Times Up

"What time is it?" Roy asks the darkness, blinking rapidly to try and see Wyatt in the dark. He sees nothing but the pitch black of the outdoor shed where Mr. Campbell keeps his golf clubs.

"It's time for you to get a watch." Wyatt's crisp Essex accent comes from the dark, and Roy knows he's smiling that self satisfied smirk. He can't see it, but he can hear it.

A surge of rage so potent it could kill a donousr rushes through Roy's bloodstream. He tries to count to ten but loses it at four. Tries to breathe, but can only smell Wyatt's expensive cologne. Tries to think of rainbows and kittens and-

"I will kill you where you stand if you don't start taking this seriously, Turner."

"Uh-oh, we're on a last name basis again? Pity. I liked hearing you say my name." He's still smiling, Roy can hear the dimple on his left cheek and it's maddening. "I know what Beyoncé was going on about now."

Roy clings to his self control with everything he's got. He wants to throw a blind punch into the darkness on the off chance he'll hit him. An icy chill seeps in from the frigid countryside night air, numbing his fingers even through the gloves. If he's losing dexterity then Wyatt is, too. He can't have that. He needs him to crack a safe.

He tries not to let panic trickle in at the thought of Wyatt's hands operating at anything less than world class, "Leave Beyoncé out of this. Tell me the time so we know if Mr. Campbell is gone."

Roy can't check his watch in the dark, Wyatt has the night-vision goggles. He could only afford one quality pair. There's a reason he steals - He's more broke than a blind painter.

Wyatt makes a humming sound, and then doesn't speak again. Roy really does count to ten this time, and grits out,

"Well? What time is it, Turner?" He's aiming for calm and lands somewhere closer to murderous.

So much for those acting classes he took as a teenager. What a waste of time.

"You didn't say please, Roy. That's very rude." He tuts, and Roy sees red in the dark.

He reaches out blindly and snags something soft. It's Wyatt's one-hundred percent cotton turtleneck. One of Wyatt's many conditions for doing the Job was that they needed to wear matching black turtlenecks. Roy had to count to ten then, as well.

Wyatt yelps and tries to wiggle free, but Roy doesn't budge an inch. He's an alligator preparing for a death roll, and Wyatt is a caribou, or a zebra. Or whatever the fuck alligators eat.

Roy pulls him close and growls in the general vicinity of where his ear should be, "Stop being a little brat and tell me the time, so we can go rob this wanker blind."

Roy nearly has a heart palpitation when a warm puff of breath hits his lips. So he's not speaking into Wyatt's ear. Noted.

"You growl like a dog. It's cute. I wanna' adopt you like an old mutt from the pound."

Roy shakes him violently, and before any color profanities and insults can leave his mouth there's the distinct rumble of a car engine starting up. He goes stock still and listens as tires peal out the driveway.

"I guess Mr. Campbell popped out, then."

Roy doesn't respond, he just grabs his empty military grade duffel bag and opens the shed door. Wyatt hisses as light hits his goggled face. Roy doesn't even attempt to hide his sadistic smirk.

They dart across the front yard, the glistening grass a deep jade color. The night sky is a soothing navy blue. God, it feels good to be able to see again.

Wyatt easily picks the lock for the front door. Roy isn't worried about the security system, he had a friend come by a week ago to shut down using a fake electric company. The real challenge is the Safe.

Wyatt whistles at the entrance way, "Mr. Campbell has nice taste."

"Yeah, and a shit load of money. Let's go."

They race past rows and rows of portraits and photographs of Mr. Campbell. There were seven different brides in the photos. No children. Roy doesn't like stealing from families. Makes his chest hurt thinking of damaging a child's life whatsoever.

Wyatt pulls him to a stop, his grip firm but not bruising. The delicate hands of a thief. Roy's knuckles are scarred from fistfights. They've lead such different lives and yet, here they stand, before a painting of a dog.

It says 'Mr. Kipper' underneath on a gold plaque underneath. The dog has dark droopy eyes and a grumpy demeanor. Wyatt laughs out loud,

"Mr. Kipper reminds me of you."

