#masterfugitive

[getthefuckingdrill]

I don't remember if I posted this

[skunkboydreams]

DALHOX REAL NO CLICK BAIT?!

[vvioviiovioo]

Hi! I saw ur post about rare pairs in the payday fandom!

I haven't seen any art of them and I don't think ppl ship them bc of the confusion between Hoxton (James) and Houston (Franklin)

But! Dallas X Hoxton, I ship them a lot and I think they're cute together

I hc they start dating after Hoxton is out of prison

And I shall stop rambling now!

Masterfugitive (Dallas x Hoxton) is so awesomecore ,,, I think they have a few fics on ao3 and most of them r so COOLCORE!!!!!!!!!!

10/10 rarepair! I lauve themcore

[what-yadoking-likes]

i know ur a big fan of wolfhox, but what other payday ships do u like? any rarepairs?

BAHAHA yeah. I'm a sucker for best friends to lovers, y'know?

For non-WolfHox pairings, I also like -

MasterTech (Wolf/Dallas) - I think as slightly older guys with more life experience than some of the other heisters, they'd make a cute couple. Not terribly common as a ship but I have seen some fanart for it, so it's not super rare I guess.

MasterFugitive (Hoxton/Dallas) - I don't love this ship per se, but I'll read it. Hoxton's imprisonment also introduces the possibility for angst if you're into that, but it could be a slow building of trust again thing, too. Lots of potential here.

MasterGuide (Bain/Dallas) - I really, really like this pairing. Again, as older, more experienced fellas they'd make a compelling couple. There's a mutual respect that develops over time, I think, and that's important. Confidante? More like confiDATE. Heh.

MasterGrinder (Sokol/Dallas) - I also like age-difference relationships. They're at very different points in their lives so it might not work out long-term (or maybe it would, who knows?), but they're both very handsome. @neomineom has done a lot of great fanart for this pairing in the past and is a very talented artist.

Chains/Houston (I don't think there is a standard ship name for them). Now, I am not a huge fan of Houston (gasps). But I think they make a cute couple. Again, @neomineom did some art for this pairing a while ago which was also really excellent. Don't see much content for this pairing generally, though.

As for rare-pairs, ehh... does GolfGuide (Locke/Bain) count? I think I suggested this pairing as a joke but eh, I could imagine some fuck buddy situation with these two.

I am both perturbed and intrigued by a crack!pairing of my own creation: UkrainianChicken (Vlad/Jacket). I wanted to create the most chaotic pairing I could think of and... well, that's the result.

Honestly, though? I'd probably give most pairings a read. I feel like I've read most of the fics for this fandom on AO3 at this point. These are the first ones that come to mind, though.

Hope the length of this reply makes up for the looooooong time your Ask sat in my inbox, Anon!

[getthefuckingdrill]

[getthefuckingdrill]

Too Late to Come Home

Summary:

Hoxton waits in prison, clinging to the promise that the gang—and Dallas—will come for him. Days blur into months, silence into certainty that he’s been forgotten. By the time the truth reaches the safehouse, it’s already irreversible.

CW / TW:

Major character death, prison abuse and neglect, illness and medical neglect, emotional isolation, grief and survivor’s guilt, implied romantic feelings, hurt/no comfort, canon-typical violence (non-graphic)

Fic below the cut:

They promise him they’re coming.

Dallas says it first, voice rough through the glass and static. Says it like an order, like a certainty.

"We’ll get you out, James. Sit tight."

Hoxton believes him.

At first.

The days in prison don’t move forward so much as they pile up. Grey on grey. Noise that never stops. Food that barely qualifies. Hands that shove him when no one’s looking. Fists when they are.

Letters don’t come.

At least—none that reach him.

Dallas writes. Bain pulls strings. Lawyers stall. Money moves. Plans fail. Time stretches.

Weeks turn into months. His body starts giving up in small, humiliating ways. Weight drops off him fast. Bruises bloom and fade before he can count them. A cough settles in his chest and never really leaves.

Hoxton only sees the silence.

He tells himself it’s fine.

He tells himself Dallas is busy.

He tells himself he’s strong enough to wait.

But nights are long, and isolation is longer.

He starts replaying memories like evidence against himself. The jokes. The fights. The way Dallas looked at him sometimes—soft, when he thought no one was watching.

