(sammy bryant nate moretta brainworms)
witness security after you played a little game of wrong place, wrong time, except it's just sammy and nate hogging your downtown flat. the two under-rested, overworked detectives took it upon themselves to watch out for you after you vehemently opposed going into witsec. it's low-profile, they said. just until the dirtbags you accidentally made yourself a target of get tossed behind bars. three, four days, maybe, tops.
the men (hot, in the way your best friend's father is when you sleep over at her place) make themselves egregiously comfortable. when you come out of your bedroom friday morning, nate is at the stove, tending to a pan of scrambled eggs, while sammy flips through your yearbook, his feet kicked up on your coffee table.
"is this really necessary?" you say from the doorway, voice flat and put upon, because acting affronted makes it easier to tamp down the thoughts racing through your mind.
they both look up at the same time.
"well," nate hums, fetching three plates out of your cupboard. he already knows which cabinet holds what kitchenware. "maybe not necessary. you could always just... let 18th street shoot you."
"or stab you," sammy says, eyes trained on his phone and hand nursing a steaming cup of coffee. "you should just go stand on the street corner. hell, just go down to their turf." your eye twitches. that's your favorite mug.
nate places your plate of eggs on your little ikea dining table, meeting your eyes and nodding to the chair, before taking his and sammy's much larger plates to the sofa and dropping next to his partner.
eggs are like, seven bucks a dozen now.
you don't sit. not immediately. you stand by the table, eyeing the plates: first yours, with a few meager slivers of avocado and two scrambled eggs, and then, on the sofa, sammy's and nate's, piled high with the fluffy golden curds. surely for the purpose of hitting some protein goal. assholes. glorious, buff assholes. with massive biceps. fuck.
"...sure," you huff quietly. "eat whatever you want. thanks for asking."
nate looks over his shoulder at you, fork in his mouth and television remote in his hand. there's a look in his eye that makes your stomach twist. some of the irritation of a father, some of the cockiness of a law enforcement officer who knows how hot he is.
"would you rather us starve?" he says through a mouthful of egg, not even having the decency to put on a channel that you like as he flicks to ESPN.
"no, i'd rather you buy your own groceries if you're going to start playing househusbands for me," you grumble, yanking out your chair harder than necessary and plopping down. you stab at the egg and chew it like it personally wronged you. the two make very amused eye contact.
sammy's legs are spread wide on the sofa. of course he's a manspreadeder. why wouldn't he be? you have to drag your eyes away, glaring back down at your plate.
"look, kid, we'll spot you some grocery money when this is all over," sammy says. you don't respond to the offer, letting silence (or, rather, the sound of a lakers game) stretch between you for a minute.
"you're in danger," nate says, his voice low and notably less cocky than usual. he's leaned back on the sofa, half-occupied with the game, but his eyes are trained on you. you don't look back at him. "whether you want to admit it or not. and if you're not gonna let LAPD tuck you in a safe house, youre stuck with us. get used to the company, it's just a few days. you'll be okay," he says.
he says it like it's a fact. like sunrise. like taxes. entirely overlooking how you haven't slept the past thirty-six hours, how every slam of a car door outside makes you jump. entirely overlooking how your safety is most definitely, decidedly not guaranteed, much unlike the sun coming up in the morning and bills coming in the mail.
you can see nate watching you in your periphery as you scrape at the eggs. they're delicious. the eggs, the men. god, this is all so confusing.
he isn't ogling. not quite. he's observing, in the way he does at every crime scene. every interview.
"you slept like shit," he says bluntly. "i heard you pacing in the bedroom."
"didn't know i was under surveillance," you say lowly, roughly standing from your chair and dumping your plate in the sink with a clatter.
"you are."
you roll your eyes, a little "thanks, dad" slipping from your lips. the "no problem, sweetheart," he tosses back makes an... unclean feeling bubble up in your chest.
"i have to get to work," you tack on after a moment, waiting until both men are fully focused on the basketball game on TV, pulling your travel mug out. this entire mess is making your head hurt. coffee on the road should help.
"you're not going," sammy says, not even bothering to look your way, his muscled thighs spread and taking up half the sofa. he's leaned back like he owns the place. "boss is giving you time off."
"my boss—"
"—cares if you die," sammy cuts you off, finally looking over at you. his eyes are narrowed, but the little smile on his lips tells you he's enjoying this at least a little. maybe a lot. "i talked to him. go do a puzzle or something."
you hate them. you hate this. you hate how good they look stretched out on your furniture, how they've oh-so-casually slotted themselves into your life like they've been here all along. you hate that they're right, that you're scared and that they see through your pissed facade.
mostly, you hate that you don't know which one of them you want to kiss more.
· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·
you're, embarrassingly, doing what sammy says. sitting on the floor by their feet, the two of them lounging on the sofa while you solve a puzzle on the coffee table. sammy's phone buzzes. he picks it up and shows it to nate, staying intentionally silent and glancing down at you. you mirror him, looking up.
"....everything okay?" you say, head cocked a little.
"yeah, just... work on your puzzle," he says. asshole.
(your stomach does a flip at his words)
sammy types something aggressively on his phone. nate looks down at you as well, the usual flirtatiousness in his gaze replaced with a type of pity.
liar.
