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growup-thatbeautiful · 1 year

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Summary: Tangerine comes home. Post-Bullet proof.

A/n: i’d love to know if anyone would be interested in a prequel series about this pairing? lmk!

Word count: 2.6k

Bullet Proof Masterlist

~*~

The low hum of music playing through the small record player in the corner of the living room fills the air while you wash up the takeout containers from your dinner tonight. Jovie is fast asleep in her bedroom down the hall, curled tightly underneath her sheets.

Bedtime lasted longer tonight than usual because Tan has been on a job for the past few days. Ever since you moved back in with him, you’ve gotten used to living with him, and so has Jovie, which makes it harder when he isn’t here. You have a routine now to put Jovie to bed, an elaborate and complicated thing with many steps including kids' books and Tangerine’s own story times. So, without him, it’s been hard to convince Jovie to fall asleep these past few nights.

It took you four Dr. Seuss books and one game of hide and seek to get her into bed, which took more energy out of you than you care to admit.

Billy Joel’s crooning voice is interrupted by the ringing of your phone. Carefully, after you dry your hands, you swipe up on the screen of the photo of Tangerine and Jovie that fills it.

On the speaker, his voice fills the empty space between the two of you. You don’t know where he is at this point or if he’s finished what he needs to do- it’s too risky to discuss over the phone- but based on the sounds you think he’s driving somewhere. You can picture the way his ringed fingers grip the steering wheel, his eyes focusing on the road in front of him as neon lights pass by, reflected against the shine of the pendant around his neck.

“Hey, love,” he says, his voice sounding tired but nevertheless affectionate. “How are my girls doing?”

Your heart fills with warmth at his word choice, and you jump up on the counter to sit and talk for a while. “We’re good. I finally got Jovie to bed, though it took more convincing than usual.” Your head hits the wooden cabinet as you lean back and your eyes slide shut.

He hums in response and adds, “I swear to God, she gets her fucking energy from you. You used to be just like her “

“Because I couldn’t fucking trust you then,” you blame. “Had to sleep with my back to the door.”

“I have you no reason not to fucking trust me.” Tangerine’s voice is light, fond remembrance laced through his tone. “Even gave you the bed because I’m a gentleman.”

“You’re no such thing,” you laugh. “And I remember a conversation like this years ago where we couldn’t agree.”

Tangerine fully laughs this time, a low, happy-sounding laugh that you’ve been missing. You learned what it was like without Tan for all those years, so now every time he’s gone you feel it deeper, like something lodged inside your heart. Tan’s laughter dies down and he says. “Yeah, but we’ve fucking changed since then. You’ve come to see how much of a right pleasure I am.”

It’s your turn to hum in agreement. Silence falls between the two of you, but it’s not uncomfortable. You don’t know someone as well as Tan and have uncomfortable silences. You’ve been through so much- making it through silence isn’t the worst thing you’ve faced.

You break the silence, though, because you have to tell him how hard it’s been without him here. Even washing dishes had felt lonely without him bothering you, his front plastered against your back as he places kisses along your neck. “I’ve missed you.”

“The only thing between us is distance,” Tangerine says automatically. “And that’s fucking nothing at all, love.”

“I know.” You hate how weak your voice sounds. How emotion creeps through the cracks and seeps through the phone speaker. “It doesn’t feel like that, though.”

“That bad?” he asks. The concern in his voice carries through despite the bad quality. You don’t know if he’s alone or where he is, but it makes you feel safe somehow, knowing that he’s worried about you. As if he doesn’t already have enough to worry about.

“Not great,” you admit. “Jovie misses you too. She keeps asking me when you’ll be home, but she’s been busy with school.”

“I’m sorry, love.” It fills you with ache, how tired he sounds. You know that he trusts you- you’re not going to leave again- but that doesn’t make things like this any easier.

“It’s okay,” you assure him, or, at least, try to. “You’ll be back soon. How’s everything looking there?”

Tangerine sighs fully and tells through veiled metaphors how it’s been harder than he and Lemon thought to track down the mark they’re looking for, but he thinks that they’ve got a good lead. He tells you how the mark is usually unguarded and without weapons, so it will be easy once they actually find him. You can only hope for his safety.