Roy rolls his eyes, swinging the painting off the wall to reveal the safe. The chrome color shines like a holy beacon in the dim hallway light. Roy would fall to his knees and pray if Wyatt wasn't standing right next to him.

Wyatt slowly cracks his fingers and closes his eyes, mummers something Roy can't quite hear and then falls to his knees. He stole Roy's idea.

A million questions dart across his mind, but he doesn't voice a single one. Speaking while Wyatt works was also one of his conditions. He needs utter silence.

Roy watches the seconds tick by on his watch. The clock hands tick thirty times before a distant, choking sensation of panic trickles in like a leaky faucet.

He opens his mouth, about to break condition number twelve, but Wyatt beats him to it. He sends Roy a mean smile that shows too much canine.

"Don't speak, old man. Rule number four."

"I'm only six years older than you." He snaps back quietly, as if speaking at a lower volume doesn't breach any conditions. "And they aren't rules, they're conditions."

'Conditions' are like weather, or perhaps standards for things. Rules are concrete, domineering. Roy doesn't follow rules, especially not from Wyatt.

"You say tomato," He flicks his wrist, that razor-edged smile still in place, "I say tomato."

Roy wants to argue, but any thoughts of resentment dissipate when the Safe cracks open with a satisfying 'whoosh' sound.

Wyatt sends him another smile, but this one is softer. Like one-hundred percent cotton soft. Roy grumbles as he pulls open the safe, pushing Wyatt aside far gentler than he'd intended.

Roy tosses a few wads of perfectly stacked cash into the duffel bag. Wyatt neatly packs away his equipment, peaking at Roy with a curious gleam in his grey-green eyes.

"Why are you looking at me." Roy asks, reaching further in the back for some designer watches.

Wyatt laughs, shrugging, "I don't know. You're the only thing to look at, I suppose."

And just then, the security alarm goes off. Wyatt blinks up at Roy for a heartbeat, then quickly cuts a few wires tucked up inside the Safe. It stops. Nothing but silence rings out.

"But I didn't trip any of the-"

"Step away from the safe. Now."

Mr. Campbell appears at the end of the hall, a gun clutched in his hand. Why is he back early? This wasn't part of the plan.

Roy's heart lodges in his throat. Mr. Campbell aims the gun straight at him. Wyatt let's out a quiet gasp. He pulls the trigger. The sound of the gun shatters the silence like glass.

Roy expects searing pain, maybe even death, or maybe darkness like the shed out back. Only he doesn't get any of that. All he gets is Wyatt crying out in pain as he hits the floor in front of Roy.

He took the bullet for him.

Roy doesn't stop to think. It's always been a blessing and a curse. It got him into a lot of fights growing up, but it also got him a lot of dates. He grew up never giving anything a second thought.

So he doesn't hesitate to drop down and grab Wyatt, even thought Mr. Campbell still has a gun he's more than willing to fire. Roy doesn't leave anyone behind, even if Wyatt is mumbling for Roy to 'leave me Roy, I'm dead weight, leave me.'

He gets Wyatt tucked behind a wall, away from the madman with a pistol. He's breathing hard, eyes wide with panic, hands clutching at Roy's ridiculous turtleneck. If Wyatt dies here Roy will keep it forever, if he doesn't, he's throwing it out as soon as they escape.

"Go Roy, go, get out now." Wyatt hisses, throwing his head back into the wall, "I'm dead weight. Just get out."

"I'm not leaving you here to die, Wyatt. Not happening on my watch."

Wyatt laughs, looking as young as he is. Just twenty-five, not a scar on his hands, not a dream failed. Roy feels a tug in his chest, pulling so hard heat gathers behind his eyes. He'd rather be the one dying than cry right now.

"You said my name."

"Yeah, Beyoncé was right I guess."

"They don't call her the Queen for nothing. You gonna' miss me when I'm gone, Roy?"

