#otp: troyget

[writerofblocks]

Collar & Leash

[this entire short was inspired by an offhand comment by @eulerami so you have him to thank for this madness. Takes place mid-SR1. Bridget is a hellion so this is mildly NSFW.]

===

Finding Troy within the church grounds was an easy task- he was a man of habit if nothing important needed his attention. If he wasn’t in the “office” he shared with Dex, he was talking with Julius. If he wasn’t talking with Julius, he was hanging around the pews to listen to the small talk between the Saints. And if he wasn’t there- which he wasn’t on this particular day- he was behind the church on a “smoke break”. 

Like he ever isn’t smoking, Bridget thought as she stepped out of the church into the cool, late-fall afternoon. Or ever really takes breaks. In the time she’d known him, she’d never seen Troy fully relaxed. Even “off the clock”, there was a current of tension in him- a tightness to his smile, a rigid set to his thin frame.

He was like that now, out of the wind in the shadow of the church. He puffed away at a stub of a cigarette, hands jammed into the pockets of his coat. His shoulders were rigid, posture upright. But as on guard as he seemed, she saw the way his gaze trailed off into the distance. Unfocused. Thinking. 

An opening.

A sly little smile crossed Bridget’s face. She slowed her pace to a crawl, careful to make as little sound as possible as she approached him. A little closer… closer… there. A foot away from him and he hadn’t noticed. “Having fun?”

Troy jolted, barely pulling his gun out of his pocket before a coughing fit overtook him. “Fuckin’- stop doin’ that-“ He yanked his cigarette from his mouth before hacking again, doubling over to rest his hands on his knees.

Bridget rocked back and forth on her heels, a wide smile filling her face as Troy continued to cough. “Gotta stop smokin’ so much, man. Your lung capacity’s crap.”

“Gonna give-“ Troy coughed one last time. “-give someone a heart attack one of these days, sneakin’ like you do.” He stowed his pistol, taking a deep breath before lifting his cigarette back to his lips. “Christ,” he muttered. “Need a bell collar on you or some shit.”

She could have let that comment go. She’d had her fun with him already, there was no need to drive the man further up the wall. But was she gonna pass up an opportunity for a stupid innuendo when she saw it? Not a chance. “Oh?” she replied, delicately arching an eyebrow. “Didn’t know you were into collars, Bradshaw. Kinky.”

Of all the shades of Frustrated Red she’d garnered from Troy over the past few months, this one had to be her favorite. A crimson flush ran up his skin in seconds as he coughed on his latest inhale, eyes wide. “I-wha-“ he babbled, before gathering himself. “That’s not what I meant!” 

Bridget could barely contain her glee as she held her hands up. “Hey, I’m not gonna judge if you are. Whatever floats your boat.”

“There’s nothing to judge,” he growled through gritted teeth, “because I’m not into that shit.”

She knew that sharp scowl. Troy’s patience had its limits- limits she was fast approaching. She’d be playing with fire if she continued to tease him- but something in her wanted to. She wanted to find the breaking point, figure out how far she could go. “How do you know?” she said, voice lowering as she stepped closer to him. “Ever tried it?”

Troy froze, then stepped backwards. It was brief- a moment of complete hesitation- but it was there. Interesting. “If I had, you’d be the last person I’d tell,” he grumbled, but his voice lacked the bite it had just moments before. His eyes darted back and forth, landing anywhere but her face. Very interesting.

She waited until she managed to catch his gaze, then stepped into his space again. This time he remained in place, eyes locked on hers. “I’d bet you’d like it, though,” Bridget purred, low and sultry. She coyly walked her fingers up the front of his jacket. “Putting a collar on me, that is.”

Troy’s eyes went wide, following the trail of her fingers as he struggled to form words. Was it the cold or her touch making him shiver under her fingertips? “I don’t really need to know your kinks either, Bridget,” he eventually got out, voice strangled.

Bridget laughed, light and airy. “Fair enough.” She finished the walk of her fingers by plucking Troy’s cigarette from his mouth, before stepping back and placing the cigarette to her lips. 

Whatever had Troy frozen melted away, leaving behind cheeks reddened only by the wind as he sighed. “If you wanted one, you could have just asked.”

“Well, yeah,” Bridget conceded as Troy pulled out a new cigarette from some pocket on his overcoat, along with his lighter. “But where’s the fun in that?”

“Is that what this is to you?” The flame from Troy’s lighter flickered, catching the trails of wind that curled into their safe space. “Fun?”

Bridget paused. What he said sounded neutral, but there was something… else. Something below the surface, moving where she couldn’t see. “I mean, it is,” she said slowly. “But it's also just… I don’t know.” She breathed out, the smoke of the stolen cigarette trailing off into the cold. “An excuse. To spend time with you. Make you laugh, or at least roll your eyes. Get some tension out.”

For a long moment, Troy didn’t say anything. Just when Bridget thought she’d messed it all up- whatever all of it was- Troy smiled slightly, and the strange feeling passed on. “You have a funny way of showing affection, Summers.”

Bridget let out a breath- though when she started holding it, she didn’t know. “I do,” she said, returning the smile. “But you like it.”

At least, I hope you do.

[writerofblocks]

Nostalgia Isn’t a Bad Thing, Chapter 3: The Canonization of Saint [REDACTED]

Summary: Troy has his expectations reevaluated. Bridget has a bloody baptism.

Author’s Notes: FUCK. I’d say this took a while but I have no idea what my production rate is anymore. This chapter was tricky to write due to a fight scene/not having an equivalent chapter in the original fic, but I’m glad I managed to figure this out. I’ll slap it on AO3 once I regain my marbles.

1 / 2 / 3 / ? 

AO3

===

Troy had a game he’d play with himself when Julius was in the middle of one of his “inspiring” sermons. He’d choose a random Saint from the meager crowd and memorize everything he could glean from them as they were in that moment. Their hair, their skin, their clothes. How they stood, how they looked up at Julius when he spoke, what it might mean about their loyalty- or lack thereof. Then he’d move on to another Saint and repeat the process all over again.

Admittedly, it wasn’t without purpose. He was here to gather information, after all. The better he knew the members, the easier it would be to find holes the Force could exploit later down the line. Who participated in what crimes. Who would be open to bargaining. He had to pay attention, remember each member.

He had to remember their names when he’d find them laying still on the ground, red stains clashing with purple.

Troy played the game one week after the drive-by on the steps of the Stilwater Memorial Church, a smog-stained ruin squatting at the edge of the Row that stubbornly refused to die. Ancient graffiti coated the stones, spilling over onto the weathered plywood that covered long-broken windows. A rusting iron fence surrounded a meager graveyard, the names on the crumbling headstones washed away by acid rain. It might have been beautiful once. All of Mission Beach might have been beautiful. But the gangs wouldn’t be here if it was. And neither would he.

The game hadn’t changed much since he last played it. Like he’d told Julius before, they needed new members. He counted them all as he waited for Julius to finish his speech, idly ticking them off in his head. Twenty-one, twenty-two, twenty-three, twenty-four…

...Twenty-five. One more than should be there. 

