#satisfies myself with writing late late late late series stuff as bite-sized pieces while i wrestle with this behemoth of a chapter

[remyfire]

Her giggles come unbidden, brought about by an idle thought and hastened with the fizz of the seltzer in her singapore sling. She presses the cards to her face, nearly leaves lipstick stands on her full house before resurfacing. "Sorry, sorry, a funny thought just came to me," she explains through her chuckles. "Before we were going steady, Beej let me guess what his name meant and the very first name I tried, you'll never guess." She doesn't give them a chance to, giggles increasing as she leans over and squeezes Hawkeye's hand. "Benjamin John! How funny is it that in the end, I got a Benjamin and a John after all, hey?"

(this did actually happen in our DMs and it's before I had ever once mentioned Trap's or Hawk's birth names to Christina and I have the screencap to prove it and it's extremely funny. Anyway, this is a self-indulgent, plotless character study with fun, fluffy quad building, so THANK YOU)

The laughter, golden as sunshine, makes BJ smile before Peg says a word. In theory, they keep their hands to themselves when they're playing—there's a 50/50 chance that if any of the four around the table reaches for someone, there'll be claims of attempted cheating or fraternizing with the sole purpose of distraction—but he's tipsy enough that he can't stop himself from reaching to lightly cup her forearm, thumb brushing over her wrist.

He's still getting used to how natural it feels, having Hawk's foot resting on his own beneath the table. Hawk's got one of Peggy's silky robes tucked snug around his lean shoulders, one of Trap's tanks on under it. Beej hasn't made it easy on the man across from him since his late arrival to the house, but with just enough bourbon in his blood, he can even admit that the table doesn't feel right without Trapper's money being tossed into the pot.

He studies Trap's face, tracking the faint quirk of his brow as he considers his cards before finally raising the pot, and BJ files it away.

When he starts catching Peg's words again, he rolls his eyes affectionately. "Oh no," Beej murmurs, almost drowned beneath Hawk's sound of delight. It's an old story, but one he hadn't quite put the significance together about until today, and he chuckles as he studies his hand yet again. When Peg's chips join the pot, BJ chucks in his own.

"You're not serious?" Trap asks with a laugh of his own.

"It's not the first time she was a little psychic." BJ finally claims one of her hands and presses a kiss to the back of it. "Maybe one of the more regrettable times in the end, though—"

Trapper leans slightly over the table. "Y'know, Hunnicutt, if I didn't know better, I'd think I wasn't welcome here."

"Only took two months of living here rent-free before you started picking up on my tone," Beej drawls. "Impressive."

It really is a sign of how things are shifting that Trap just smirks, that for one of the first times in recent memory BJ is the one to break the contact instead of holding it in an adrenalizing game of dominance.

"It makes a weird kind of sense, doesn't it?" Hawk points out. He lazily rests his chin on his palm, the game briefly forgotten—now that they no longer have to play just to survive the long and aching hours of imprisonment, there's room for these languid chats. Erin's tucked in bed. They've got hours to kill yet, a whole weekend ahead of them, and only BJ's due in at the hospital late tomorrow night.

"What does?" BJ asks.

Hawk grins at him, eyes sparkling. "That you found her first." He gestures vaguely to him with his cards, glancing over at the other two. "Beej always takes first pot, the lucky bastard,"

The words warm something in his chest. There are nights like this when BJ can't even remember who 15-year-old him was, that kid with an aching hole in his chest, skittish in his family home, keeping his distance from anybody who wasn't on his athletic teams so he wouldn't lose his chance at college by getting distracted.

There's a lot that can be said about how he and Peggy Hayden collided in that high school drama class. He's not sure either of them will ever be able to truly plumb into the depths of how inextricably they tangled their sense of self around each other at such a young age, nor does he know how long it'll take for them to loosen their orbits until the sight of Peg looping her pinkie with Trap's as she leads him down the hallway to his bedroom no longer fills Beej with that primal desire to reclaim her.

But he's also not sure how that anxious, angry kid would've made it out alive if he hadn't had her light illuminating that long, dark path until he was forced to discover how to make his own without her.

Now, he knows he can. He could glow all on his own without her, without Erin, without Hawk.

He simply doesn't want to.

BJ gets lost in Peg's eyes as he rests their joined hands against his cheek to the tune of Hawk's chips joining the pot. "Maybe I took first. But we've all got a pretty equal share now, don't we?"

Just as the soft words leave his mouth, he catches that edge of her smirk, and he knows. He knows before she even puts down the full house.

As Hawk howls in irritation and Trap tosses his own hand down, BJ shakes his head with a heavy sigh. "Okay, fine, I take it back. She always wins everything in the end."

"But you love me," Peg teases, and Beej loops back into her orbit just for a taste of her lips before she starts gathering the chips for sorting.

"I do." He tucks her hair behind her ear, pleased as punch. "We all do."

"Son of a bitch," Trap murmurs as he gets to his feet. He grabs his empty glass, then Hawk's, stealing a quick kiss from him as he walks behind his chair. "You want another, Peg?"

"I'm good!" She all but wiggles in her seat as she stacks. "This is fun~"

"You say that every time, you cute, little hustler." Hawk leans across the table, and she meets him in the middle with a quick smooch of her own. He chases her when she tries to pull back, and as she squeals and grins against his mouth, BJ shakes his head and picks up his own empty glass.

He meets Trap by the bar, their arms brushing as Beej reaches for the bottle of bourbon.

"Hey." When Trap speaks, they lock eyes. Trapper leans into the counter, his body nearly cupping BJ's own. "What does it stand for, anyway?"

A month ago, he would've been inclined to tell him to go fuck himself. Maybe even a week ago. But something's different on his tongue tonight—something he blames entirely on the bourbon, nothing else.

So when BJ lets, "Anything you want," slip off his tongue, it's more fluid than the last time he said it. Looser. Sweeter. And as he departs the counter, he feels the faint tug at his shirt.

Instinctively, he twists out of Trap's loose grip, and the other man lets him go. As BJ backs up three slow steps, he lifts his brows in silent question. Trap doesn't fill the silence. Doesn't come after him either.

They watch each other, long and hard, before BJ disappears around the corner with an oddly fluttery heart.