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C.C. Tinsley has never particularly had a flair for the dramatic, and neither one for monogamy. Because of this, a domestic life was never something that he thought he would become acquainted to. But honestly? He thinks he deserves it. After surviving three years of gunshot wounds, kidnappings, stabbings, rural standings, and poor pay (together, although it had been a lifetime for himself and his partner alone) Tinsley feels entitled to enjoy a moderately nice fucking apartment with a spacious bedroom and good heating and hardwood floors. He really, really, likes (it turn out) sleeping next to someone- partially because of the body heat, but because of the trust or something like that- he had never been one to crave human contact, but there’s something he just likes about having his partner’s warm body curled up next to him every night. It’s constant and comforting, especially when it comes to the nightmares birthed from the years of unadulterated terror they had endured together.
However, this makes it only more unnerving when he awakens with a sudden jolt- and instead of Ricky snuggled up beside him there’s cold bedsheets and a fucking empty apartment and a feeling of well-deserved suspicion.
And yeah, sure. Tinsley isn’t great at feeling, in general, usually not extending beyond low empathy and stuff, mostly. But he definitely knows when Ricky Fucking Goldsworth is up to something and he more than definitely knows the bastard well enough to determine that its something that may end up with more dead bodies than either of them had originally intended to leave in the aftermath of whatever bullshit he’s up to this time.
He pulls on some clothes (What? What, you never sleep in your underwear in the comfort and semi-privacy of your own home? Shut up) and flicks around with the thermostat before shuffling around their apartment looking for a note or something, or any clues that Ricky might have left behind which could help him determine his whereabouts. And like, yeah, sure, Tinsley could just go back to bed or fucking something, but that’s Class-A Bad Boyfriend Behavior, and he likes to consider him and Ricky pretty great boyfriends, considering that they’ve both seen some serious shit.
Also, whatever dragged Ricky out of their warm comfortable bed at 3:27 in the morning must be interesting enough for Tinsley to get involved in, even if it means saving his stupid crazy boyfriend’s ass from police involvement.
Because despite how much Tinsley is genuinely content with his normal job and nice apartment and cozy domestic relationship…
Theres a knock at the door.
And then some scuffling and threatening talking, which inspires Tinsley to grab his gun from inside a would-be cookie jar shaped like a fat monkey, or something. they’ve never kept anything besides weapons in it.
When he squints through the peep-hole he sees Ricky looking around a little paranoid-ly, with some poor bleeding bastard in a headlock, or as headlock-y as they can get with Ricky being all but like 5 feet tall. The guy doesn’t look dead, but Tinsley doesn’t see how he’s not gonna wind up that way by the end of the evening.
“Baby, what did I say about bringing strange handsome men into our home?
Tinsley asks casually once he’s got the door open, giving the man his best disinterested gaze. He might have been attractive before Ricky got to him, but half of his face is too swollen to tell, really.
Despite being mostly free from the murder scene for a year or so, Goldsworth hasn’t lost his touch. While Tinsley was always meticulous with his work, Ricky was brutal and messy, with more of the energy of an inspired artist than anything. Tinsley guesses he’s comparatively an accountant, or something equally boring.
“You’ll have to forgive me Darling, I wasn’t letting this one go so easily.”
The beaten up stranger mumbles something that sounds like “Faggots,” but Tinsleyy hauls him up and deposits him in one of their kitchen chairs, stainless steel for a reason. The poor bastard’s already fucked so he can’t bring himself to be mad about the slur. Although, Ricky raises an eyebrow at it.
“You say that now, but we both know why you’re here, you creep.”
Ricky says, and Tinsley feels a shiver run over his scalp. It’s the way he says it- its in that tone that’s just too forcedly casual to be anything but threatening. It’s the voice of someone on the brink, and by the way his hands are shaking a little Tinsley can tell he’s been on the brink all night.
It’s kinda hot.
“Actually, you fucking lunatic, I don’t.”
The stranger spits, and then literally spits blood on their kitchen linoleum. Gross, but theres a reason they do the murdering away from the hardwood.
“Mm-hm.”
Ricky says and nods at Tinsley, who walks into the next room to grab some murder rope, or something to restrain the stranger with.
Obviously the guy overestimates Ricky, because he hasn’t moved an inch by the time Tinsley starts tying him up with what he and Ricky have in fact dubbed the murder rope- a black electrical cable that sits innocently at the bottom of their boot closet that neither of them know the origin of. But it works great for tying people to chairs.