Troy hurriedly recounted the members, wondering for a moment if he’d made a mistake. But no, twenty-five men and women in different amounts of purple stood in the graveyard, scattered among the headstones. Johnny was there, the destructive jackass. So was Dex, looking up at Julius with his hands in his pockets, taking the old gangster’s speech in. He already knew Lin was… elsewhere. Twenty-two, twenty-three, twenty-four...

The twenty-fifth person pulled the hood of his sweatshirt back, sunlight hit the man’s face, and Troy fumbled the cigarette he was about to light.

It had to be a mistake. It had to be a mistake because the kid wasn’t supposed to be here, he wasn’t supposed to turn around from cheating death to throw himself back into harm’s way. But Troy knew those hazel eyes, the unruly tangle of brown hair. A shift in the crowd lent him a peek at the brace on the kid’s ankle, further shattering the idea that maybe this was someone other than the utter dumbass he’d tried to save a week ago.

Cheers split the air, breaking the tension. Julius had finished his speech, by the sound of it. The kid’s brow furrowed, his eyes looking between Troy and Julius, before he turned to walk away. Best decision you’ve made yet, Troy thought darkly, finally lighting his cigarette with a practiced hand. Keep walking. There’s still time to get out. Take it.

But things could never be that simple. The universe always had to throw a wrench in the works, and this particular wrench’s name was Johnny fucking Gat. Who knows what drove him to look at the back of the crowd- maybe he saw the motion out the corner of his eye, maybe instinct- but he did, eyes narrowing and mouth turning in a harsh scowl as he saw the kid. “Who the fuck’s this guy?” Johnny barked, brash and loud as always, waving a hand at the kid’s retreating figure. 

The kid froze mid-stride. The crowd of Saints froze too, the vibe of amicable dispersal at a meeting’s end solidifying into evalulatory hostility as the rest of the Saints registered the intruder in their midst. People shifted, drifting around the kid until the path to the graveyard gate was cut off. No escape. It reminded Troy of sharks- the predatory sizing up, deciding if the foreign presence was a threat... or lunch.

“Troy and I found him,” Julius replied, voice rising smoothly above the thick undercurrent of tension. “I was gonna see if he’d ride with us.” 

Johnny looked unamused with the explanation. “Julius, if he wants to run with the Saints, he’s gotta be canonized.”

The kid’s eyes widened. He looked over at Troy for… what? Support? Comfort? If he’d wanted that, he should have stayed home. Troy shrugged, taking a steadying drag. “He’s right, Julius. Everyone had to do it.” You think you can take it, tough guy? Prove it to me.

Troy watched the group of Saints as the excitement grew, everyone cracking their knuckles and amping themselves up. This was what they wanted. This was his job, both as a cop and a gang member. He had to play the part, say what needed to be said, keep his head down and not make waves. He had to push back the part slamming at the doors of his jaw to call off the circling sharks.

The kid hadn’t moved much, not even as the Saints formed a loose circle around him. He’d slowly pulled his backpack off and tossed it to the side. The shock and fear in his face had faded, replaced by a surprising calm. 

A Saint stepped forward-Jason, if Troy remembered his name correctly. Freshly dropped out of high school. Gold chains, baggy jeans. All the swagger of a boy given power he shouldn’t have for the first time, loose and free like he couldn’t care less. “You gonna fight, bitch?” Jason taunted, shoving his face in front of the silent figure’s own. “Or are you just gonna keep standing there like a fucking pu-”

===

Your fist met the Saint’s gut with a meaty impact. He stumbled, speechless, eyes wide as he clutched his stomach. You followed your punch with a knee to the face and he howled in pain, blood pouring between his fingers as he clutched his nose.

There was a breath of stunned silence. Then, the uproar of a pack of animals with wounded pride and the methods to answer for it.

Another Saint surged forward, teeth bared. You blocked his wild swing with your forearms, the impact rattling your bones. He aimed a kick at your side- you dodged and answered with an uppercut that sent him near flying.

Something slammed into your back and you barely caught yourself from falling. You turned to look and a fist met your jaw, snapping your head to the side. You turned with the force, whipping around to face the next angry Saint. This one was smarter than the others- he anticipated your experimental jabs and blocks, forcing you to kick him away with your bad leg.

They started coming in twos, their lesson finally learned. You knocked them down all the same. Some got a few blows in- no one is invincible, after all- but you shrugged them off, returning whatever was given to you tenfold.

And you smiled, bright and feral and free. You didn’t know this underworld of stolen cars and shootouts, but you knew the taste of iron in your mouth and you knew the sting of knuckles rendered raw and you knew the tune the reverb of a ribcage plays as you slam your fists into it again and again. It’s woven through your nerves, this patchwork story you’ve built with your hands and feet and mind.

Then a kick met your ankle, pain burned white hot in your leg, and the ground rose to meet you with open arms.

===

The kid screamed as he landed hard, a high-pitched shriek that had Troy wincing in sympathy and horror. The Saints still standing swarmed the kid, ready for the figurative kill. Troy averted his gaze, tapping out the ash that had accumulated at the end of his cigarette as the rest of the Saints started kicking and stomping the prone figure. It was… a regrettable end to the fight, but inevitable in retrospect. You could only fight on a swollen ankle for so long.

And then the kid pushed himself upright amid the rain of blows. He wrapped his arms around one of the Saints’s waist and charged in a football tackle, breaking free of the circle.

Johnny whistled beside Troy, low and appreciative. “Kid’s got guts. I like it.”

The kid began to fight again, but something had shifted in him. Before there’d been some measure of control to the kid’s movements. Nothing honed by any particular school of training- some footwork from boxing, maybe- but the moves were deliberate, practiced. Against all preconceived notions, the kid was a fighter through and through.

But none of that skill showed now. Now the kid was swinging wildly, trading any finesse for raw power. He was getting hit more often- including a nasty blow to the face that had blood pouring from a gash on his lip- but he didn’t seem to care. Troy caught the way the kid’s bloodied lip curled into a snarl, his hazel eyes unseeing. It was like he’d lost all feeling, all consciousness, everything in him devoted to making those around him suffer.

None of the other Saints seemed perturbed by this. If anything, the increased brutality was having an opposite effect on the crowd. The more violent the takedown, the greater the jeers at the Saint whose ass had been whooped and the greater the cheers were for the newcomer. The posers and blowhards of the group had been weeded out, leaving nothing but a cockfighting pit’s worth of brutality.

He’s not gonna stop, Troy thought with a sudden, horrifying clarity as the kid started swinging at a fresh round of Saints. He’s not gonna stop until someone ends it- him or us.

Troy didn’t bother looking to Johnny for help- the asshole would have just jumped in and joined the fun- instead glancing over at Dex. His fellow lieutenant had his arms crossed, brow furrowed in a slight frown, but he was making no move to stop the carnage. Troy looked desperately at Julius instead- same thing. Except the damn bastard didn’t have the fucking decency to look bothered by what was happening, his eyebrows instead raised in intrigued as he took the bloody scene in.

A thud brought Troy back to the present. The kid’s latest victim was prone in the dirt, groaning in pain. The kid himself was panting, eyes wide and wild as he scanned the line of Saints for whoever was going to step out next. He cast his eyes up the steps, moving over Dex, Julius, himself- before locking his gaze directly on Johnny.

