Archive of Our Own ^beta

There’s a lot that can go wrong around the holidays. In the past twenty-four hours, Linus has observed four families screaming at each other over missing bags, three travelers bargaining at the check-in desk, and two thieves snatching jewelry from an airline CEO’s wife’s Christmas present. He’s also observed that same jewelry in his pocket, the ever-present airport security approaching him, and the inside of an O’Hare detainment cell.

Goddamn Danny and Rusty. Of all the grey hairs he’s gotten into in his life, they’re the cause of every single one.

He’s supposed to be on the way to his parents’ house right now (well, probably— security confiscated his watch, so he’s not exactly sure of the time). Instead he’s cataloguing the same bare white walls, the same shiny metal bench, the same thick glass panel separating him from the rest of the security center. He can’t tell how this is gonna get any worse. Either his parents get called and have to bail him out, or he gets sent to jail forever.

Or, apparently, a third option: two very familiar men in well-cut suits will stride in and drag him out with them. He’s not sure which option is worse.

He and Rusty are on their way out of the airport when Danny catches sight of the kid pulling the necklace out of his pocket. He sighs, and Rusty looks his way, and without saying a word they both know what’s about to happen.

Danny grouses, “I knew we should’ve waited ‘till he—”

“Yeah, but where’s the fun in that?” Rusty asks, eyes trained on what seems to be Danny’s face but is, in reality, the three armed security guards making their way towards Linus. “This way he gets to practice his grifting, and—”

“They’re escorting him away,” Danny says.

“Shit.”

“Well, you can’t save ‘em all.” Danny shrugs. He knows they’re not gonna leave Linus, and he knows that Rusty knows they’re not gonna leave Linus, and he knows that there’s infinite tessellations of him and Rusty knowing the same thing, but his comment is well worth it for the truly spectacular eye-roll he gets in return.

“This is exactly why everyone comes to me with their personal problems,” Rusty mutters.

Danny bumps his shoulder into Rusty’s and squawks with fake indignation, “It was your idea!”

They stop in the bathroom on the way down to O’Hare’s security holding area, and after locking the door behind them Rusty immediately attacks Danny’s hair with copious amounts of water. Danny looks up and says mildly, “Y’know, usually when someone locks me in a men’s bathroom—”

“Usually you’re not about to go impersonate an airline CEO,” Rusty reminds him. “Now hold still.” Danny stays like that, face raised up towards Rusty’s hands. Rusty cups another small handful of sink water and combs it through Danny’s hair, and the dark strands start to glisten under the fluorescent lights. Danny’s breath comes warm on Rusty’s forearms, where his suit sleeves have rolled down and left nothing but bare skin, and the contact raises goosebumps from wrist to elbow. Danny himself is holding still as a bird, and Rusty’s moving with the delicate care one would use for such an animal. He swipes his fingers through one last time, and then casts his gaze downward to take a look at how the whole picture reads. He’s done a pretty nice job, if he does say so himself; Danny’s soft smile turns into something plasticky, auditioning himself to Rusty, and all of a sudden Rusty is staring directly at the type of smug bastard who would remove two inches of legroom and charge two hundred bucks more for the seat. You look good goes unspoken, and in the harsh light of the O’Hare bathroom, Rusty feels far enough from prying eyes to pat Danny softly, once, on the cheek. Danny catches Rusty’s hand on its way back to his side and holds it, gently, for a second.

Yeah, okay, Rusty thinks, and Danny nods and says, “Okay.”

They turn to the door. “You’re gonna have a hell of a time playing off that outfit,” Danny remarks, hanging back and watching as Rusty twists the lock open.

Rusty looks down at the green-jacket-red-shirt combo. “What? It’s festive.”

Danny just snorts, and they make their way towards security.

Linus doesn’t talk for the entire walk out of the airport, still simmering in his annoyance (and a tiny shred of that same awestruck self-doubt that used to appear in full force anytime he was around The Danny and Rusty). The pair don’t seem to notice— they keep up their constant stream of half-sentences and nonsensical metaphors, all the way to the taxi stand, where the Chicago cold freezes their mouths shut. Linus smiles; a lifetime on the Strip can’t prepare you for everything, it seems. “Why’re you here?” he asks, taking advantage of the opening. “And what the hell was that whole thing for?”

He looks over at them— he’d been staring straight ahead the whole time, doing his best to act like the calm, cool, collected professional he’s grown to be in the five years since Benedict— and almost laughs. They’re both buried deep within their coats, pressing a solid line between them from shoulder to hip, and Rusty’s glowering. “Certainly not here for the weather,” Rusty says.

“And we heard you still hadn’t gotten anything for your mom,” Danny adds. “Sue us for wanting to help a buddy out.”

“Wh— there’s this thing called a store, that I was gonna stop at on my way home, thanks,” Linus splutters, effectively obliterating all trace of calm or cool or collected. He checks his watch— mercifully retrieved from the TSA— and sighs. “And now it’s closed and I don’t have anything. Real helpful.”

“Check your pocket,” Danny suggests cheerfully. “Or don’t, since that’s what got you in trouble last time.”

This time, Linus is much more surreptitious about it. He sticks his hand in the hip pocket, and feels the unmistakable shape of two million in diamonds sitting against the wool. “My mom’s more into pearls,” he says unconsciously, and then berates himself for it (even though hey, technically, he has the right to be a shit about this situation).

“Beggars can’t be choosers,” says Rusty.

Linus narrows his eyes at him. “Why are you here, exactly?”

Danny waves for a cab, and says, “Your parents had word of a job, and since it’s in the area…”

A dawning feeling of… dread? anxiety? (definitely no large amounts of joy, since no doubt the two of them will be charming the pants off Linus’s parents and telling stories that make him sound like he’s five) something comes over him, and he says, “You’re not…”

“Yep,” Rusty says, popping the p and grinning (though it’s more of a smirk, really) for the first time since they’ve stepped outside. “Merry Christmas, kid.”

He’s got the urge to say I’m not a kid. He tamps it down. He’s gonna be saying it a lot the next few days. Instead, he just sighs. “Yeah, you too.”