“So, you wanna tell me about this one?”
Tinsley asks casually, tightening the cable in a way that should make the stranger grimace. Ricky’s leaning against the countertop, eyes dark. His hair is completely disheveled and it hangs over his face, casting long shadows over his nose.
“Bruce Chapman, thirty-five years of age. Resident of New Jersey for most of his life, he was only briefly visiting LA this week for… Business. Surprisingly, a Harvard school of law dropout! Guess you found more lucrative business than the word of law, huh?”
The stranger simply glares at Ricky.
“Now, what was that other business, Bruce? You wanna let us know?”
Bruce just glares some more.
“He’s very talkative.”
Tinsley observes, which does earn a chuckle from Ricky.
“You should have seen him earlier. He just would not shut up about all those kids… Do you wanna tell us about the kids, Bruce?”
Ricky asks, mockingly sweet. Bruce spits again.
“Now, Bruce, thats just disgusting. You’re a guest in our home!”
Tinsley says, making Ricky laugh fully.
“Bruce, do you want some tea? Before you and Mr. Goldsworth here get started? Because I was just gonna put the kettle on.”
Tinsley asks, leaning down into the stranger’s space. He smells like fear, and his pale blue eyes, red-rimmed, dart around inside of their sockets. But he’s still as a statue.
“Hm. Fine then, but please make yourself at home. Ricky, tea?”
“Yeah, Thanks.”
Ricky says, and casually makes his way over to the weapon jar. He leans against the counter slightly as he pulls out a switchblade, uncharacteristically graceful with the way he cradles it in one hand. He’s finally stopped being shaky, from a combination of Tinsley’s presence, or the comforting smell of home. Or justice, maybe.
Tinsley fills up the kettle, humming idly to himself. They’re both gonna need something caffeinated.
-
“I hate the smell.”
Ricky says, coming through the door to their apartment for the second time that night, fresh from the incinerator. With the body finally burned, all traces of their early morning activities have gone up in smoke. As dawn starts to claw at the windows, Tinsley finds himself pleasantly tired. Nothing like a 3:00 am murder to stimulate a good day’s rest.
“I know.”
He says, eyes on Ricky as he closes and locks the door, and then wiggles the handle to make sure it’s actually locked even though they’ve lived here for years and Tinsley knows that he knows which way the door locks.
“I’m sorry for bringing this to you in the middle of the night. I just needed help.”
“I know.”
Tinsley says again, walking over to pull Ricky into an embrace. Thankfully he doesn’t smell like blood or the incinerator, only his deodorant and the purely natural scent that always clings to his skin. Ricky fits perfectly in his arms, and his lips slot even more perfectly against Tinsley’s when he leans up for a chaste kiss. Tinsley runs his fingers through his hair and kisses back. Gentle, tired.
This is the other side of Ricky- the soft hands, the warm body pressed against his. The apologetic words and apologetic touches, like he’s undeserving of Tinsley. Like Tinsley is something clean and precious and bleached of all possible impurity and Ricky has blood on his hands.
There was one instance a year or so ago, when Ricky Fucking Goldsworth, in all his borderline spastic general butchering, had suddenly dropped every threatening part of himself at the sight of Tinsley walking into the room of some unused office building where he was taking care of some other faceless sick bastard. Tinsley had found himself in a scuffle- nothing he couldn’t handle, of course, but had wound up with a black eye, or something. And Ricky, in the middle of bashing some guy’s kneecaps in, had dropped everything besides the soft adoration- always a constant in his personality- to brush his fingers gently over Tinsley’s bruised skin and tell him that they’d be leaving soon- just wait here, alright sweetheart? Let me just finish up. I’ll ice it for you at home. Don’t look, okay? Don’t look at what I’m doing. I’m almost done.
And yeah, Tinsley can fucking handle watching execution by cranial annihilation from the brute force of a big-ass wrench, but god does he appreciate the softness Ricky carries within him. Always for Tinsley, and never for anyone else.
Tinsley sneaks a soft kiss behind Ricky’s ear before pulling away.
“Come to bed, baby.”
He says. Ricky does, and this time when Tinsley wakes up again his partner is beside him, soft and warm and peacefully asleep among slivers of midday light.