said.
*
Wolf announced his presence by dumping a cardboard box at Hoxton’s feet, startling the Brit enough to stop him gazing at the disordered sticky notes stuck to the wall. “Fucking Hell, Wolfie,” the younger man took in a deep, calming breath, “nearly gave me a heart attack.” He nudged the box with a foot, quirking an eyebrow. “What’s all this shit?”
When Wolf had run home last night, so giddy from drink and excitement that it felt as though he were merely skimming the ground, he had fantasised that the top floor would be completely deserted, because that was ideal. He would have enough time to explain himself to Hoxton, to help him, to support him. Unfortunately for them both, Dallas was sitting at his desk and Clover was in her pokey camera room in the corner; nevertheless, the Swede was determined to go ahead with his plan. “This is a mess,” he declared, gesturing to the disorganised chaos that consisted of Hoxton’s information about the Rat.
“Makes sense to me, so it doesn’t matter what anyone else makes of it,” Hoxton retorted stubbornly. He was very protective over the FBI files the crew had collected on his behalf after his initial breakout - Wolf recalled at least two separate occasions where Hoxton had threatened to launch Houston down the stairs ‘arse over elbow’ if he so much as looked at the evidence (leading to a very confused Wolf quickly Googling exactly what that meant, although he had a rough idea).
“I know that,” Wolf said, trying to ignore the fact that Dallas was clearly just pretending not to be listening in to their conversation, shuffling the same stack of paper over and over, “but, look. Some of these things-” he gestured to the post-it notes, “-are peeling off. You might lose them.”
Hoxton frowned. Although patience was not necessarily Wolf’s strongest attribute, he knew that any further interference from him might shut Hoxton down completely, and he’d be forced to retreat with a heavy box of office stationery until enough time had passed to consider broaching the topic again.
After a while, Hoxton’s shoulders fell, and he made a grumbling noise of concession. Wolf relaxed a little. “What d’you suggest I do about it?”
Wolf grinned, and kicked the box with his foot. “We’re going to get organised.”
*
It was a delicate operation. Hoxton swore and came out with what Wolf termed ‘Hoxisms’, which were really just extremely colloquial or regional phrases that Hoxton saved for special occasions, but through the torrent of unusual swear words and idioms he maintained his patience. He made sure not to overstep any boundaries (“Don’t kick me ‘arse over elbow’ downstairs, please,” he said in a mock-serious voice, and Hoxton barked out a laugh), asking before he touched or moved or re-wrote anything on the wall. After about thirty minutes of this caution Hoxton rolled his eyes and snatched a bunch of post-its from the wall. “Re-write those in your neatest then get them laminated, you nervous shit.” Despite the truth in those words, Wolf’s heart fluttered happily, recognising the Brit’s banter for what it was and not allowing Anxiety to poison the moment. Holding the trust of the Hoxton fresh out of prison meant more than he knew how to express, so Wolf accepted the digs at his nervous disposition gracefully.
Oh yes. Wolf had gone all out, not just wanting to replace the existing curled, flimsy post-it notes with new, neatly-written notes on starkly-coloured cardstock, but he had bought a laminator as well. “It’s for posterity,” he’d explained, and whilst Hoxton ribbed him for it (“I bet you actually bothered taking your own stationery to school, didn’t you?”), he too stood back and admired the reinforced, clear and organised notes they produced together, and the ability to annotate the laminated notes at a later date was as reassuring as it was useful.
They worked out a system between themselves without really needing to communicate it. Hoxton first took his notes and arranged them into some kind of order, then helped Wolf to re-write the key parts on colour-coded cardstock (which Hoxton dictated and Wolf followed without question or hesitation), before laminating the final product. After that, Hoxton helped Wolf to mount a huge cork-board onto the wall and began to arrange the evidence on it as he saw fit. Wolf felt as though he couldn’t help too much at that stage, so Hoxton told him to ‘make himself useful’ and grab them both some drinks. Before Wolf could do anything, Dallas brought them over some beers and snacks to pick at as they worked, shooting Wolf a knowing smile before retreating to his corner of the office without a word. Wolf had a sneaking suspicion that Dallas left his desk (and indeed, the safehouse itself) early, and had even coaxed Clover into doing the same, leaving the two in comparative privacy as day turned to night. As they fell into a rhythm, sorting through what felt like endless amounts of evidence and witness statements and screenshots taken from CCTV footage, both men relaxed, and Hoxton even let Wolf pin up some completed files on the cork-board, which made Wolf smile so wide he thought his lips might split, but if the other man noticed he said nothing.
