A/N: First published story, so constructive criticism is especially welcome! This came from a prompt that one of my friends gave me from a while ago. Most of the info in this story is based off GTA gameplay and other AUs I've read. Brian/Brock, Tyler/Craig and Marcel/Scotty are implied, but Datihi de Caibre and H20Vanoss are established. My doc was being a little picky with line breaks so it may be a little confusing, but I'm finding a way to fix it. If you like it, be sure to let me know, and I'll update soon!
"Goddamn it Mini! Where's the keys to the Lambo!?"
Evan's morning was starting off fan-fucking-tastic.
He cracked one eye open, blinded by the early morning sun pouring through the thin shades. One middle finger went up, whether to curse the sun or Tyler, he didn't know or care. He groaned and dragged his sorry ass out of bed and into the adjoining bathroom. Eyes squinting, he fumbled for the water tap and twisted it with a squeak that made him wince. Evan cupped some of the water in his hands and splashed it on his face, hoping it would wake him up.
He knew he shouldn't have stayed up late last night, poring over blueprints and files, especially on the day before the heist, but how else was he going to keep his crew safe? They were all smart and resourceful, able to hold their own, but when shit really hit the fan, they all turned to their fearless leader. Well, Evan wouldn't be able to pull out any ideas out of thin air if his crew kept waking him up at the asscrack of dawn.
He stumbled down the stairs to the kitchen in their penthouse, where their driver and pilot Brock offered him a cup of coffee and a sympathetic glance before going back to reading a hacked police record about a new gang starting up on the east side of Los Santos. He made mental note about that before sitting down on one of the counter barstools, placing his head on his arms, and promptly forgetting all about it.
He spent the next ten minutes like that, only raising his head to take long sips of the coffee in front of him. It was in a cheap, touristy mug that showed a cartoon view of the city, with bright pink letters spelling out 'Los Santos" on the side. He doesn't really know where it came from, but he suspects that it had been Delirious who bought it as some sort of joke.
The man of his thoughts suddenly appear before him like magic, glancing down at Evan from behind his hockey mask. Huh, Evan's sleep-deprived mind supplied, he's like a ghost. Delirious the friendly ghost. He let out a breathy laugh.
Evan couldn't see his exact expression, but he assumed that he had raised an eyebrow in disbelief. Delirious didn't say anything, too caught up in his own search for caffeine. Evan put his head back down on his arms, and that was that. They sat in silence for a while. None of them wanted to break the peace and quiet that was rare in their line of work. It didn't last long.
Soon, the trio in the kitchen could hear Wildcat's loud footsteps and muttered swears well before they saw him. The blonde stormed into the kitchen and stopped in front of Evan. "I need the spare keys to the Lambo for an ammo run," he growls out through gritted teeth. Evan sighs in return; he sometimes feels like he's babysitting his crew.
But he relents, because otherwise Tyler will be surly, which will make the rest of them miserable during the heist. "They're in the safe in the living room, and then wake up the rest of the crew and tell them there's a meeting in an hour," he mumbles and listens to the stomping of Tyler's retreating boots. Evan drains the last of his coffee and gets up to get another cup, but decides to instead grab the whole carafe and heads down to their meeting room, ignoring Delirious' protests behind him.
A shower and a change of clothes helps to wake Evan up. By the time Tyler makes it back from the ammo run, he's confident that he can deal with any of their bullshit. They gather in the meeting room, where a white board in the front of the room has blueprints and escape routes taped all over it, and a bank of computers sits off to the side, monitors glowing brightly. Evan doesn't even try to understand half the things that Craig does when he's working with the computers, but it suits him fine. Luke occasionally drops in to help Craig, but the snarky black hat hacker manages most of it on his own.
Around the table, his team sits in relative states of awareness. Tyler is still fuming from where he sits on the end of the table, Brian sleeping in his chair next to him. Their resident sniper Lui and his medic boyfriend Nogla are each nursing a strong cup of coffee. Craig is explaining something to Delirious about how no, the new comms still can't stand unexpected swims in the canals. Brock is still engrossed in whatever is on his tablet, and Marcel is nowhere to be found.