But safety, in your lives, is a laughable commodity that you haven’t known for years. It’s your choice and you’ve had to live with it, through thick and thin.

“Do you need any help?” you ask when he’s done talking, praying that there’s something you can do. “I can see what I can find.”

“Love,” he says, and you can see the smile on his face from miles apart, a fond, exasperated smile that you know too well. “Enjoy your time off, I’ll be home soon.”

“You will?” You know it’s selfish, wanting him to yourself all the time. He has a job to do, and you’re distracting him, making it harder for him to get the job done. But it’s so hard when he’s so gentle like this.

“I don’t fucking care what else happens, I’m seeing you tonight, love,” Tangerine promises, his voice grainy from whatever low-quality service he’s on.

“Yeah?” you ask, smiling. It doesn’t have to be true to make you feel protected. Safe. It could be an empty promise, but you’d still have the same reaction.

“Yeah,” he says. “It’s time I stop fucking about here and come to see my girls.”

You feel like a schoolgirl from the way you’re grinning into the phone and thinking about him. “I’ll be waiting, then.”

“Try to get some sleep.” You don’t know how he’s the one taking care of you right now, but it’s nice to have someone tell you what to do.

“I will. Goodnight, Tan.” As hard as you try to hide it, your voice sounds hopeful and lighter than you intend it to. The last thing you want to do is guilt him to coming home. God knows you’re already responsible for enough of his guilt.

“Night, love.”

You move through the apartment, missing him less and more at the same time. You don’t want to think about it anymore, but all you can seem to see in your mind is him- the ink tracing patterns on his skin, the cold metal of his rings, and the tidy curl of his hair. With him on the back of your eyelids, you fall asleep curled up on the couch like Jovie is in her own bed.

~*~

Tangerine’s footsteps are light on the pavement outside of his house from years of practice. There’s blood on his hands, there usually is, but he can’t care to wash it off when you’re right beyond the front door.

The key to the door slips in after a few tries and shoulders open the door, wincing as a cut along his ribs is pulled tight. He’ll have to ask you to help him with that later. For now, though, all he wants to do is see his daughter and you safely asleep. It hadn’t been a hard job, just tiring, and he's exhausted down to his bones that ache and scream for him to lie down.

He can’t do that, though, until he sees you- your face lighting up in surprise that he made it home so fast. He promised you he would, and he’d rather not show up at all than break that promise. The two of you stopped breaking promises to each other recently. Carefully, so he doesn’t wake anyone up, he steps out of his shoes and his suit jacket, putting them in their place in the hallway next to Jovie’s green raincoat and your heavy black overcoat. The very picture of a normal family, those coats. It brings a weary smile to his face.

He’s expecting you to be in bed, but you aren’t. When he finds you, you’re dead asleep on the couch, a threadbare blanket covering you as the tv plays dimly, some movie he hasn’t seen before. It looks romantic enough to be something you would pick, though.

For a moment, before he’ll carry you to your shared bed, he watches you. He’s known for years that you’re the most beautiful woman he’s ever seen, but when you’re sleeping there’s something so fragile about you. The usual strength that you carry in your frame is hidden by one of his old sweatshirts and a pile of pillows, and the creases that he usually finds in between your eyebrows aren’t there. No, like this you look like a gentler version of yourself. Someone who, maybe, hasn’t had to make so many hard choices or do so many shitty things.

But that’s not who you are, and it’s definitely not the person he fell in love with. It sounds horrible, to think that the unforgiving circumstances of your youth are what led you to him, but it’s the truth more than anything else. He can’t count the number of times you’ve bonded over your shared traumatic experiences or cried into his arms about things only he can understand.

When he tucks you into his chest and lifts you with an arm underneath your knees, you start to stir. He’s proud to see, however, that you don’t panic like he’s sure you would with anyone else. You just settle deeper into his chest and go back to sleep.

As much as he would love to immediately lay down beside you, he has to check on Jovie first. It’s irrational, his fear, but given everything that’s happened, he has to do it.