“I think,” Hoxton announced, stepping back from the wall and putting his hands on his hips to admire their efforts, “we’re done.”
Wolf joined him, beer bottle in hand, and gazed up at their joint-project. It had taken them the majority of the day, and they had almost run out of supplies (even though Wolf had bought enough spares the shop assistants thought he was being excessive), but it was finished.
The difference was like night and day. Gone were the illegible scrawls labelling individual documents and flimsy post-it notes sticking to the wall by what was probably sheer willpower alone, replaced by neatly hand-written notes and coherently organised files in cabinets they’d salvaged from disuse around the Safehouse.
“We’ve done a fucking good job of this,” Hoxton continued, taking Wolf by surprise when he hooked an arm around the older man’s shoulders, pulling him into a brief hug. “You must be a fucking mind-reader, Wolfie, because this was exactly what I needed… and I was fucking dreading it.”
Wolf nodded, eager to give Hoxton the opportunity to talk. The Safehouse was quieter, although it was the kind of quiet a place holds when other people are around but trying to do their own business quietly, conscious of the presence of others. He tried not to stare too much at the other man’s lips. Hoxton kept his arm wrapped around his shoulders as he kept talking, staring up at the fruit of their endeavours.
“I’m fucking shite at organising things - always have been, always will be. I think I needed someone to kick my arse into gear. Cheers, mate,” Hoxton tightened his grip around Wolf’s shoulders, and smiled, “I owe you one.”
They were so close. Wolf could feel Hoxton’s body heat bleeding through the smart button-down he was wearing (with the sleeves rolled-up as they worked). Wolf became aware of his own heartbeat quickening and thumping. Of their proximity. He angled his body slightly, not wanting to slip free from the one-armed embrace whilst wanting more direct physical contact.
“You can repay me, if you really want,” he said. His voice was quiet, and trembled very slightly. He gazed at Hoxton through his lashes, hoping to convey just a small part of what he felt.
Hoxton kept his eyes on the Swede, his hand slipping from Wolf’s shoulder to his bicep. “Oh yeah? You got something in mind, Wolfie?” he spoke carelessly enough, but something in his eyes sharpened, and his head cocked slightly to one side, as if seeing Wolf in a new light. For a fleeting moment, it seemed as if Hoxton knew, had known all along, and their friendship stretched tautly between them.
They were so close.
Squashing Anxiety one last time, Wolf leaned forward, planting his lips onto the younger man’s.
Hoxton was warm - his lips were soft, a stark contrast to the harsh insults that slipped from his mouth like second-nature - and a hint of stubble brushed against Wolf’s own scruff - and it was amazing, it was everything Wolf had ever imagined. His heart soared. His arms wrapped around Hoxton’s slim frame, keeping him in place.
It did not last long.
For a brief, heart-stopping moment, Hoxton’s lips moved against Wolf’s, molding and pressing and wanting. Then in the next moment a hand came up between them and pushed gently but firmly against Wolf’s chest, and their lips broke apart.
Where his chest had expanded before, exploding with love and relief and lust, it now shrivelled and shrank. Wolf kept his eyes closed, knowing a ‘no’ when he felt it, and wanted to remain suspended in a time where he wasn’t completely certain that Hoxton hated him. Shame, Fear and Insecurity battled inside him, alternating between screaming and mocking and smugness; Wolf couldn’t pick which was worse.