Johnny smiled.

Troy’s heart hit his throat. “That’s enough!” he shouted, descending the steps two at a time to make it to the graveyard below. The Saints still upright followed his command and backed off, loosening the ring of bodies that encircled the kid. Some were slower to move than others, grumbling quietly about how “this is bullshit, man” and “I could’ve taken him”, but they moved nonetheless. Arms down and open, he thought as he stopped just outside of the kid’s reach. Don’t be a threat.

The kid blinked, eyes coming back into focus. His hands slowly unclenched, lowering to rest at his sides as they had in the beginning. The trance had been broken; before Troy stood the individual he’d seen at the beginning of the gathering- mute and closed off, save the wariness in his face.

For a heartbeat they stood in apprehensive silence. Tension settled like fog over the graveyard, thick and suffocating.

Then Troy offered his hand.

The kid flinched, briefly dropping back into a fighting stance. 

Troy kept his hand steady, his gaze calm. “You earned your colors today.” This is not a threat. I am not going to hurt you.

The kid’s brow furrowed, staring at the offending hand. Then, movements just as slow as before, he took it with his own and gave it a shake. 

The tension in the graveyard fled as suddenly as it’d arrived. The Saints crowded around the newcomer, all talking at once. Most of them were pounding the kid on the back, offering congratulations. Some were glaring daggers, but that was expected. They’d get over themselves eventually.

Julius had started up again, giving another bullshit speech Troy didn’t even pretend to listen to. He couldn’t stop looking at the kid, now folded into the middle of the pack as if he’d always been a part of it. 

Something was wrong with this kid. The scared kid from the night of the drive-by and the manic hellion who’d just laid out half the Saints on his own were like night and day, but unless the fucker had an identical twin laying around they both were the same person. So which was the real face, if either of them? And if it came down to the wire, which one would appear first?

Julius tapped his shoulder, startling him back to this plane of existence. “You still with us, son?”

“What?” Troy said distractedly. “Yeah, yeah, yeah. Just thinkin’.”

Julius eyed him, but said nothing about it. “I want you to go check out the Playa,” he said, changing subjects. “See what he can do, what he needs to learn. If he can shoot straight, and all that. You feel me?”

Troy finished his cigarette, flicking the butt off to the side. “Yeah, I gotcha,” he muttered. Where was the kid, anyway...? He scanned the graveyard and spotted the kid leaning against the barren oak tree squatting in the far corner of the cemetery, half-hidden by its bulk. He was fumbling with something in his hands, face scrunched in a childish look of concentration.

...It’s official. I have no idea what this guy’s deal is. Troy shook his head and started making his way over. Time to see if the kid knew how to shoot.

[writerofblocks]

*sneaks this in* Bridget/Troy - things you said with no space between us (or) things you didn’t say at all

This was. From a long ass time ago. BUT ITS FINISHED NOW SO IM POSTING IT.

Sleepless in Stilwater

“Three.”

“Hmm?”

Troy held up three fingers. “That’s the third time you’ve yawned in as many minutes. And I’d be okay with that if you weren’t, you know, doin’ seventy on a forty-five mile an hour highway.”

Bridget broke eye contact with the road long enough to give him a sidelong glare that would wither a lesser man. “I’m not the only one doing their best Fast and the Furious impression out there,” she irritably shot back. A sports car rushed past them with an ear splitting squeal that made Troy jump, and she gestured at it. “See?”

Troy sunk back into the leather seat of the [insert car model here], returning her glare with one of his own. “That’s not the point and you know it. The point is I’d rather not end up a red smear on the pavement because my wheel man fell asleep at the goddamn wheel.”

“Oh, is that all I-” Her mouth cracked open into another face-splitting yawn; she barely managed to hide it behind her hand. “-all I am to you? Your wheel man?”

“Four. And don’t give me that crap, you’re the one that called dibs on driving.”

“I only called dibs cause you drive like a grandma on a broken scooter.”

“You mean I drive the speed limit.”

Bridget ignored him. “Besides,” she said, swerving around a semi-truck sharp enough to make him grab at the handle above the passenger window, “I’ve got places to be after this. Julius called me about a-” she let out another yawn. “-about a storage place, said the Rollerz keep their best wheels there.”

A smirk crossed Troy’s face. He waited until Bridget’s attention was on him before he held up five fingers and wiggled them. It was worth it to see the way her eyebrows dropped into a sharp V before she jabbed a finger in his direction. “Don’t you fucking say it.”

“Don’t need to say anything.”

The one finger swiftly flipped upward into giving him the bird as she returned her attention to the highway. “You’re lucky I don’t throw you out on the highway this second,” she growled, though a smile playing at the corners of her lips undercut the hostile tone.

Troy chuckled, then settled back in his seat enough to look out the car window. Stilwater was a shithole on a good day, but the oranges, purples, and blues of sunset colored the world into something more palpable to take in. Light bounced off the towering buildings of Downtown, harsh edges and cold, reflective glass softening under the gentle touch of twilight. But you could only watch buildings whiz by for so long. His gaze, as it so often did in these rare quiet moments, returned to her.

As much as he bitched about it, there was one thing he didn’t mind about Bridget being the go-to driver. It allowed him time to just… take her in. Look openly, without other people seeing and giving him crap for being lovestruck. Without her giving him crap for being lovestruck, because even after the months they’ve been together she still shied away from open affection more often than not. She cuts the sentiment with a joke, or by teasing him, or some combination of both. He doesn’t mind it- he wonders sometimes if he’s a glutton for punishment, given his career path and choice of romantic partner, but he doesn’t mind being so. Not with her around.

So he looks at her. The way her eyelids keep fluttering slightly, only for her to stubbornly hold them back open. The dark circles he’d think were black eyes if they weren’t only on her lower eyelids. She’s tapping her fingers on the steering wheel, jiggling the leg not in charge of the pedals. Any motion to tell her body it isn’t time to sleep yet. He’d make a joke about looking in a mirror if seeing it didn’t bother him so much.

That was the downside of being undercover. You got real good at seeing things people tried to hide. He had to say something. He opened his mouth, and...

“For real, though. You look like shit. Have you slept at all?”

And of course something stupid came out. Miracle of miracles, she scoffed instead of chucking him onto the highway. “Bold move to question my sleeping habits. How many used coffee mugs are on your desk again?”

Troy chose to ignore her words. “Look man, just-” He sighed, running a hand down his face. “-go home. Take a shower or something. Get some food. You need a break, Bridge.”

Bridget’s face was impassive, staring straight forward as she shifted the car into the express lane. “Can’t. Julius-”

Enough of this. “Did he tell you to do it tonight?” he asked, cutting her off before she could restate whatever bullshit task Julius had given her to do on top of everything else he’d piled on her. For fuck’s sake, sometimes it felt like she was carrying the whole gang by herself in between the tasks Julius sent down the pipeline and the duties she’d taken on herself to perform.

The glare she gave him could melt permafrost. “No.”

“Then do it tomorrow when you’re fresh.”