"liar," you say, slotting another piece into the forest scene you're working on. "what is it?"
"they lost him," sammy says, eyes still on his phone as he seemingly tries to coordinate whatever situation is going down.
the silence that follows is sharp and ugly.
"...lost?" you echo, standing up, suddenly not concerned with your thousand-piece distraction. "like, what... he ducked the police?"
"officers were two blocks behind and a friend picked him up," sammy mutters. "they got a partial on the plate and the car's build, we'll get someone in the air."
your stomach goes cold, curling in on itself, tight and miserable under your ribs. you stand, too fast. the blanket that's been settled over your lap drops to the hardwood beneath you.
"okay, awesome, wow, you guys are fucking fantastic at your jobs," you say, voice growing frantic and a bit angry. "let's just invite whatever gangbangers you're tailing over for coffee, let them walk right—"
"hey," sammy interrupts, standing from the sofa and getting close to you. his hand finds you upper arm. "you're okay."
"no, i'm not—" you start, voice cracking. the distress clouding your mind is embarrassingly apparent by the shake in your hands and the tears along your waterline as you look back at nate. desperately, pleadingly.
he's up from the sofa in an instant, flanking your other side, voice calm and steady as ever. "you're okay," he repeats. "you're safe, we're not leaving— hey, hey, look at me," he says, using one finger to tilt your chin up. he levels your teary gaze with his own gentle, confident one. "we're not leaving."
you try to laugh but it comes out more of a ragged exhale.
"god, you're both so calm," you say, words shaky and oscillating between scared and angry. this is all too much. "why are you so calm?"
sammy cocks his head down at you, leaning so he's crowding you a bit more. he shushes you quietly.
"baby… i like sitting on your sofa, stealing your food, but watching you panic like this..." he says, refusing to let you break eye contact, moving wherever you look to escape his gaze. "nothing is gonna happen to you. you hear me?"
nate just studies your face in silence. then, slowly, he moves, rough thumb brushing a tear that's gathered in your lower lash line. his hand drops to cradle your jaw, palm slotting against you like pieces of the puzzle left abandoned on the table. he tilts, so you're looking straight up at him.
"todo va a estar bien," he croons. "deep breaths."
you listen, sammy huddled up on your other side as your chest heaves. slowly, your breaths even out, face still in nate's calloused grip.
everything goes still for a minute.
you don't know who leans in first. nate's mouth finds yours before your brain catches up, and suddenly it's all heat and breath and his palm sliding up to cradle the back of your neck, grounding you. he kisses you like he wants to make you his, show you that nothing is going to get to you. not when he's here.
you gasp when another hand brushes your waist.
sammy. still right there, pupils brown and jaw tight.
you don't stop him when his hand curls around your hip, and you definitely don't stop him when he tilts your face towards his own. nate's breath is still on your lips as sammy kisses you, rougher, and you easily let him overpower you. a low groan rises from his chest, like he's been waiting to do this since he first saw you at the crime scene.
you don't know where your hands are supposed to go. you end up with one twisted in the hem of sammy's shirt and another gripping nate's arm because the room feels like it's spinning.
someone walks you backwards (or, both of them in tandem, maybe) until your knees hit the sofa. you fall into the cushions and they follow, a tangled mess of limbs and mouths. the weight is heavy, solid, reassuring.
sammy kisses down your neck, crooked teeth nipping at your skin. nate's hand slides up your shirt, and you arch into it without even thinking.
it's dizzying. hands in your hair, mouths on your collarbone. sammy's cocky, adoring laugh when you shiver, and nate's jumbled part-english-part-spanish murmurs about how they've been trying to behave themselves.
you forget about everything. the horrendous crime you stumbled upon day before yesterday, the horrible fate that lies waiting if you don't tread with caution. the only thing that exists now is the friction, the heat, the breathlessness.
your shirt hits the floor as sammy situates you on nate's lap, straddling his thighs with your hands steadying yourself on his shoulders.
"you sure about this?" nate pants, fingertips brushing the bare skin over your ribs.
you nod, silent but frantic, to overwhelmed by every emotion the past two days have thrown at you to use words.
they move you around like they've done this before— not with you, but maybe with each other. what matters is the way they handle you, careful and sure, fragile like you need to be protected but passionate like you need to be ruined.
nate's hand slips down, teasing at the waistband of your pajama shorts while sammy leans in to kiss you again. you sigh, caught in the middle of them, all heat and want. your body shudders as nate's teeth graze the place where your shoulder and neck meet.
they ease you back onto the couch, nate's arm behind your back and sammy bracing himself over you, his breath ragged. their hands move in sync, petting and stroking and exploring, skin against skin until you don't know who's touching what.
"you're shaking," nate murmurs against your collarbone.
you are. from want, not nerves. he picks up on that without you saying those words.
"....'m okay," you huff, chest heaving. "don't stop, please."
sammy grins down at you, all playfulness and crooked teeth, while nate just looks down with a gentle, knowing smile.
"stop?" he asks, dipping down lower as sammy leans in to lap at your neck.
"baby, we're going until you forget why we came here in the first place," nate says, looking at you hungrily. he tugs at your cotton shorts, hands gripping at your ass while sammy attacks the skin across your chest. "eso, súbelas, lift your hips up. good girl."