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Love is a foreign concept to Courtland Gentry.
In his childhood, it was a terribly twisted thing—a blatant lie hissed out by an uncaring father, muffled by the water in his ears as his head was dunked into the bathtub over and over again. At prison, it was mere hearsay—something his old cellmate spoke of dearly, though with a faraway look in his eyes and the resignation that he would never be able to grasp it again. During his time as a Sierra, it was a double-edged sword—useful as a tool for exploiting basal human desires, but with the caveat that the assassin was just as susceptible to it as the target.
It is fortunate that he had never quite gotten acquainted with it earlier in his life. That would've been a disaster waiting to happen: to give something so revered to a wretched soul, one who knows nothing but violence and can only cradle it in bloodied hands.
No, for his first experience with love came from responsibility. Claire Fitzroy began as a charge, meant to be a passing mission and no more. But, as fate would have it, they reunited by virtue of Lloyd Hansen. Both of them lost a great man in Croatia, and had found comfort in each other's arms after the fact. Court pulled her close and Claire clung to him, even with the blood on his hands dirtying her clothes and marking her as a target for life.
To be loved is to be known.
Then, his second experience with love came from an adversary. Holland March began as one of many of his shadows, going after Court ever since the CIA issued a sizeable bounty on his head. Their first meeting was ugly, with punches thrown and guns pointed—but they were at an impasse due to March's seeming inability to die. By that point, he had garnered just enough of Court's respect that he was willing to save March when he was in danger. And then one thing led to another and before Court knew it, he was getting down on one knee and slipping a grenade pin onto March's ring finger as the ensuing explosion took out their shared enemies.
To be loved is to be accepted.
Finally, his third experience with love came from mere circumstance. Holly March began as a stranger, one who bore a striking resemblance to the man he loves. She is her father's daughter in every way, so it was no surprise that Court came to love her eventually; on the other hand, she had no obligation to reciprocate at all. In fact, her morals are at odds with his job description—yet, despite this, she found something worth loving inside him.
To be loved is to be chosen.
Now, Court has an inkling—that love is the mundane. Love is waking up to another body in your bed, the soft press of lips on skin, and a tender gaze melting into a fond smile. Love is limbs tangled in a forever embrace, the scruff of beards rubbing against each other, and the sweet nothings whispered between languid kisses.
But, perhaps mundane is good. Perhaps mundane is exactly what Court needs, after a life like his. Every morning, March puts Court's tie on for him just so that he can stand in front of him, bask in his space, and close the distance for a chaste peck. Neither of them mention that Court can put his own tie on, and can tie it much better than March can. Court always has to take extra time adjusting his tie in the car, but he has a stupid smile on his face because that silly routine just makes his goddamn day before it even starts.
Yes, love is the mundane. The basis of love is in baseless routine, is in partaking in unnecessary rituals, is in the inconsequential little things. And this is exactly what Court needs, for love is what seeps into the cracks of his heart to heal wounds he didn't even know existed.
It finds a home in his household of four—two fathers and two daughters, trying their best to get by each day. There are ups and downs, highs and lows; Claire's health never really gets any easier to deal with, Court can be woefully inept in the matters of interpersonal relationships, and Holly and March cannot go one day without arguing. It is far from ideal, yes, but none of them would trade it for the world.
Weeknights often look like this: like Holly carrying the dirty dishes to the sink while Claire wipes the table down, like March furiously scrubbing off the burnt bits at the bottom of a pan while Court dries off the plates. Halfway through, the girls finish their tasks and slip away into their shared room. Obscured tidbits of their conversation slip through the crack of the door, and they are comforting to have in the background—the reminder that despite everything in their tumultuous lives by far, their children have enough semblance of normalcy to be getting frustrated at algebra homework.
Alongside them, the soft notes of a song fill the air. March always keeps the radio on when they're doing chores, to help keep his focus on the task at hand. Otherwise, he would be flitting about all over the place, forgetting what he's supposed to be doing.
Court never listened to music much; it is not something he personally sought out on his own nor was ever encouraged to pursue, lest he get distracted during missions. But, now, he knows intimately all the songs that March loves humming to. He would join him, if he had a single bone in his body tender enough to partake in art. Such things are still beyond him, it seems.
Tonight, however, there is a small break in routine—March's arms snake around Court's chest just as he finishes putting the last dried plate back in the cupboard. He buries his face in his back, nosing his neck affectionately. This close, Court can feel the humming more than he can hear it; he can feel the vibrations reverbrating until they drone out into the pattern of spoken words.