'Maybe it wasn’t real,' Hoxton thinks, staring at the wall.

When the guards shove him back into his cell after another “incident” his legs don’t stop shaking. His chest hurts. Breathing feels like trying to pull air through cloth.

'Maybe I read it wrong.'

He thinks of Dallas then. Not the heister. Not the leader.

The man.

The one who once pressed a hand to the small of his back and murmured, I’ve got you.

“I’ll wait,” Hoxton whispers to no one. His voice cracks on it. “I can wait.”

But his body can’t.

It’s not dramatic. No final stand. No blaze of glory.

He gets sick. Really sick. Feverish. Weak. His requests for help blur into the background noise of the place. When he finally collapses, it’s just another problem to be handled.

By the time someone realizes he isn’t getting back up, it’s already too late.

Hoxton dies on a thin mattress, staring at a ceiling he’s memorized crack by crack, believing—truly believing—that the gang moved on.

That Dallas forgot.

The news hits the safehouse like a gunshot.

Dallas doesn’t say anything at first. He just sits down hard, like his legs stopped working. Someone’s talking—Bain, maybe—but the words don’t land.

Didn’t make it.

Complications.

We were too late.

Dallas’s hands shake.

He thinks of every delay. Every “soon.” Every time he told himself Hoxton was tough enough to last another week.

“I promised him,” Dallas says finally, voice barely there. “I promised.”

He goes quiet after that.

The safehouse keeps moving around him, but Dallas doesn’t. He sits across from where Hoxton used to, stares at the empty space like it might fill itself if he looks hard enough.

Dallas folds in on himself, grief sharp and ugly and endless.

Hoxton didn’t die knowing he was loved.

And that—that’s what kills Dallas.

Because they were coming.

They never stopped trying.

They were just too late.

[skunkboydreams]

Mini Dalhox angst thing

One Call

Cw/Tw: prison

The fluorescent light above Hoxton’s head buzzed like a dying insect. The sound scraped against his nerves as two guards led him down the narrow hallway. His hands were cuffed in front of him—steel biting into wrists already raw from the transport—and the fabric of his prison jumpsuit itched at his neck.

“You get one phone call,” one of the guards said, not bothering to look at him. “Make it count.”

Hoxton didn’t answer. Didn’t need to. He already knew who he was calling.

They stopped at a cracked, wall-mounted phone. The receiver was sticky, the cord frayed. The guard unlocked his cuffs long enough for him to lift it, then stepped back, arms folded.

Hoxton stared at the metal dial pad for a long moment, his chest tight. His throat was dry, but he forced his fingers to move, punching in the number he’d memorized years ago.

Come on, come on, pick up…

The line clicked. A familiar voice answered, rough with confusion and something close to disbelief.

“James?”

It hit him harder than any punch ever could. Dallas’s voice. He hadn’t heard it in months, and now it came through the receiver like a ghost—warm, alive, so painfully close.

“Yeah,” Hoxton breathed. “Yeah, it’s me, mate.”

There was silence for a second. Just breathing on both ends.

“Christ,” Dallas said finally, voice cracking around the edges.

“I know,” Hoxton interrupted softly. “I know. I just— They said one call, and I… I didn’t have anyone else to ring.”

He tried to laugh. It came out broken.

Dallas didn’t say anything. Hoxton could picture him standing in the safehouse kitchen, phone pressed tight to his ear, jaw clenched. Houston probably hovering nearby, eyes darting to the windows.

“I... I can’t save you, James,” Dallas said finally, and there was something terribly final in it. “Not this time.”

Hoxton swallowed hard. “Didn’t ask you to.”

“Then why—”

“Because I needed to hear your voice.”

Silence again. Longer this time. Hoxton could hear faint movement on the other end—someone shifting, maybe Houston saying something too quiet to make out.

He wanted to ask a hundred things. Was the gang okay? Were they still doing jobs? Did they miss him? Did Dallas miss him?

But the words got stuck behind the lump in his throat.

“Can I—” Hoxton started, then faltered. “Can I stay on the line with you at least, Nate? Just… a few minutes. Please.”

There was a hitch in Dallas’s breathing. Then—

“…Yeah. Yeah, alright.”