“I’m fresh enough,” she bit out. “You’re worrying way too much-”

The words burst from his chest before he could vet them. “I’m worrying the right goddamned amount for someone watching a person he cares about take way more shit on than she needs to.”

Bridget’s eyes went wide, whatever she’d been about to say dying in her open mouth.

Troy ran a hand through his hair. “I don’t know if this is some macho attempt to prove yourself or some shit, but you don’t have to do this. Slow down. Take care of yourself. Just- please.”

She was quiet for several minutes, eyes locked on the road as she slowed to match the speed of traffic. He’d almost given up on getting a response before she spoke again. “I won’t go to the storage place tonight. It’s-” She swallowed. “It’s late. Rollerz’ll be getting the cars out for races by now, there’s bound to be way more hanging around than during the day.”

He knows those justifications. Her saying he’s right without saying it directly. When she spoke again, her voice was careful. “Got anything else going on later?”

Manila folders scattered across a coffee table, a rapidly growing pile of cigarette stubs as he figures out the best way to ruin his friend’s lives-

“Nothing that can’t wait.”

When Bridget had first joined the Saints, Troy had thought her unreadable. It was easier now to read her once he knew what to look for. Her rubbing her thumb against the side of her index finger- something self soothing. Bouncing her leg- buying time to think. The lift of her head to look at him directly- she was searching him, weighing his reaction. “Feel like staying over?”

Always. “If you want me to.”

The tension in Bridget’s shoulders dissipated, and she gave him a small smile. “Of course I do, that’s why I asked,” she replied, punching him in the arm. “Dumbass.”

===

Rain tapped an improv jazz rhythm on the glass of Bridget’s bedroom window, and Troy couldn’t sleep. Blame the cigarettes, the coffee, the crippling anxiety and paranoia. The cause ultimately didn’t matter, the effect was the digital clock on Bridget’s bedside table hit 2AM and he was no closer to falling asleep than he was when he originally lay down. Bridget, though. Bridget had been asleep the moment her head touched the pillow. He’d be lying if he said he didn’t feel a moment of satisfying vindication.

He rolled over, resting a hand on her arm.

It was strange to see Bridget asleep. If Bridget was awake, she was moving- tapping her foot, shifting from side to side. She bounced her heels if a meeting went too long, rattling the table until he placed a hand on her thigh to get her to stop (among… other reasons). If she chose to talk, she talked with her whole body, her hands dancing in the air. Even when she was seated and still, a part of her still seemed to tremble with energy, anticipation and eagerness. Not now, though. Now she laid there, the rise and fall of her chest the only motion. Light drifted through the cracks in the blinds from the streetlight outside her window, resting softly on the freckles on her cheeks.

His hand traveled down her arm, into the dip of her waist, over the swell of her hip bone. Bridget wasn’t a paper-thin waif by any stretch of the imagination, but without the bulk of her sweatshirt to fill out her usual silhouette, she looked… smaller. More vulnerable. Which was ridiculous, he’d seen what she could do with a gun- hell, forget a gun, he’d seen the havoc she created with her fists alone- but somehow. Somehow that veneer was stripped away in the hazy orange light of a half-dead lamppost bulb, and the only thing left was a tired twenty-one year old who needed a hell of a lot more sleep than she was getting.

Christ. She really was twenty-one, wasn’t she? The face she wore around the other Saints made her seem older than that. It was all harsh angles and stony silences, only a twitch of a smile or a slight furrow in her brow betraying the emotions running electric through her veins. The uncertainty there at the beginning had long since suffocated under a rap sheet he hated to tally up in his head. It was a thing with no remorse, and little room for mercy.

And yet that face was forgotten in her sleep. The ever present tension slackened, releasing that hardened shell and letting it fall away in favor of something softer. She denied the existence of that softness, but he knew. He was allowed to know, he realized, warmth settling in his chest at the thought. Of all people, she’d offered that gift to him.

And it’s a gift you’ll lose soon.

The thought cut a sharp line through the haze, frozen against the warmth of the moment. Troy stilled, his hand resting on her waist. Somewhere in between the light on her cheeks and the slow, steady rise and fall of her chest, he’d forgotten what would be waiting for them. That as much as he tried to dodge and delay, the day Chief Monroe decided it was time to pull the plug on the Saints was coming sooner than later- and Bridget, ambitious and unknowing, was only hastening that end.

His sigh was frayed, thin and trailing off into nothing. This relationship was never going to last forever. He’d known that going in, had willingly condemned them both to heartbreak, but it hadn’t mattered then. That future had drowned in the affection in her gaze. The warmth of her laughter. The spark of her lips on his. But now…

Troy cupped Bridget’s cheek, pressing his forehead gently against hers as he closed his eyes. “I’m gonna miss you,” he whispered. He had to say it, just once. Even if she didn’t hear it- since she would never hear it- it needed to escape before it withered under his held tongue. It needed to exist, just for a moment, all his regrets pouring into that simple, weighted phrase.

At some point she’d wake up, either through him gently shaking her or her own merit. Either way she’d grouch at him for not waking her up sooner, blinking blearily at him in a hopelessly endearing way she’d punch him for if he ever mentioned it. She’d whip the covers off of both of them, laughing when he protests. Showers would follow, breakfast of some sort, and time would continue to march forward to that inevitable, heartbreaking point.

But that was a future they didn’t have to face yet. For now, they could stay like this- curling into each other, breath to breath and at peace.

For now, he’d save her a rude awakening.

[writerofblocks]

WIP Day

@ma-sulevin tagged me on Wednesday, finally got the thing I wanted to share cleaned up to be seen by human eyes other than my own so here it is now

Let’s see… I tag @eulerami , @vasiktomis , @cobb-vanthss , @chyrstis , @shallow-gravy . Have at it. Or not. I don’t control your life.

===

“That shirt looks familiar.”

Bridget paused. The tone of his voice was casual, but she sensed it- the beginning of one of their sly little repartees, the promise of something more if she played along instead of admitting her guilt. Not that she had any plans to admit it in the first place. “Oh, does it?” she replied archly, handing Troy the plate she’d been washing.

“Mhm. Got a similar one,” he replied lightly, wiping the plate dry with the dish towel he’d thrown over his shoulder. “But I haven’t seen it for a while. Wonder where it went.”

Bridget kept her eyes on the dish in her hand. She didn’t trust herself not to react if she met his gaze. “Maybe it’s at the bottom of your laundry basket.”

“Maybe.” There was the soft ceramic sound of a dish being placed on the counter, followed by the muffled rustle of a towel being thrown on top of it. Then Troy’s arms were wrapping around her waist, body pressed up against hers. His breath was warm against her cheek as he murmured into her ear. “Or maybe a certain someone spirited it away to wear for herself.”

[writerofblocks]

Bridget/Troy - Distracted

This Happens More Often Than I Care to Admit

“Working hard, or hardly working?”

Troy looked up from the desk. Bridget was sauntering in through the door to the rectory as she usually did, mischief in her eyes and in the smile on her face. “Afternoon to you, too,” he leveled in reply. Whatever she was trying to start, he wasn’t about to rise to it.

Bridget chuckled goodnaturedly as she moved out of his field of vision. There was a creak of the floorboards behind him, then the weight of her chin settling on the top of his head and of her arms slipping around his neck. “So whatcha doin’?”