Despite the missing member, they run over plans and locations for an hour. It isn't a difficult heist by any measure, but Evan knows that any plan, no matter how easy or foolproof, can still turn out fubar. It's a simple way to get money and ammo. There's an arms dealer near the docks who went by the name Sylar. Sylar had screwed them over a few times, and his crew had been planning revenge since a faulty gun had put a bullet in Brian's right forearm. Brock, normally a voice or reason, had been livid.
The dealer wasn't smart or influential, with only a few hired thugs to guard him and his store. Evan suspected that he was being controlled by a larger drug gang and hoped to get some intel about it.
They set the depart time to be late at night so that Sylar would be caught off guard and the hired protection would hopefully be at home or asleep. They grab light guns, silencers, and smoke grenades. The crew exchange the garish outfits they usually wear for dark hoodies and black gloves. By the time Lui sets up his rifle on the building across the street, it's 10 o'clock and the only lights are the neon signs that glow brightly in the distance and the moonlight reflecting off the bay.
Sylar's cover business is a huge, warehouse-sized fishing supply shop, with the storehouse in the back holding not hooks and lures but AKs and grenades. There are almost no windows in the two-room building, but rusted service doors lead in from almost every side. The crew is putting stealth over speed, so they wait an hour to make sure that Lui wasn't seen. Back at their penthouse, Craig disables the CCTV and the dealer's camera
After confirming that Sylar didn't spot him, Evan, Tyler, Delirious, Brian, and Brock pile into a dark pickup and head to the docks. Brock parks the truck in an alley a block from the store, and they grab their weapons from the truck bed. The smell of salt and rotting fish makes Evan cringe, but he pushes the discomfort away. He slips the comm in place and turns it on before creeping to the front entrance with Delirious at his side and silenced gun in hand.
"OK, Terroriser and I are at the north door. Everyone else set?" Brock's voice come crackling over the comm, using codenames for fear of being overheard. Tyler, stationed at the back storeroom door, murmurs an affirmative. Next to him, Delirious activates his comm and confirms that they too are in place.
Evan takes a breath to calm his nerves before saying, "Alright then. Going in 3...2...1!"
Brian, Tyler, and Delirious kick their respective doors open while Evan and Brock each toss a smoke bomb and a flash grenade in the front room. The two teams rush in, immediately taking cover behind the shelves. Bullets pepper the metal shelves, coming from the cat walks above, the checkout counter, and from behind other shelving. Rapid shots echo from the backroom where Tyler is supposed to be stealing the guns. Evan's mind freezes as he realizes his mistake.
There was only supposed to be Sylar and his one bodyguard here. They had watched him for weeks as he routinely sent home two of his three bodyguards when he locked up his store and then retire to a bed that was in the corner of the back room. He popped out from behind the metal frames, and from what he could see, there were at least two on the cat walks, one at the counter, and two roaming the store. They had been expecting an attack.
Evan's heart sunk in his chest as he realized they were sorely outnumbered and outgunned. He ducked back behind the shelving units as bullets ricocheted off the metal. "Calibre, we need some support! Call Mini and then get your ass down here!" Evan called out on the comms.
Lui was better as a sniper than he was in a direct firefight, but with only two windows as entry points, there wasn't much he could do. About ten feet away from Evan, Terroriser called out, "Three left! We got the two on the cat walks." One of the roaming shooters sent a few shots his way, and he and Brock were forced to run to the next set of shelves as the bullets punched through the weak metal.
Evan peeked around the edge of his cover and saw one of the men through a crack between the boxes. He fired off two shots, smiling grimly when he heard a scream of pain and saw the man slump over, hurt but not dead.