The sound of the safehouse filtered faintly through the line: a fridge hum, floorboards creaking, the echo of a sigh. Hoxton closed his eyes, leaned his forehead against the cold wall, and pretended, for a moment, that he wasn’t surrounded by concrete and bars.

“Hey, remember that time at the safe house?” he asked quietly, voice trembling with something close to a laugh. “You, me, Wolf, and Chains. The poker night.”

Dallas let out a soft huff of air that might’ve been a laugh, or a sob. “You mean the one where you accused Chains of cheating because you were too drunk to read your own hand?”

Hoxton smiled, eyes wet. “Yeah, that one.”

The smile didn’t last.

The line went quiet again—quiet enough that Hoxton could hear his own heartbeat, ragged and fast.

Then there was a shuffle on the other end. Muffled voices.

“Wait— Houston, what are you—”

The line clicked.

And then—

Dial tone.

Hoxton froze.

“...Nate?”

He pressed the receiver tighter to his ear. “Nathan? You there?”

Nothing but the steady, merciless hum of the tone.

“Nathan, please,” Hoxton whispered. “Come back. I’m sorry. I’m sorry, I—”

His voice cracked apart completely. “Please.”

The guard behind him shifted impatiently. “Time’s up.”

Hoxton didn’t move. Didn’t even hear him. He was still gripping the phone like it was a lifeline, knuckles white, the receiver slick with sweat. The guard had to pry it from his fingers.

When they dragged him back down the hallway, Hoxton didn’t fight. His legs barely worked. He stumbled into his cell and sat down on the cot, staring at his hands. They were shaking.

He didn’t sleep that night. He lay there, eyes open in the dark, replaying that moment over and over—the warmth in Dallas’s voice, the cut of it when it disappeared.

He’d wanted to stay on the line, just long enough to pretend that everything was still normal. That he wasn’t alone. That Dallas still cared.

But all he had now was the echo of that dial tone, and the ghost of Dallas’s voice in his head.

Back in the safehouse, the silence was deafening.

Dallas stood by the phone, staring down at it like it might ring again. His jaw was set so hard it hurt.

Houston was a few feet away, pale, fidgeting with his gloves. “They could’ve traced it,” he said, voice small. “I was just trying to help.”

Dallas didn’t look at him. “You hung up on him.”

“I—”

“You hung up on him.”

The words came out low, almost calm, but Houston flinched anyway.

“He’s in prison, Houston. And you—” Dallas stopped himself, swallowed hard. His hands curled into fists.

He wanted to hit something. Wanted to scream. But he didn’t. He just stood there, chest tight, staring at the dead phone.

For a long time, neither of them moved.

Dallas exhaled shakily through his nose. For moment it looked as though he may cry.

He turned away, walked to the window. The city lights flickered outside—distant, indifferent.

He’d known Hoxton for years. Fought beside him, bled beside him. They’d shared countless heists, countless nights patching each other up after jobs gone bad. There’d always been something unspoken between them—a thread of loyalty that went deeper than words.

Now, that thread felt frayed.

“He’s still alive,” Houston offered quietly. “That’s something.”

Dallas didn’t answer. He just kept staring out at the dark, jaw trembling as he forced himself not to cry.

Because in that moment, he could still hear Hoxton’s voice over the phone.

Can I stay on the line with you at least, Nate?

He’d said it so softly, like a plea. Like he knew the answer would break him.

Dallas pressed a hand against his mouth, shut his eyes, and let out a breath that shook.

He’d promised himself he wouldn’t cry for anyone anymore. Not since the old days. Not since everything went to hell.

But that night, when the safehouse was quiet and Houston had gone to bed, Dallas sat alone at the kitchen table, staring at the phone.

And when he finally reached for it—just to touch it, just to pretend—his hand trembled.

He lifted the receiver. Listened.

Nothing but the dial tone.

He closed his eyes and whispered, barely audible, “I’m coming for you, James.”

Then he set the phone back down, the sound echoing through the empty room like a promise.

[penniedreadfuls]

An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works

Dallas and Hoxton aren't hiding their relationship, but they aren't telling either. The crew gets to find out one by one in a variety of circumstances.

Words: 2960

Rating: Gen

Tags: Humor, Fluff, Domestic, Parts of this are sad though.