When Wolf didn’t open his eyes, the hand pressed harder into his chest. Excuses and jokes and hurried explanations flew through Wolf’s mind, but none made it to his lips. Finally his eyes opened. He was surprised to see not hatred on Hoxton’s face, but something akin to thoughtfulness. Still he remained wary, prepared to defend himself if necessary.
In the end, Anxiety won out. “I fucked this up,” Wolf said. His eyes lowered in shame. His cheeks burned. His vision wavered, watery. Teeth bit his lip as surreptitiously as they could. Already Paranoia was mocking him, hurling insults as awful as they came, and Wolf had half the mind to believe them.
Hoxton sighed, and Wolf felt the whoosh of air brush against his face. “You haven’t,” Hoxton murmured, and to Wolf’s surprise there was no anger or disgust in his voice. If anything he sounded… reassuring. Regretful. Sad. When Wolf still didn’t meet his gaze, Hoxton nudged at the other man’s nose with his own, and for the first time Wolf saw reciprocated longing in the other’s face.
Hope - beautiful, wondrous hope - lightened the load in Wolf’s heart and mind for a moment, but the overall downcast expression on Hoxton’s face kept it from flying free from his grasp, like a child letting go of a balloon. That was how he tempered his hope, clutching it tightly between both hands whilst simultaneously wanting to release his grasp on it to learn how it flew.
Hoxton swallowed, and leaned back, away. The hand on Wolf’s chest fell, but then both hands came to rest around the Swede’s neck. The gesture was completely unexpected, and again Wolf was asking himself what the fuck was going on, but something told him to keep his mouth shut, so that’s exactly what he did.
“Every day since I got out of that place,” Hoxton said, so quietly Wolf at first struggled to hear him over the sound of his heartbeat in his ears, “I’ve been thinking of nothing but this fucking Rat.”
Wolf was glad he hadn’t spoken. More than anyone else - even Dallas and Chains - he knew how difficult it was for Hoxton to discuss his personal feelings, especially if it went any deeper than the bravado and slang he threw about sarcastically with the newer members of the gang. So he kept his mouth shut, and listened as carefully as he could.
“When I wake up, I’m trying to work out who it is. Running through shit in my mind. I even dream about finding the bastard and killing him. It’s… it’s all I can think about.” The admission hushed Hoxton for a while, and Wolf respectfully bowed his head, detecting the tremor in the other man’s voice; the only indication that he heard it was the slow rub of his hands against Hoxton’s lower back. Wolf felt more than saw Hoxton tremble, shake.
The hushed quiet of the Safehouse filled the silence between them, two men stood almost touching, arms wrapped loosely around the other, neither looking at the other. It was a silence filled with the suppressed activity of other people going about their daily lives, and the closed-off solitude of broken hearts.
“What that means is…” Hoxton was the first to speak, and Wolf risked glancing up, “... I can’t do this right now. Because Wolf, fucking Hell, you… you deserve better than I can give you at the moment.”
Wolf exhaled. It was a shaky breath, full of unspoken emotion. Desperation tore itself through the other feelings welling inside him with long, self-deprecating claws. “Or we could - just - you know…” his eyes flicked in the direction of Dallas’ desk.
Hoxton frowned, turning to see what Wolf was indicating, and burst into laughter so genuine Wolf couldn’t find it within himself to be snarked by it. In fact, any whining complaints died on his lips as Hoxton leaned back in, resting his forehead against Wolf’s as he chuckled.
“Fucking Hell, Wolf, I like your thinking… that’s given me enough wanking material to last me…” Hoxton heaved his own shaky, aroused breath, and Wolf felt a surge of lust shoot through him, “... a long time.” The Brit pulled back enough to look Wolf in the face, their lips a mere maddening inches apart, “... but you deserve something more proper than I can give you at the moment. I want to give you that. But I need time… I need time to fix this, to sort out who this Rat is. Then I can move on with my life. I feel like everything’s stuck... and until I work out who he is and kill him I can’t do anything else.”