Evan gestured for Delirious to cover him, making eye contact with his almost eerie blue eyes through the hockey mask before he put a new clip in his gun and they quickly made their way to the downed man. They were only a few feet from the safety of the shelves when a bullet clipped his thigh. Evan stumbled, but slammed his hand over the wound, grit his teeth and limped to the man. He finishes him off with three shots to the chest before falling right on his ass.
Delirious quickly takes his knife and hacks off a sleeve of his navy sweatshirt before handing it to Evan, "Here, dumbass. Tie it around and we'll have Daithi stitch it up when we get back." Evan takes the fabric with bloody fingers and bites his lip so he doesn't cry out when he pulls the knot tight.
Delirious had informed Moo and Terroriser that there were only two men left and that there was still no sign of Sylar. Evan was more concerned about Tyler's radio silence than about the dirty dealer at this point. They could still hear periodic gunfire from the back room, but Tyler had been silent for some reason. Evan tried to not let his mind wander.
The two checked their clips quick, and both grimaced when they realized that they were down to four bullets combined. Evan guessed that the other two would have the same problem soon. Delirious handed his gun to Evan and unsheathed his knife instead, ignoring Evan's glare and silent disapproval.
"You're a better shot. C'mon, I can hear one," Delirious mumbled, grabbing Evan's arm and hauling him to his feet. The two snuck towards wall where the counter was. They spotted the man crouched with his back to them. He was planting a C4 charge, detonator held firmly in his hand.
Delirious let go of Evan's arm and changed his grip on the long Bowie knife. With soundless footsteps he approached the man until he was in arm's reach. He reached forward with the knife, prepared to slit the man's throat.
The man turned around.
Evan's heart stopped.
The startled gunman whipped his pistol up, panicked, firing shot after shot into Delirious' chest until his clip was spent. His body jerked back with each hit before collapsing. Evan screamed.
His gun was in his hand before he knew it, two bullets to the man's forehead before he could blink. He dropped both of the guns and fell to his knees by Delirious. With shaking hands Evan took his own knife and sliced through the straps that held together the thin body armour that had been able to stop most of the bullets before it gave .
Two red wounds stood out on his pale chest. Evan put both hands down on the wound directly over his heart, trying to ignore the blood quickly leaking between his fingers. Blurry blue eyes tried to focus on him.
"E-Evan. T-There's still another g-guy. S-Stop." His voice was breathy, none of usual manic energy. Evan shook his head violently, his voice betraying him. There was no way he was going to leave him to bleed out.
Delirious' uncoordinated fingers tugged at his hand suddenly. His breathing was shallow and fast. "I c-can't b-breathe! M-mask," he stuttered. Evan knew it was really his body shutting down, but he wanted to believe it was something as simple as the impacts on the Kevlar instead. With hand no more steady than Delirious', he gently slipped the plastic hockey mask off his face before placing his hands back in his chest.
It was first time seeing him without the ever present mask, and despite the situation, he found himself staring at striking blue eyes and high cheekbones that he instantly loved. Love. It made his chest ache think about the growing feeling for his second-in-command that he had been finally, finally, admitting to himself.
Delirious suddenly laughed, more gasp than actual sound, "It's r-rude to s-stare." Evan still couldn't find his voice so he just shook his head again, this time with tears in his eyes. He had wasted time, and wasted every chance that he had.
It took a few deep breaths, but he was finally able to stutter out, "I love you." He turned his head before he could see the rejection, how he had ruined Delirious' life as it leaked between his fingers as he tried to hold him together. Sobs gathered in his throat, but he couldn't seem to breathe, let alone cry.
Cold fingers that had never left his squeezed his hand. "Love y-you, too." Delirious mumbled, eyes fighting to stay open. This time, Evan did cry. His hands left his chest, realizing it was a lost cause. He wrapped his arms around Delirious instead, holding him close. They both shook. Delirious fighting to stay awake and alive, Evan racked with sobs.
Gunfire distantly registered in his mind, and then the sound of running footsteps as Brian and Brock found them. He didn't care, because suddenly, he couldn't feel Delirious breathing anymore. He sobbed again, then gently laid him back on the floor. Brock was suddenly there, hands clasped together and performing CPR.