She’s fast asleep just like you are, stuffed bear held close to her chest. The nightlight plugged into her wall casts a blue light around the room, lighting her curly hair with a neon glow. You always say that Jovie looks just like him, she got his curls, but he thinks she looks like you. She has your eyes, smart and bright, and she has your strength.

Gently, he steps over to where her bed is and kisses her on her forehead. “Hey, Jovie-love. I’ll see you in the morning, yeah?” Once he’s satisfied that she’s okay, he brushes the hair out of her face and kisses her once before padding out and shutting the door without a sound.

You’re sitting up in bed when he makes it back to your room, the sleeves of his hoodie falling over your hands as you shuffle to the edge of the bed. “You’re here,” you state dumbly, a grin spreading across your face. “I thought you were being hopeful.” You rub some sleep out of your eyes and reach for him, and his heart fucking melts. He lets you draw him in closer to you and his hands find their way to cup your face. Like this with him standing, he’s much taller than you, and he’s able to really, truly see you. The relief plastered on your face and the beaming, not-quite-awake smile make everything that he had to go through to get here worth it.

“Since when have I been fucking hopeful?” Tangerine grins. “I made you a promise, didn’t I? Had to stick to it.” There’s so much truth behind his words that he’s too tired to unpack right now, but you don’t seem to mind. You especially don’t mind when he leans down and kisses you gently, at first, but with more passion when he remembers that you’re real, and you’re here, and you’re all his. Slowly, careful of his various minor injuries, he leans forward until you’re laying flat on the bed with him in between your legs. He thinks he hides the grimace of pain he makes when you skim your hands down his torso, just enough pressure to make pain bloom beneath his eyes, but you know him too well to let something like that slip his eyes.

You also know that he’s never going to ask you for help when he’s hurt. So, you stop him with a hand pushed against his chest and ask, a little breathlessly, but with narrowed eyes, “Are you hurt?”

He lets out a long, low groan and buries his head in your shoulder. He mutters under his breath, but clear enough for you to hear, “Can’t get fucking nothing by you, love.”

It’s not the right thing to say, because panic spreads across your face as you try and get him off of you, looking for any sign of pain. There are the normal bloodstains on his clothes, but you assumed those weren’t his- they usually aren’t. “Where are you hurt?” you ask, your voice an octave higher than natural and your hands not as steady as he knows they should be. “Are you okay? I swear, Tan, if you’re bleeding out and you wasted all this time-”

“-Love, does it look like I’m bleeding out?” he asks, tilting your chin up with his finger to get you to look him in the eyes. There’s still panic in your eyes, but it takes on a sharper edge when you start to focus like he knows you can. You take in his clothes, the flush on his cheeks, the strength of his arms, and the smile on his face. He doesn’t look any worse than all the other times he’s come home with scrapes and bruises.

“No,” you answer unsurely. “But you’re good at hiding things.”

Tangerine can’t help the grin that slips onto his face at your stubbornness. “It’s nothing big, yeah? Just a scrape on my ribs. Fucking prick used a knife on me.” You don’t look completely convinced, but he sees the fight drain from your posture. Whether or not you realize it, you lean into his touch and close your eyes, taking deep breaths in and out.

“I’m okay, love, I promise. Everything’s going to be alright” There he goes again, making promises that he has no right to make. But with you looking at him like moments ago, like the world was ending if he was, he can’t do anything except promise you everything. He may be a fighter, but, against you and Jovie, he’s a weak man.

In the end, you take him to the bathroom anyway and fix him up, complaining the whole time that his wound could have gotten infected if he didn’t clean it tonight. He argues back that you would have found out one way or another, so he didn’t need to tell you. Really, though, he doesn’t mind your hands smoothing over his skin, gently applying antiseptic and bandaging it up.

History has proven that he’ll let you get away with almost anything, not that you try much anymore. All you ask for is that he comes home at the end of a job, and he asks the same in return. It’s what you should have done since the beginning, but he knows it wasn’t always as clear as it is now.

It doesn’t matter anymore. You’re both here now, his arm thrown around your waist underneath the sheets, your soft breathing lulling him to a state of almost-sleep. He’ll fall asleep eventually, he’s still exhausted, but right now he’s taking the moment to enjoy being home.

With Jovie. With you.

His family.

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