Wolf nodded, because everything Hoxton was saying spoke a lot of sense to him. It didn’t stop his heart from hurting, or his lips from frowning, and Hoxton continued to nuzzle at the other man with his nose, relishing in their closeness. Some of the sadness had slipped from Hoxton’s eyes, replaced by relief and satisfaction from their closeness. “I know what you’re thinking, Wolfie,” Hoxton said after a moment, his voice serious, “you’re thinking this is my way of letting you down gently. Like I’m getting rid of you and when this is all done I’ll turn around and laugh right in your fucking face.” Hoxton waited until Wolf reopened his eyes, pressing a chaste kiss to the Swede’s lips to encourage him to look at him again, because fuck , this was important.
“I’m not rejecting you. I want you, Wolf. And we’ll be something with one another. I just need to get through this first… to get rid of this one last problem… and then I’ll be able to give you everything.” Hoxton smiled ruefully, his eyes betraying a gentleness Wolf had never seen in the Brit before. It swelled his heart with such affection that the Swede almost leaned forward to kiss the other man, but he held himself back.
“I can help,” Wolf said, before his brain had had enough time to properly understand what exactly it was he was offering - the commitment, the hours, the time and energy - “I can go through this all with you-”
“I need to do this myself,” Hoxton interrupted, as kindly as he knew how. He punctuated the sentence with another kiss, and this time Wolf couldn’t help but growl and push his tongue out to swipe at the other’s lips, and he was overjoyed when Hoxton opened his mouth and deepened the kiss. The Brit’s hands tightened their grip around Wolf’s neck, holding him in place. Wolf’s own hands squeezed at Hoxton’s middle, then fell lower to cup the other’s ass. All the while their tongues rubbed against each other between their lips, and both men finally felt secure in knowing it was what the other wanted.
After an especially firm grope of his arse, Hoxton broke the kiss, muttering, “Alright, alright, easy tiger,” and backing off, and Wolf did as he was told, although not without grumbling jokingly, “My name’s Wolf,” to which Hoxton smirked, “I know.”
Again silence fell between the two criminals, but it felt more hopeful and less lonely than the other silences. Fighting against every desire of his body, Wolf allowed his hold on the other man’s body to slacken, and Hoxton did the same. They stepped apart, Hoxton clearing his throat for good measure.
“I’m almost there,” the Brit said after a while, glaring at the freshly organised cork-board, “I’ve almost pinned him down to a location. And when I find him, I want you to be on the team that goes with me, Wolfie. I want you to be right there with me.”
Wolf nodded vigorously, as if there were no alternatives. “I want to be there,” he said, and Hoxton smiled at that. The Swede wanted to take the other man back into his arms, but forced his hands into fists at his side to keep himself in check. His mind and heart were racing from the events of the evening and he desperately needed time to process it all, but Hoxton needed something too, and he wouldn’t allow himself to leave without seeing that the other man’s needs were met.
“It’d be nice if you still kept me company up here every now and then,” Hoxton said, and Wolf was unable to articulate exactly how much he would enjoy that, so settled for another enthusiastic nod.
There was a finality in Hoxton’s words, and whilst it wasn’t a direct instruction to fuck off, Wolf knew it was best for him to leave. “Alright. Well… good night, Hox,” Wolf plucked his forgotten beer bottle from atop the filing cabinets, and drained it. He risked a glance at the other man, who had folded his arms - Hoxton had all the appearance of someone who was forcing themselves not to reach out and pull him back.
“Night, Wolfie,” Hoxton said, watching Wolf with a hungry look in his eyes. Wolf hesitated, and the Brit must have noticed it because he cocked his head again.
Wolf’s lips curled in discomfort. “Why’d you call Houston loverboy?” As soon as the question was out of his mouth, he felt like a child. It was stupid, he was stupid, stupid, stupid-
There was a moment where something complicated passed over Hoxton’s face. “I don’t wanna do with him what I just did with you,” he said after a second, tone humorous but his face deadly serious. Wolf dipped his head, embarrassed. “I’ll do me best not to call him that again.” Hoxton paused, wanting to see Wolf smile again before they parted: “I can still call him dickhead, right?”
“Right.”
“Twatface?”
“Yeah.”