He indicated the papers on the desk. “Usual bullshit.” Keeping track of the shit they stole; making sure everyone got a cut of a large money haul; buying guns and all the ammo needed to fill those guns… Julius sure as hell wasn’t going to do any of that crap, so the job fell to him. “You gonna be up there a while?”

Bridget hummed thoughtfully. “Probably.”

Troy shrugged his shoulders, careful not to dislodge her arms. “Suit yourself.”

“You’re really gonna try and work while I’m like this?” Bridget asked. Her voice carried a playful tone with an undercutting edge. She smelled a challenge.

As Bridget’s hands subtly slid down the fabric of his T-shirt, Troy weighed his options. There were two outcomes he could see from this- either he admit defeat now and allow Bridget to distract him, or he could continue working and let her attempts escalate until she pulled something that finally caused him to bend. The second option meant he could still get some work done before she got under his skin, but…

The frayed ends of his patience stared an afternoon of spreadsheets and attempted organization in the face, and the decision was made.

“All right, get down here-“ He caught her face and pulled it down to his, swallowing her laugh of delight with a kiss.

[writerofblocks]

Nostalgia Isn’t a Bad Thing, Chapter 2: On a Bullet and a Prayer

Summary: Troy has doubts. Bridget has a bad day.

Author’s Notes: God, this took a while. Thank you all for waiting, and thank you to @chyrstis​ and @eulerami​ for the encouragement, reassurance, and accepting me elbow dropping into their DMs at odd hours rambling about one plot point or another with good grace.

Quick side note to clear any confusion: due to the different perspectives having different levels of information on the Playa's gender, Troy's sections will refer to Bridget/the Playa with he/him and Bridget's sections will refer to herself with she/her until further notice.

1 / 2 / 3 / ?

Ao3

=======================

Summer never left Stilwater without a fight. It clung to life even as the calendars flipped to September, digging its claws into the old brownstones with a stubborn, stagnant air. Humidity hung heavy even as it lifted and frizzed people’s hair to new heights. People in t-shirts mingled with those in overcoats on the city streets, no one ever guessing right what the weather would be like that day. Fall might have been just around the corner, but summer was determined to stay.

The night held no relief either, as Troy was quickly finding out. The oppressive weight of the air only increased as he and Julius walked down one of the Row’s main roads, making it even harder to breathe. Didn’t help that it tasted like stale piss and exhaust. Why Julius insisted on dragging him out here to have their weekly discussion was beyond him.

“So where do we stand?”

Troy resisted the urge to groan. So many questions Julius could have asked, and the one he did was the one with an answer he wouldn’t want to hear. With the Row being the city’s last piece of unclaimed territory, all three other gangs were desperate to stake their claim. Yes, the Saints may have a neighborhood under control, but they only had- Troy counted in his head- around two dozen people to defend it, let alone take over the rest of the neighborhoods. They were up Shit Creek without a paddle, to put it artfully.

He wondered (not for the first time) why Monroe felt the need to have a plant. The “Third Street Saints” had hardly a bark, even less of a bite. How was he supposed to get information on the other gangs when the extent of his connections could be reached via a telephone tree?

Whatever. This was his job, he was going to do it, end of fucking story.

Sweat welded the collar of Troy’s polo to the back of his neck; he tugged at it with a quick, aggravated motion to release the grip, and reached for the crumpled pack of cigarettes in his pocket. “Well, we have at least Mission Beach locked down.”

Julius was keeping pace with him as they walked down the main road together, his steps even. Despite the purple turtleneck and dark coat, he didn’t seem to notice the heat. “I would hope so, considering where the church is.”

“Look, you wanted to know how we’re doin’, so I’m gonna give you all of how we’re doin’, aight?” Troy said, gesturing irritably with the cigarette he’d retrieved before placing it between his lips. “Anyway. Other than that, word is there’s Carnales operating out of an old liquor store in Athos Bay.”

This bit of news Julius gave more consideration. He tilted his head, a brief furrow crossing his brow. “That’s close by. Have someone check it out, see if there’s any truth to the rumors.”

The response With what men? formed on his tongue; he bit against it, forcing it to the back of his throat and choosing something else to say. “Right… other than that, seems the Rollerz have made a move into Harrowgate. Fresh tags’ve been goin’ up, not to mention all the shootouts between the Rollerz and VKs.”

Julius’s fingers drifted to the chains around his neck, fiddling with the crucifixes at the end of them as he thought. “If we want to hold onto those neighborhoods for more than a few days, we’re gonna need more members.”

Yeah, no shit. “We ain’t gonna get more people as it stands, Julius,” he replied, frowning. “We’ve gathered all the people willing to step up from Mission Beach. If we’re gonna get new people, we need to do something big-”

Troy stopped. They’d reached the intersection that marked the end of Mission Beach, and the beginning of Harrowsgate and Athos Bay. No man’s land. Silent for now, save the few cars going through the lights, but there was something more in the air that was making the hairs on the back of his neck stand up. Paranoia, maybe. Anticipation, also likely. Or maybe it was the booming thud of a song he recognized from Gen X, steadily growing closer- 

A garishly scarlet Hollywood shot out from the road leading to Athos Bay, tires screeching loud enough to make Troy jump back on instinct, pulling Julius with him. Horns blared as the lowrider roared past, swerving close enough to the other cars to scratch paint. Men with red bandanas hooted and shouted insults as the car rounded the corner, the large assault rifles they carried leaving no doubt as to who they were.

“Carnales,” Troy muttered. Shit. 

Julius made a noise of acknowledgement next to him. “Seems like it.” He watched where the car disappeared for a few moments, an unreadable expression on his face. His mind apparently made up, he began walking in the direction the car went. “Let’s go.”

Wait. What? 

“You can’t be serious,” Troy protested, breaking into a jog to catch up to Julius. “Did you see the heat they were packing? We’d be dead in a second without backup.”

Julius pressed his lips into a thin line. “If you want to run, then run,” he said, gesturing irritably. “But you’re the one telling me five seconds ago we needed something big to happen. Doesn’t get much bigger than that.” With that he swept forward, eventually disappearing around the corner.

Troy slowed to a stop. This was a shit idea. This was a shit idea and if they went through with it both of them were going to end up being used as target practice. Never mind figuring out what they were up to, what they needed to do was get the hell back to the church. What the hell was Julius thinking?

...He could just leave Julius to it. Julius would get killed, the Saints would dissolve, he’d go back to Monroe with a shrug and say there was nothing he could do. Two birds with one stone. All he had to do was turn around and walk away.

Troy pinched the bridge of his nose, rubbing at it as if that would make the headache beginning to bloom under his skin disappear. “Goddamnit,” he muttered. He broke into a run after Julius, the sinking feeling in his stomach growing with every step.

===

She should have run the moment the Rollerz appeared on the scene.

No, scratch that. She should have run the moment she spotted the Vice Kings throwing that tag up.

No, what she should have done was taken her car in for maintenance when it was due so it didn’t fucking explode and force her to walk to work, rent money be damned.

