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James, Bruce realizes, is going to rob this convenience store in the middle of a beer run.
The fact that 1) James even has an “I am going to rob this convenience store” face, and 2) Bruce knows exactly what that face looks like, down to the smallest microexpressions, should probably be something Bruce finds at least marginally more concerning than he does.
Right now he mostly just finds it mildly exasperating.
“We’re here for booze,” he tries valiantly.
James just makes an absent-minded noise of agreement, sharp eyes trained on the bored-looking cashier up front.
“And snacks,” Bruce presses on. He shakes a bag of chips in James’s general direction to punctuate the statement.
“Mhm.”
It’s just past one in the morning. The beer run hadn’t been totally necessary, but they were down to their last case and James had been lying on the living room couch in a state of perpetual fidgetiness and whining to rival that of most nap-deprived five year olds, so, hey.
Typically, it’s not until they get to the corner store that Bruce realizes that putting a restless James within fifty feet of a cash register isn’t exactly on the top of his list of good ideas.
James’s fingers brush against the gun in his jacket for probably the fifth time in the last three minutes.
“Meaning we’re not here for rooty-tooty-point-‘n’-shooty happy funtimes,” Bruce finally bursts out, and, being a grown-ass man, he doesn’t stamp his foot in frustration, but it’s maybe a closer thing than he wants to admit.
That’s enough to get James’s attention. “Rooty-tooty-point-‘n’-shooty happy funtimes?” he echoes, grinning.
“I stand by my statement.”
“Can that be what we call heists from now on?” James has that mischievous expression on his face that means he’s almost definitely going to be referring to heists as rooty-tooty-point-‘n’-shooty happy funtimes for the next month and a half at the very least.
Bruce resists the urge to bury his face in his hands. “Okay, wait. No. This was a mistake.”
“It’s a downright shoot-’em-up,” James says, dropping his voice into a Southern drawl.
“Fuck off.”
“Hang on. Gotta tell Joel about this exciting new development,” James says as he pulls his phone out, because he’s an asshole.
“No. This is— No, not happening, this is not—”
“Is rooty spelled with a ‘u’ or two ‘o’s?” James asks, frowning down at his phone.
“Remind me why I like you again,” Bruce says, mostly to himself. “Because it’s not for your sparkling personality, that’s for sure.”
James gives him a look that’s all wide-eyed, contrived innocence and bats his eyes at Bruce dramatically. “It’s because I’m fucking adorable.”
“Right, there we go, obviously, that’s it, exactly—”
“Also my dick-sucking skills.”
Bruce snorts. “You wanna put your money where your mouth is?”
James grins, doesn’t miss a beat. “Wanna steal a car and blow you in it, Daddy-O.”
And James is looking at him, all anticipation and expectancy, one hand holding his phone and the other brushing up against the gun in his jacket. He’s washed out by the harsh fluorescents of the store but still looks good, looks dangerous and trigger-happy and equal parts ready to run and devour. And he’s staring at Bruce like he thinks Bruce looks good, too.
Bruce is pretty sure they can fit in a convenience store loot and a quick carjacking before the others even realize they made a detour on this beer run.
And it’s worth it, he thinks, for the way James laughs, bright and full and satisfied, as he pulls his own gun out and heads for the cashier.
(“Hands up! This is a robbery!”
“This is a rooty-tooty-point-‘n’-shooty happy funtime.”
“James.”)