“Shit-for-brains?” Hoxton was grinning, and it lightened the mood enough for Wolf to relax and feel somewhat less juvenile. He waved somewhat awkwardly as a goodnight, and descended to his basement-level bedroom.
Inside, Wolf felt both heavy and light: Heavy because he needed to wait even longer before he could be with Hoxton, and he had no idea how long it would take: Light because he had kissed and been kissed in return, because Hoxton reciprocated his feelings.
Noticeably smaller was Anxiety and her companions. From time to time she tried to rear her ugly head, but it was easier to knock back more of her curses than before. So that evening Wolf managed to go to sleep with something of a smile on his face, and his dreams were full of what was to come once they’d finished the Rat.
*
The following weeks were at times slow and painful. Although it had seemed impossible before, Hoxton spent even more time in the top-floor office, sorting through evidence and cursing frequently. Wolf tried not to visit too much, conscious that Dallas and Clover might pick up on his increased presence, but if it was noticed neither heister mentioned it. At times Wolf simply lay down on the solid wood flooring as Hoxton worked, sometimes with a book and sometimes just to chat or to be there.
“Teach me some Swedish,” Hoxton said to him once, not taking his eyes off his corkboard.
“Kuk ansikte.”
“What’s that?”
“Dick face.”
Dallas snorted from his desk as Hoxton tutted, “I meant something proper, you wanker.” Nevertheless he made a genuine effort to remember the random and dubious vocabulary Wolf taught him (“Might come in useful one day,” he said, and something like chaotic, wild hope leapt in Wolf’s chest).
There was one time, during the Safehouse movie night, when Hoxton left the top floor to give himself a much-needed 90-minute rest, and he slunk in next to Wolf, who was standing behind the sofa, and he gently linked their hands together. They stayed like that until halfway through the film Bonnie announced at the top of her lungs that she needed a piss, much to everyone’s displeasure, and noisily elbowed her way to the bathroom whilst yelling at Sydney to pause the DVD until she returned.
On the odd occasion, Hoxton took his lunch down to Wolf’s workshop and chatted to the Swede as he worked, reversing their roles. More often than not Wolf would push aside whatever he was doing to focus on the other man, which Hoxton said made him ‘soft’ but it made him smile all the same.
So, time passed. One day Wolf was frowning at a drill, asking it why it didn’t want to work, when Hoxton burst into the workshop, hair slipping loose from its ponytail. His cheeks were flushed.
“I know where he’s hiding,” Hoxton said in a rush, breathing like he’d just run a marathon.
It took Wolf a moment longer than it should have to understand the Brit, the speed of his speech somewhat incoherent. But then his eyes widened in understanding and excitement. He rushed over to grasp Hoxton by the forearms.
“You’ve found him?”
“I’ve found him,” Hoxton confirmed. His eyes were shining, smug. It made the purple bruises of exhaustion under his eyes irrelevant. He pulled Wolf into a hug, holding onto the other man tightly.
“Got to tell Bain, want him to send someone to scout out the place, make sure I’m not wrong,” Hoxton mumbled in Wolf’s ear. He was practically shivering with anticipation, overwhelmed by his discovery.
“Alright, alright,” Wolf pulled away from the embrace and gave Hoxton’s arms an encouraging tug, “let’s call it in. Together.”
Despite being the more level-headed of the two at that moment, Wolf found himself trembling as he led them both up the stairs to the phone that connected them to Bain. It was too risky for Bain to have a phone number that stayed the same or was tethered to a particular time, place or even network provider. The only sure-fire way to get through to him when not on a heist (aside from waving frantically in the few known camera spots in the Safehouse) was through the telephone on Dallas’ desk.
Amazingly the top-floor was empty - in fact, the Safehouse itself was fairly quiet - and Wolf ushered Hoxton into Dallas’ chair, handing him the phone. Hoxton gestured for Wolf to stay close so that he could overhear what was being said, too suspicious and untrusting to put the phone on speaker.
The line stayed dead-silent for a minute, before Bain’s familiar voice came down the receiver. “To what do I owe the pleasure, gentlemen?” Wolf peered around the office, seeking the hidden camera Bain was clearly using.