Evan hated how it made him bleed more, how after a minute, Delirious hadn't woken up. His bloody hands grabbed at Brock's, keeping him from continuing.
"Stop! S-Stop!" He cried and saw how tears were running down Brock's face. Brian was nowhere to be found and had probably went to see what happened to Tyler. He couldn't bring himself to care anymore. Arms wrapped around him and pulled him into a tight hug.
"...My comm was knocked out when some guy jumped me. Lui showed up with his rifle and helped," Tyler responded to some question Brian asked. Evan looked up to see his friend covered in blood, not all of it his own. At the sight of all the red, his chest constricted painfully and he buried his face in Brock's shoulder.
Tyler's questioning eyes found him first, then looked past him to Delirious. His gun clattered to the floor. "No…" He looked to Brian for an explanation, but the Brit looked just as shocked. Lui stood next to him looking positively sick. "No!" Tyler yelled. Fury burned in his eyes and he looked like he was about to punch something. If it wasn't for the tires squealing outside, he probably would have.
Instead he growled and picked up his gun. "We have to go," he said and started making his way to one of the back doors. Lui and Brock each slung one of Evan's arms over their shoulders and helped him walk. With the blood loss from his leg and the shock, he had passed out in Brock's arms. Brian took Lui's rifle and took up the rear.
They made it to the truck and drove back to the penthouse in silence. They walked into the lobby all covered in blood and holding an unconscious man, but the girl running the desk didn't even blink their way. They had paid her off a long time ago.
The second they were through the door, Nogla and Craig were there with medical supplies and questions. Brock had updated the in the truck and all they knew was that both Evan and Tyler had grazes and Lui had a concussion. Nogla asked where Delirious was, all hope and innocence. They didn't have an answer.
The second Tyler was stitched up, he grabbed a bottle of Jack Daniels and slammed his bedroom door closed on Craig. The techie buried himself in his work instead, finding out who had betrayed them and leaked details about the heist. He gave up and instead joined Lui and Nogla on the couch where they passed a bottle of vodka around. Brock and Brian joined them a little later, a peace offering of whiskey held in hands so tight that Brian's knuckles were white.
Evan sleep dreamlessly in the room above them, blissfully aware thanks to strong pain medication.
They're all asleep by six in the morning.
"Goddamn it Mini! Where's the keys to the Lambo!?"
Evan thought that he was dreaming. The sense of familiarity was unsettling. Hadn't he just woken up like this yesterday? His blurry mind grasped at the glimpses and images that floated
The memories hit him like a frieght train. There was gunshots and crying and a feeling of horror. There was blood, blood on his leg, blood on his hands, blood on Delirious…
A wave of nausea washed over Evan, and he rushes to the bathroom to throw up. He gagged and washed his mouth out with water from the squeaky faucet. He gripped the sink and looked at himself in the mirror. There was nothing different from the way he had woken up the day before. Dark hair in the same spikes, wide brown eyes looking back at him.
He took a step towards the stairs, waiting for the twinge of pain from his leg. When he put weight on it, it didn't hurt. Evan frowned and looked down at his leg. There was no white bandage, no stitches, no wound. He felt his breathing speed up and could feel his heart pounding. He stumbled back until his back hit the wall with a thump.
His mind was frantically looking for a way to explain what happened. Maybe yesterday had all been a dream. Maybe he was finally going insane. He laughs at the absurdity, but once he starts he can't stop
There's a knock on his bedroom door. Curled up with his knees to chest and head in his hands, shaking from laughter or tears, Evan can't answer. The knob turns anyway and someone walks in, footsteps muffled on the soft carpet.
"Are you okay? Evan?" The voice is oddly musical and horrifically familiar, the voice of the one he knows and trusts the most. The person crouches down to be on Evan's level, and a hand reaches out to rest on his shoulder. Evan's breathing hitches, and he looks up to see the brilliant blue eyes of a dead man staring back.