Wyatt's eyelids have dropped, half lidded and tired. Blood-loss, Roy's mind supplies. The realization doesn't help with the crying bit. He takes a deep breath and nods, hearing Mr. Campbell on the phone downstairs. He's phoning the police. They'll be here any minute. All the walls are closing in on him. Times almost up.

"Yeah, I'll miss you, brat."

"That's sweet..." Wyatt smiles, eyes fully closing. He looks peaceful, at rest. Like an angel returning home. "Super sweet, old man."

"Not old." Roy whispers, touching the back of Wyatt's hand as his breaths even out.

Hot, fat tears roll down Roy's scruffy cheeks. Wyatt's not dead yet. He's just low on blood. If Roy can get him out of here, they can save him.

He counts to ten, thinks of fresh air, blue skies, a good home cooked meal. If he gets caught he won't have any of those things for a long while. They don't give you home cooked meals in prison.

He looks at Wyatt's still body and shouts at the top of his lungs, "Hey, wanker, over here."

Wyatt's eyes snap open and double in size, panic and wonder and terror flashing like warning lights in the soothing grey-green color.

"If you want me, come and get me."

A few minutes of distraction and maybe he'll be able to get Wyatt some help. He knows the house like the back of his hand. He studied the blueprints for weeks. Roy probably knows more than Mr. Campbell himself.

He darts around a new corner and screams again, yelling profanities and strange words like 'flamingo' and 'the Bee Gees'. Doesn't matter what he says, there's a madman chasing him.

Roy goes up and down the stairs two times before Mr. Campbell finally catches him. They slam into one another, one going up, the other going down.

As Roy hits the floor, grunting at the impact, he thinks... This is one of those moments where thinking twice about something might help me.

Mr. Campbell snarls like a wild dog. Was Mr. Kipper a snarly pup? Or is that just his unhinged owner.

"You're dead."

Roy can't help but think yeah, and so is Wyatt. This madman shot and killed a young man down in his prime for a duffle bag of cash. If Roy wasn't already sick with adrenaline he'd be sick with disgust.

Then there's nothing but blackness. Roy gasps, expects pain, maybe bliss. It's nothing but darkness. Is this heaven? Where's Wyatt's stupid posh accent and musky cologne?

Oh god, he's gone to hell.

Mr. Campbell curses and then there's a strong, soft hand grabbing his hand. Roy almost screams. Is this the grim reaper? Was he shot?

The hand tugs him up, and down the stairs. Roy stumbles a few times, blinking into the dark. Mr. Campbell shoots his gun upstairs, screaming. Roy flinches, trying to move faster.

"Oi, slow down old man, I got you."

Oh, it's not the devil, it's Wyatt. Roy almost laughs, but he's too busy trying not to die.

They step out of the front door, only pausing long enough m for Wyatt to take off the Night-vision goggles before they take off into a sprint. They don't speak, they don't even look at each other. They just run and run and run until Roy's watch says it's been fifteen minutes.

He can hear the faint sound of police sirens, but they're too far now. They're in the shrub and forest of the countryside, the cloak of the night hiding them. His lungs burn from the run.

Roy catches his breath before asking, "How are you alive? I watched you die."

"You watched me pass out." Wyatt corrects, clutching at his ribs. Then he puts a hand on his thigh. "I just got nicked on the old kicker."

Roy counts to three before promptly slapping him in his pretty boy face. Wyatt gasps, eyes wide, "what was that for?"

"For making me think you were dead."

He shoves him, and Wyatt stumbles back. "That's for making me cry, like an idiot."

Roy smacks him upside the head, gentler than the shove, "and that's so I can do this."

He pulls Wyatt into a crushing hug, letting out a shuddery breath. Wyatt tenses up before going completely soft, melting into the hug,

They stand like that for a while, just breathing, when Wyatt asks quietly,

"What time is it?"

"Time for you to get a-"

"I hate you."

Roy is smiling when he says, "Same, Turner, same."

He doesn't mean it, and judging based off Wyatt's beaming grin, he knows it.