Bain chuckled on the other end of the line. “Keep trying. Dallas has been searching for months and still hasn’t found me. What d’you need?”
“I’ve found him,” Hoxton said. Where he had been excited before, he was business-like now, with not even a hint of his nerves apparent as he spoke.
Bain responded in kind. “Where?” His tone was sharp.
Hoxton relayed the address, and Bain whistled. “Still don’t know who the fucker is, but I think they’re keeping him there. Must be some sort of Safehouse. Can you send-”
“I’m on it,” Bain replied, and both men heard the sound of frantic typing in the background. “Hang around for a bit, I’m gonna send someone to investigate right away. I want to be sure before sending you guys out there. There’s too much at risk if we fuck this up. Hang tight.” The line disconnected and Hoxton replaced the receiver on its cradle. He exhaled, and ran a hand through his hair. He plucked the hair tie out, re-doing his ponytail. His fingers drummed on Dallas’ desk.
The time between Bain’s phone calls was interminable. Wolf stayed by Hoxton’s side, comforting the other man as best as he knew how. The conversation always returned to the Rat. After some time Wolf gently asked him to explain how he had made his discovery, and the process soothed Hoxton enough to pass the time more easily.
Thankfully, Bain was extremely well-connected, and only later would either man think to marvel at just how quickly he was able to get things done: “It’s an FBI safehouse, all right,” Bain confirmed just forty minutes later, “I still wanna see what I can find on my end - blueprints, satellite photos, that sort’ve thing. But I’m around 90% sure this is where we’ll find our Rat.”
“Quick as you can, please,” Hoxton said, grim determination darkening his excitement, “I won’t rest until I’ve got that bastard’s blood on my hands.” Wolf reached down and gripped the other man’s hand, cameras forgotten. Hoxton squeezed back.
“You’ll get your revenge, Hox,” Bain said, and both men were reassured. In spite of the obvious betrayal that had torn the original Payday gang asunder, separating them for two long years, both Hoxton and Wolf had faith in Bain. Whether a heist went loud, remained stealthy or they were forced into a Plan B, Bain ensured that something was in the works - additional mission support, a new escape vehicle, or even intel on where the cops were coming from. Whoever the Rat was, both men believed that Bain had been genuinely fooled alongside them.
“Not a word of this to anyone other than me, Wolfie, Dallas and Chains.” Hoxton continued, in the same commanding tone he used to talk to civilians. “They’re the only ones I trust out of this lot.”
Bain chuckled. “Wouldn’t have it any other way, Hox. I’ll call again when I have something, then we’ll work out when we’ll hit the place. You did good, kid.”
That was how the phone call with Bain ended. For some time the two men stayed where they were, their hands clasped together, each feeling that a huge victory had been achieved. They were quiet for some time, revelling in the knowledge that they were about to embark on a defining moment - for Hoxton, and for Hoxton and Wolf together. The unspoken promises of that night were on both men’s minds, the anticipation of time together to work out what they were and what they wanted to be as a union - not as teammates in a gang, but as lovers.
*
Even for criminals as successful as they were, the pre-heist anticipation was different this time. Questions were going to be answered and suspicions could be erased, forgotten, forgiven.
For Wolf, he suspected that Anxiety would always exist inside him. At times she would be stronger and more vocal - at other times she would be quieter, barely noticeable beneath a healthy layer of confidence and stability. Although not wanting to give Hoxton all the credit, Wolf suspected he may be better equipped to keep Her suppressed when they were together. It was just like taking down a Bulldozer, or Captain Winters - it was possible to do so single-handedly, but the process was safer and more efficient when done with someone else.
Wolf stepped out of the escape van just outside the Safehouse where their Rat was confirmed to be hiding out; Hoxton had already jumped out of the car, unable to wait for the wheels to rumble to a stop.
They were already masked up. Even with their masks on, they knew what the other was thinking. Dropping to a crouch, Wolf followed Hoxton towards the sprawling compound beyond.