Forget it. Her life was a series of “coulda, woulda, shoulda”s; trying to pick out the exact reason she ended up caught between three gangs in an open shootout was an exercise in stupidity. The thing she needed to focus on now was finding an opening in the fight she could take advantage of to book it.

She crouched low behind the trash cans, the gunshots battling her heartbeat for the loudest sound in her ears. It was poor cover, but it was better than standing out in the open and turning into swiss cheese. Not that most of the gangs were in the habit of killing random civilians, but she didn’t feel like rolling the dice to see if these assholes were in the mood to take potshots after they were done comparing dick sizes via their guns.

Anger settled in her stomach, dragging her thoughts down with its weight. It wasn’t fair. It wasn’t fucking fair. All she wanted to do was live a normal fucking life- no more hiding, no more scraping by, no more fearing for her life every time she stepped out of the house- but no, apparently that was too much to ask. She’d already lost everything today, what was one more sack of bullshit added to the pile-

No. This was no time to get wrapped up in her own head. She’d figure out what came next in her life once she actually knew her life had a “next”. She let out a shaky breath and rose to a crouch, readying herself to run for the narrow alley nearby once the gunfire was directed elsewhere.

At least she knew what rock bottom looks like now. There’s no way her life could get any worse.

===

Troy wasn’t sure what he’d expected, following after the Carnales. Obviously a shootout of some kind, given the guns. A big assault on Harrowgate was unlikely; this was the only Carnales car they’d seen driving this way. Could just be a simple drive-by- get in, wreck shit, get out. 

Whatever he’d been expecting, it wasn’t the total fucking chaos that he and Julius had found.

“Christ,” Troy hissed, pressing his back against an alley wall and peering around the corner. Rollerz and VK bodies dotted the street, spent brass strewn about them. Everyone with half a brain was getting as far away from the all out brawl as they could, prostitutes and contraband salesmen screaming as they fled the scene.

Everyone, save one.

The man was crouched behind some garbage cans, unable to move for the hail of bullets. From what he could see the man had brown hair that was short and messy, tufts sticking out in all directions. A grey backpack was slung over his shoulders, and- Troy noticed with a sudden drop in his stomach- he wore a purple hoodie, oversized to the point of swallowing his form.

“That one of ours?”

Troy turned. Julius’s brow was furrowed, mouth set in a thin line. His hand hovered over the pocket where his gun was kept as his gaze darted around the skirmish, always returning to the figure in purple across the street.

“Could be.” He had to yell over the sudden screech of tires peeling out- evidently the Carnales had decided to cut their losses and run. “Can’t tell for sure, but-”

Troy didn’t have time to finish his sentence. The rhythmic booming thud of an AK being fired close by shattered all chance of being heard, the bullets finding their mark in the Carnales driver. The driver slumped, dead where he sat- but the car kept accelerating. It flew over the curb, careening wildly towards the trash cans- and the unidentified man. He sucked in a breath through his teeth. Come on, man, get out of the way, come ON-

===

Okay, it was official. The universe could kiss her ass.

She sprang forward, adrenaline kicking in before fear could take hold. Behind her the sickening crunch of metal meeting brick filled the space she'd been in a heartbeat ago, the wind of the motion catching at the straps of her backpack. No time to think about the grisly fate of the people in the car. Even with the crash taking out a good number of the gangsters remaining, it wouldn't be long before bullets started flying again. Just keep running. Just keep running. The alleyway's right in front of you-

Her left foot hit the pavement, she felt something twist with a sharp bolt of pain, and she fell.

Of course.

Loose bits of asphalt gouged her hands and cheeks as she skidded from the force of her fall, scrapes opening up on her skin. She tried to rise, but the rattle of another automatic rifle had her hitting the deck again. How many could be left? She tried to count in her head- Don’t think of the bodies-

The deep, final thud of a pistol cut the rifle fire short. The echo rang hollow, taking all other sound with it save the ambient crackle of the car fire and the rabbit-fast thud of her heartbeat in her ears. 

She chanced a glance behind her and saw the last Roller crumple, the final VK standing over his body. It was the one with the sweatband and basketball jersey, the one who’d goaded that first VK into tagging over the Rollerz tag. He was breathing heavily, the battle high all too visible in the tight way he held himself upright.

Don’t look at him. He won’t know you’re there if you don’t look at him. Don’t look. Don’t look.

The VK turned to her, a murderous, agitated glint in his eyes.

She feebly pushed herself back with her good leg, but in her heart she knew it was already over. She knew the look he had on his face, seen it too many times to fucking count, and at this range he’d have to be blind to not hit her. Clamped teeth, a snarl on her face- she wasn’t going to leave this world looking as afraid as she felt. She wasn’t.

A sneer twisted the VK’s face as he leveled the gun at her forehead. “Wrong time, wrong place, dawg.”

She closed her eyes and braced for the end.

BANG.

===

He’d never get used to the feeling of firing a gun. This wouldn’t be his first shot, sure as hell wouldn’t be his last, and yet a part of him still jumped at the heart-stopping thud as he pulled the trigger. It rattled through his bones, resonating all the more for the way he held the gun sideways in the effort to blend in with the other Saints.

The Saints, Troy mentally corrected himself. Not the others. There’s the Saints, and then there’s me.

The VK crumpled to the ground, blood and cranial fluid pooling where his head landed. His hand was still clenched around the pistol, the finger curled around the trigger.

Too close.

It was justified, Troy told himself. A life for a life. So why were his hands still shaking?

“You okay, playa?”

He hadn’t noticed Julius moving past him, bending down to offer a hand to the prone man. Troy shook his head. Now wasn’t the time to space out. “Julius, let's move.”

Julius looped his arm under the man’s shoulder and helped him stand up. Together they started shuffling toward  Troy followed behind them, head on a swivel- there could be reinforcements coming at any moment, not to mention the cops. Plus the on-fire car that was about to-

The Hollywood exploded with a heart-stopping boom behind them, sending them all stumbling forward.

“Shit!” Troy cursed.

The man looked pale, but said nothing.

It wasn’t until they reached the nearby alleyway and Julius set the man down that Troy was able to get a good look at him. He was in his early twenties at most, though the cluster of freckles across his cheeks and forehead made him seem even younger. Sharp cheekbones sat under hazel eyes and thoroughly tousled brown hair. He drew in a breath between his teeth as Julius manipulated his ankle, testing it out, but otherwise didn’t react.

Julius hummed under his breath and set the man’s ankle down. “That don't look so bad, you should be fine.” He jabbed a thumb in Troy’s direction. “That's Troy. You can thank him later."

Troy blinked. He wasn’t expecting to be addressed. He gives a brief wave with his gun hand. “Hey.”

The man’s eyes locked onto his pistol.

Troy winced, mentally kicking himself. Sure, go ahead and wave your gun around the person who just got threatened with one three minutes ago. Moron.

"The Row ain't safe no more, son,” Julius continued. “We got gangs fightin' over shit that ain't theirs, and you in they way.” He poked the man in the chest. The man looked down at his hoodie, seemingly noticing the color for the first time. “They don't care if you representin' or not.”

Troy gawked. Of all the things he could say, Julius was pulling that shit out? Was he fucking serious? “Julius, this is no time to recruit!” he hissed.

