The Merry Men Masquerade

7. Double-Edged

Ronan shifted to get more comfortable, turning onto his side and tucking his face into Tony's shirt.

"Don't fall asleep," she said. "I've got places to be."

"Won't," he muttered. He couldn't if he tried. Even with Tony's lap as his pillow and her fingers carding rhythmically through his hair, he was too distracted to sleep. He'd hardly gotten a wink the night before.

By places to be, Tony had meant the Browning mansion.

"You're all wound up," she said rather than asked, drawing her hand along the tense line of his shoulders. She sounded uninterested as ever, but her touch was soothing.

The others were out running pre-mission errands, so Ronan and Tony had taken advantage of the fading spring cool and the rare quiet and settled outside in the early afternoon. It was nearly evening now, and this was the most they'd spoken at once. That was the thing about Tony - she was the perfect person to spend time with in silence, and Ronan hadn't felt much like talking lately.

And she was more caring than she liked to let on. She didn't ask out loud why Ronan was stressed, but the question was there to anyone who knew her well enough.

"Worried about tonight, is all," said Ronan.

He was understating his feelings, but Tony probably knew that. Ronan had kept himself up all night with worst-case-scenarios, tossing and turning to thoughts of innocent strangers getting caught up in the flame, or worse - so much worse - Tony or Vito or Mitch choking on smoke or trapped in a burning building, coming back with destroyed skin or not coming back at all.

"We'll be fine," Tony said simply. She was right, Ronan knew, but he couldn't help where his mind went.

And then there was Vito. He and Ronan had fought before - they butted heads often, always found something to bicker about - but never like this. Two weeks had passed since it had come to a head, but the unsavory looks and rolled eyes and short replies had continued for days, and now they were at a standoff - who could give the other the cold shoulder the longest?

Ronan wanted to stand his ground, but he was destined to lose, wasn't he? Just that morning, his mouth had gone dry at the sight of Vito wandering around the kitchen in the dewy dawn light, shirtless and so lean as he reached lanky limbs up to the top shelves.

It was fucking- confusing, being angry at Vito.

So yeah, Ronan was wound up.

"Basement tonight?" he said, rolling onto his back so he could look up at her.

The basement was where they kept their spoils, but it was also where they'd stored whatever they could fit of Mr. Robinson's furniture. Reluctant to throw it away, they had crammed it all downstairs. There was one clear path in the whole room, and it led to the wardrobe where they stashed their hauls and the earnings they weren't using (secured with locks hand-chosen by Ronan, locks even he would struggle to pick. He could still do it, though).

The couch, however, was completely clear. It took some picking to reach it, but it was long and soft and secluded from the rest of the house.

Tony looked down at him, unimpressed. "You really think sleeping with me'll fix this?" At 'this,' she pressed her fingers into a particularly tight knot in Ronan's back. He hissed and curled away from the touch.

By proximity, Tony had been all of his firsts, though it had been a long time since she'd been his only. Their lifestyle didn't lend well to outside relationships - Vito stressed the importance of keeping their friends close and everybody else far, far away to protect their secrets. One-night trysts with strangers at pubs were the most they could afford, and Ronan wasn't often in the mood for all of the searching and the meeting and the small talk that evolved into sweet talk. Tony was close at hand and required none of the flirting. She was quick, and she was simple, and she was there.