March mutters against Court's nape, "The night is still young."
"That it is."
"We don't have any cases to work on," he continues, his breath warming the exposed skin before him and eliciting an involuntary shiver. "Well, that's not a good thing, actually. It's kind of our main source of income, and—"
"And we don't have any cases to work on. Simple as that," Court interrupts him gently, before he ends up talking himself into spiralling over nothing. Years of experience has taught him the exact time to pull the other man out of his overthinking. "What else?"
"The radio is on," March huffs, apparently not pleased about having to spell it out. But he'll get over it soon enough. "And the host read the setlist out earlier, and there's a song coming up that I really like."
"What about it?"
"We should dance."
Court blinks. "Dance?"
"Nothing crazy," March mumbles, the words quiet. "Just… slow dancing. You know, holding each other, swaying side to side, all that shit."
A pause. Then, "Why?"
A breathless chuckle, followed by a, "Why not?"
Court would do anything for March—would kill for him and has killed for him, time and time again while trying to keep him safe. He'd do it again, too, but Holly doesn't like it when he comes home with blood on his hands and the remnants of violence clinging to the undersides of his fingernails. So, he does not kill. He does, however, indulge him in everything else; for a dance is a small feat by comparison.
In the background, the beginning of a new song plays. Court knows this is the one March has been waiting for, judging from the way he perks up ever so slightly—imperceptible to the average person, but obvious to the keen eye of an enamored man.
They say that you know when you know
Softly, Court admits, "I don't know how to." He doesn't know how to do a lot of things. He doesn't know how to live a normal life, doesn't know how to be human.
March smiles at him and says, "I'll show you." And he doesn't mind. He'll teach Court over and over again, until he no longer feels like he has to ask for permission to live.
So, let's face it, you had me at "Hello"
He lets March turn him around, just so they are facing each other. His hands slide down Court's side, going all the way down to his waist before faltering; with their height difference, it would make more sense for the positions to be reversed, for his hands to be on Court's shoulders instead. It came so naturally that it was easy to tell—the mistake was borne of habit.
After all, the last time March danced like this, it was with his late wife.
Hesitation never helps
Court takes the initiative, here. It starts with a hug; it's slow and tentative, giving March plenty of time to pull away. When he doesn't, Court presses a kiss to his forehead, staying there until he can feel the other man relax in his arms. It's only then that he rests his hands on March's hips, slotting them into the right positions to dance.
How could this mean anything, anything else, when…
Once they're settled, they sway gently to the rhythm of the song. March regains his bearings soon enough, and he leads them along. Court follows by mirroring his movements, not knowing what else to do. Let it be known that his partner is not a good teacher; March can hardly walk on his own two feet as is without tripping. Thankfully, there are no expectations for perfection here, not when they bump into the counter and March snorts, trying not to laugh and failing. Court finds himself smiling, even as they nearly bump into the dining table not even five seconds after.
All I dream of is your eyes
They end up in the living room, where there is much more space and much less risk of bumping into something. So much space, in fact, that March looks up at him with that little glint in his eyes that tells Court he has a plan in mind. It could either be very good or very bad, but the difference matters not—not when Court would follow March wherever he goes, even if it's in the depths of hell.
March flutters his eyelashes and says, "Dip me."
All I long for is your touch
Court obliges, with ease. He lowers March carefully, arm firmly supporting his back, face hovering over his. He's not surprised when the other man pulls him into a kiss. However, he must admit, it is an unfamiliar thing to him—to touch so gently, to hold another person so intimately, to press their chests together and feel March's heartbeat quicken in time with Court's tongue swiping along the seam of his mouth.
And, darling, something tells me it's enough
How mundane it is, to dance like this with a lover. There is barely any exertion to the act; at most, there is a small stretch of the legs here and there, a test of endurance on the arms, and little strain on the core at all. Court hails from a world of violence, of gunshots and high-stakes chases and shows of strength. He is intimately familiar with the thrill of danger, with the rush of adrenaline in his veins, with the pounding of his pulse in his chest as he cheats death time and time again. This, by comparison, is so very mundane.
You can say that I'm a fool
And yet, his heart has never beat faster.
And I don't know very much
And that is perhaps the beauty of it all. That he now finds joy in the little things. That he can find it in himself to be human again. That Holland March loves him so very deeply that it is the driving force for his continued existence, that his pulse is so steady and strong that it makes Court's heart beat in tandem.
That love can make Courtland Gentry feel so alive.
But I think they call this love.