Julius looked at him in astonishment. “We need all the help we can get, son,” he said aloud, but the brief, irritated furrow of his brow provided the subtext. ‘You’re the one who said we needed more people.’

Troy gestured pointedly in the direction of the sirens that were growing closer. “What we need right now,” he replied, leaning heavily on the ‘now’, “is to get our asses outta here.” 

"In a minute!” Julius called back, then turned to look at the kid. “Look, the Row's got a problem. Come to the church when you wanna be a part of the solution." With that he stood up and swept further down the street, disappearing around a corner.

Finally. Troy began to follow, when something in him told him to look back.

He would never know why he did. Sometimes he thought it was because he heard something. Other times he thought it was that paranoid instinct to double-check he’d cultivated already in the short time he’d been with the Saints. On the days he believed in fate he wondered if it was that kicking in, making sure things happened the way it had to be. Whatever the case was, he looked back.

He looked back, and the kid was still on the ground where they’d left him.

Goddamnit.

Troy shoved his pistol back into his jeans (safety on, he wasn’t about to shoot his own dick off, thank you) and jogged back to where the man still sat. Without fanfare he grabbed the man’s hands, dragging him to his feet. “Go,” he hissed, grabbing the man’s shoulders. The man started, his eyes finally focusing on Troy’s face. “Run. Get out of here before the cops show up and think you’re one of us, okay?”

The man blinked.

For fuck’s sake. Troy spun the man towards the nearby alleyway and shoved. “I mean it, get going!”

He didn’t stick around to see if the man listened to what he said, taking off in a sprint after Julius the moment his hands left the man’s shoulders. The sirens were only getting closer by the second, and he wasn’t about to get his face slammed into the hood of a cruiser by an unsuspecting colleague. He’d done what he could to get the man to safety. Simple as that.

Maybe-

No. He had to focus on the bigger picture. Right now, his priority was the Saints. He’d be saving more lives overall if he concentrated all his efforts on figuring out how to take the Saints down, not stopping to save every civilian caught in the line of fire. He did what he could, and that was the end of it.

Besides. It wasn’t like he’d ever see the man again, even with Julius’s extended invitation. After witnessing something like that shootout, he’d have to be crazy if he wanted to join the Saints.

===

She doesn’t remember how she got back to her apartment. The memory is a blur of brick buildings and back alleyways, frantic with pain and driven by animal instinct to flee. It wasn’t until she was over the threshold with the door slammed shut and the deadbolt firmly in place that she became aware it was her destination at all.

Normalcy. She needed normalcy. Laundry was normal. She peeled her windbreaker off- ignore the blood, ignore the blood- and threw it at the laundry basket. Her pants, shirt, and socks swiftly followed. Her backpack was unzipped next, the contents rifled through. Wallet; emergency book to read on break; old dancing outfits that were quickly tossed at the basket; termination of employment letter-

Her hand froze around the letter.

“I don’t fucking care if he was harassing the girls, you kneed one of our best paying customers in the face! What else am I supposed to do with that?”

She tossed the letter to the side and hobbled towards the bathroom. Shower first. Laundry could wait.

The water was molten hot, as always, but tonight she didn’t mind it as much. The scalding sting felt like a deep cleanse, burning away the night’s events. She watched the dirt from the alleyway swirl down the drain until the hot water ran out, shocking her back into the present.

Towel. Ankle brace. A thin robe, threadbare in places. She could do this. She could calm down, let it all fade away. This was all normal in the Row.

This was all normal.

She limped back to the living room, grabbed the remote and turned the TV on. There had to be something mind numbingly-stupid on at this time of night.

“Terror tonight as Harrowgate became the scene of a deadly shootout-”

He was there. The EMTs were covering him with a plastic sheet, but he was there. She saw the yellow headband, the basketball jersey. The gaping hole in the back of his head.

“Wrong time, wrong place, dawg.”

She slammed the power button, throwing the remote away from her as if it was a snake primed to strike.

Deep, shuddering breaths, her hand to her throat as if she could shove the terror back down her windpipe.

She should have died. The gun should have fired with a heart-stopping thud that always made her think of fireworks, and she should have fallen to the ground in a heap. There she’d have stayed until the police coroner came to pick up the mess of bodies. They wouldn’t have found any next of kin, if they bothered to look at all, and her death would be forgotten as yet another casualty in a never ending turf war.

She should have died, but she didn’t. She didn’t because some chucklefucks in purple happened to be there, happened to swoop in and decide she wouldn’t.

She was so, so tired of feeling helpless. Of being helpless. Every time she thought she had her life in order, that she’d finally taken control, something stepped in to remind her that no, she didn’t and no she hadn’t. No matter what she did, no matter how much she tried, her life’s course would always be directed by things she’d never understand.

She couldn’t ignore it anymore. This wasn’t something she could shove under the rug like the rest of her dirty secrets. She’d done the “keep her head down” thing already, and it didn’t fucking work. Something needed to be done.

...That Saint. The older gentleman- Julius, that was his name. What was it he said?

“The Row’s got a problem. Come to the church when you want to be part of the solution.”

She owed them. At the very least, she owed them enough to hear them out. See if it was worth throwing her life away for the very people who went out of their way to save it.

What did she have to lose?

[writerofblocks]

Bridget/Troy - G: Growing Old Together

God. It’s probably a bad sign that it’s hard to imagine them ever being old. But should it happen, this is how it might go.

Bridget eventually retires and hands the Boss title over to someone who’s worthy of it, then steps the fuck out of the spotlight. She’s done with that shit. It may involve a faked death if I’m feeling frisky.

Troy takes longer to retire. He’s a workaholic through and through. At some point he gives up cigarettes- Bridget lovingly asks him to find a better coping mechanism or she’ll “kill him before the lung cancer does”- and replaces it with a less devastating addiction tbd later. Eventually though, he also steps back.

Both of them are world weary, ethics in scraps and destined for hell. But they have each other to hold onto, to tease about the grey hairs and fall asleep with on the couch. Normalcy is no longer a concept for them, but this is close enough.

It’s enough, and it’s all they ever wanted.

[writerofblocks]

Brain: [thinks about Bridget and Troy having a son together]

Me: would it kill you to focus on the Current Part of the Project at Hand?

Brain: yes 💜

[writerofblocks]

Bridget/Troy - B: Bed Sharing ;)

Oooooh man. Not sure which would be better, pre- or post-getting together. Actually, fuck it. Pre-getting together because I like making them internally scream.

They were out doing some gang shit. The car they stole just gave up the ghost. It’s fucking late at night and they’re both just Too Tired to muster up the energy to get themselves back home. Bridget suggests getting a hotel room for the night. Troy’s brain shuts down for five seconds and when he boots it back up his brainless self had already agreed to it. Which is fine! Except for the part where the hotel only has one room left and it’s a single queen. That might be a problem.

Tiredness wins out in the end, and they both go to the room. Bridget makes a cheeky remark about them behaving themselves, screaming internally. Troy gives her cheek back, also screaming internally. They get into bed at a respectable distance from the other and fall the fuck asleep.

Next morning Troy wakes up to Bridget wrapped around him like an octopus. He’s frozen there, trying to decide what to do, before deciding to just. Stay there. Let it happen. He pretends to be asleep when Bridget wakes up. To his surprise she also just. Stays there for a while, her arms wrapped around him. Eventually, unfortunately, she removes her arms from him and shakes him. He “wakes” up. Neither of them mention her cuddling after long after that. But both of them remember it.

[writerofblocks]

Night time is the time of day my brain comes up with fluffy, glurgy snippets of ideas and I inflict it upon my good pal @the-wizard-ell, now you can see them too

===

Troy and Bridget are sitting on the couch watching something

Troy’s head falls against Bridgets shoulder and she realizes he’s sound asleep

Bridget keeps herself as still as she can and pulls the blanket they’re under tighter around them, then wraps an arm around his shoulder to keep him from slipping

She can feel the scratch of his five o clock shadow through her t-shirt. It’s irritating and comforting all at once, both itchy and a little reminder that he’s here, with her, in this peaceful moment together.

The arm she has around his shoulder moves, rests in his hair. It’s much shorter than it was six years ago. More grey, too- she might have had a hand in that. She runs her fingers through his cropped hair and wonders what it would have been like to run them through the way he wore his hair back then, longer and more golden. It’s no use to think these things, she knows this, but she wonders anyways.

She presses her lips to his head, light so as not to wake him. Against all odds, he was here with her now. That’s all that matters. She turns the tv down low and rests her head on top of his, closing her eyes and submerging herself in the comfort of the moment.

[writerofblocks]

AITE SO, I'm gonna ask for a big order here, if you were up to it. I badly wanna know, for the ship meme, Bridget and Troy-- but like.... All of em. If NOT... Can I get a number 3, 7, 8, 9, 12, 13, and 22 with extra pickles please 👀

Don’t Worry I’m gonna end up doing all of them at some point but for right now here’s a number 3, 7, 8, 9, 12, 13, and 22 with extra pickles. ORDER UP!

[ask from here!]

3. Who is the most romantic?

Depends on your definition of romantic, I suppose. If we’re talking the traditional kind of romantic with like, flowers and restaurant dates and acts of loving service, I’d give that one to Bridget. Troy’s expressions of love tend more towards the subtle- a kind word, a hand on a shoulder, doing something that may not seem applicable at first but helps you later on via the domino effect- that’s Troy’s style.

TL;DR- Bridget’s the romantic in the outward, more obvious ways; Troy’s the more subtle romantic but more powerful for it.

7. What do they get up to on a night out?

Honestly? Roleplay as normal adults with a normal relationship. See a movie, go have dinner somewhere where no one will recognize them. Shoot the shit at a bar, go for a walk on the boardwalk. Their everyday lives is filled with crazy shit to the point where mundanity is something they find special.

8. What do they like in bed?

Well. You didn’t hear it from me, but I heard Ms. Summers likes to pull out the strap and go to town every once in a while. Handcuffs may or may not be involved.

Other than that it’s mostly things that are more on the “usual” side of sexual encounters. It’s not boring by any means, but it’s not as out there as some. They know what they like and stay in that general area.

9. What is the most embarrassing thing they have done in front of each other?

Troy once got so distracted talking to/looking at Bridget while driving that he nearly hit an old lady crossing the street. The fact it was something so stereotypical that he nearly hit kept Bridget in stitches the rest of the day.

Bridget once got so hammered that she puked on Troy’s shoes when he was holding her up to get her to a car. She will deny it vehemently if its ever brought up.

12. What first changes when it starts getting serious?

Before they got together they’d text each other on a consistent basis, around one or two times a week. Now it’s almost every day. Some of it is long conversations, most of it is messages of “saw this and thought of you” along with some link or picture. They’re adults with busy lives and Bridget’s sometimes half a world away for work, so they keep bonded however they can.

An additional thing that changed- Before they got together, Bridget had a habit of breaking into Troy’s apartment for purposes of mischief and of making sure he actually eats something besides fast food, coffee, and cigarettes (until Troy gave her a key so she’d stop picking his locks all the damn time). In return, Bridget gave him a key to her apartment in Saints Row “so if there’s a late night at the station you can get some sleep that isn’t in your car doing fifty down the highway”. It’s much the same after they get together, but now there’s a drawer for the other person’s things in each of their homes.

13. When do they realise they should get together?

When they get off their mutually pining asses and actually communicate for once.

As an actual answer, when they both confront that their affection for each other and desire to be in each other’s lives is at a level that is far past the line of platonic. I do have an actual time “when”, but that’ll be its own story.

22. Where does their first kiss happen?

Their first kiss: A spur of the moment, “thank god we’re both alive” kiss outside of a burning drug lab. (There’s context, I swear.)

What they consider their first kiss: In Troy’s apartment, after arriving from the aforementioned burning drug lab and sitting down to have a frank discussion about things.

[writerofblocks]

4, 14, 15, 18, 23, 29 for more Bridget/Troy perhaps? 👀

[ask meme here!]

4. Who can’t keep their hands to themselves?

Bridget, both in the sexual way and the “let me put my cold hands on you and watch you freak out” way.

14. When one has a cold, what does the other do?

The benefits of being able to set your own hours (for the most part) is that you can call out whenever you want to, so Bridget plays hooky and is the goalkeeper to Troy’s feeble soccer ball attempts to leave for work anyway. 

Troy, on the other hand, is too straight laced to completely be a truant. That being said, he’s not above coming into work late after making sure Bridget’s as set as she can be. Bridget’s usual behavior when she’s sick is to ball up in a nest of blankets and comforters and stay there the rest of the day, so it usually doesn’t take too long.

15. When they watch a film what do they choose and why? Who gets the final vote?

Die Hard. “Action films from the 80s” is the intersection point between their tastes in movies.

Troy usually gets the final vote when it comes to choosing. Bridget’s not as picky about the movie; if the movie’s uninteresting, she can always find a way to entertain herself. Some of which involve thoroughly distracting a certain Chief of Police, but c’est la vie.

18. When they fight, how do they make up?

They make up?

Fully kidding. Though it can take them a while to make up sometimes. One of them provides an olive branch (usually figurative, though Troy in one of his more playful moods did bring an olive branch one time), that opens up routes to talking again. It usually takes a few days after that for them to actually talk about the problem.

23. Where is their favourite place to be together?

The top of Mount Clafflin at night, where they can see the lights of the city from where they’re sitting on their car’s hood.

29. Why do they fall a little bit more in love?

Troy’s consistently surprised and pleased by Bridget’s hidden capacity to care. I mean she is a gangster and a criminal with a low regard for the value of human life, but underneath all that lies a desire to help the people she cares about. More than once he’s come home to find that Bridget broke in while he was out and took care of chores he’d been meaning to do. And yeah she may leave a snarky note along with it, but that just another thing he loves about her.

For Bridget, it’s the way Troy remembers things. How she takes her coffee, where certain cooking pans are kept, what times are good to call when she’s in a different time zone, how to calm her down and ground her after a PTSD-induced nightmare wakes her up. He pays attention and he puts a great deal of effort in to remember, and having someone care about her like that means a lot.