Chapter Text
The twins arrive at the ranch on a sunny August day. Their black and white striped car quiet as it rolls up the dusty tired marked driveway a lone farmhand dives a pitchfork into a heap of hay. He doesn’t look up as the car doors open and close, continuing his task of dispersing hay. Even as his hands grip the pitchfork tighter, the muscles in his arms tightens. Horses snort from their stalls as the twins approach.
“Excuse me mate,” a smooth voice makes him pause as he looks up. The farmhand sticks the pitchfork into the ground as he straightens. The man, an Alpha he can tell despite the thick waft of manure and fresh pollen, flashed him a small smile as he approached. He was handsome and charming. It went without a word.
With his brown hair slicked back hair and icy blue eyes. His muscular frame that gave the impression of strength as he left treadmarks in the brown dirt. His jaw strong and nose angular. His teeth white as he flashes a smile as he draws close. The sight of him made the supposed farmhand’s stomach flutter.
“Can you point us in the direction of a man named George Reynard?” The man asks, digging his hands in his back slack pockets. The British accent clinging to every syllable. Unlike the farm hand or anyone who entered the ranch property the man was dressed sharply. His white dress shirt peeking out from beneath his brown tweed vest and matching jacket, the pants and dress shoes stylish matching. A gold chain peeks out beneath the shirt.
The farmhand pauses as he visibly regards the stranger. His dirty blonde hair falling around his chin as he places his chin on the hilt of his pitchfork, looking at him through his lashes. Beneath the musky scent of hours of work in the field was a sweet one of an Omega, he catches the exact moment the stranger notices it. The way his eyes widen slightly as his nostrils flare. Subconsciously the Alpha loses his lax posture as he straightens.
“Mr. Reynard won’t be here for another three weeks,” the farmhand answered in a casual voice. His southern drawl running smoothly through the air. He gives the stranger an apologetic smile. His blue eyes warm and friendly as they meet the Alpha’s cold ones. The man, the alpha, the twin, the assassin’s lips tighten at the news. “It seems your intel was off,” he remarks. “You’ll just have to wait for him to come back, he’s gone no technology while he focuses on business.” The omega states making the man chuckle.
“Of course, of fucking course,” he mutters running a hand through his hair as he spins in a circle while glaring at the sky. His shoulders drop as he sighs before he looks at the farmhand with his dust covered jeans and red button up, his brown boots caked with mud. With his strong jaw and piercing blue eyes. “What’s your name love?” The man asks, making him smile.
“Around here they call me Crane,” Crane answers, straightening as he sticks out his hand. “And you? Handsome?” Crane asks with a slight raised brow. His sunny smile still in place as gazes at him. The alpha smirks as he reaches out and shakes it, their calloused hands gripping each other tightly before pulling away.
“I’m Tangerine and he’s Lemon,” he jerks his thumb back as the second occupant of the car gets out. Crane smiles. “Do y’all plan to stick around?” He asks with an innocent flutter of his lashes. Tangerine grins as he shrugs in a nonchalant manner.
When Tangerine climbed back into the car with Lemon waiting at the wheel, the man who calls himself Crane watched his hips swing. He watches the car leave for the first time unaware he will also watch it leave for the last time in six weeks with his heart in his throat. Then he returns to work, a slight hum leaving his throat. Later when he’s settled around the dinner table elbow to elbow with his fellow coworkers and he’s eating a tender piece of steak he will still think of Tangerine. Tangerine will be back, Crane knows it in his gut.
The twins come back the next day. The twins weren’t quite twins but everyone knew that at first glance. Lemon was the exact opposite of Tangerine in every way, he was a tall plump African American man with a bleached Afro, preferring the comfort of denim over the suits his brother prefers. A beta who read the world with the lessons from Thomas the Train Engine. Lemon was also never wrong when it came to labeling people. He prefers to watch from a distance, observing while remaining close to his brother.
Close the two were, as twins or siblings ought to be perhaps. Crane wouldn’t know he left his far behind in Russia when he slipped out of his bedroom window at the fine age of 19. He never saw his younger brother or sister again, never looked back. He loved them, still does despite the span of thirty years without seeing their face and their memories becoming more faded. But they were never close, too separated by their father’s demands.
The first words out of his mouth when he officially meets Crane was both equal parts reassuring and bewildering. “Glad you're not a Diesel, hate to have to kill you.” And Crane just smiled and laughed while they shook hands wondering just what Lemon meant by his words. The twins hung around as they waited, keeping close to the ranch and tracks at all times. Apparently spending time admiring the horse races, charming the bosses, and frequently smoking while hustling some rich men out of their pocket change. No one seemed to be bothered by their presence, Crane certainly did not complain. He liked the twins.
Their banter was hilarious and they were quick to share their smokes with him. Crane, unlike them, worked hard and often. The older man rose with the sun to check the fences, tend to the cattle, and feed the horses. Sweeping, scrubbing, fixing, digging, anything the task of the day required. His employers, not that were his real ones he kept reminding himself, were happy to make Crane their everything man. The omega was clearly competent enough to handle any task.
The work was good, not nearly as straining as his usual line of action. But it was enough to keep him busy. Even better, it gave Crane plenty of opportunities to admire Tangerine. Just extra moments without words where he can track the width of his waist and wonder how it would feel beneath his hands. Crane was not a man who fantasized often, he was much too old for that, but he couldn’t resist dreaming Tangerine.
Tangerine with his soft hair and smiles. The man with tattoos on his forearms that Crane just catches a peek of when the air is hot enough. His laugh which makes Cranes calloused heart race and thrum with affection he didn’t know how to handle properly. The alpha who smelled more appealing by the day, comforting with each lingering conversation in the stables or hanging off the fence posts. Tangerine who fretted over a button out of place, and broke a man’s nose once for spilling a drink all over his new suit. Yet was completely indifferent to the cleanliness of his suit and shoes as he tracked down to the stables to often visit Crane because he refused to wear sensible shoes and attire.
“You do realize what is happening, don’t you?” Maria’s voice in his ear made Crane sigh as he lay on his bed. A hint of reprimand and concern hinging on her voice. His bare feet hang over the edge, his boots scattered around the dark wooden floor. Crane runs a hand through his hair.
“I know,” he answers in a resigned tone. “I won’t get too attached beets, I promise.” Crane adds using the nickname to soften the incoming lecture. “I worry about you, your not like my others.” Maria admits after a small beat has passed. “You are too kind Crane despite everything you might’ve done,” she continues a touch of wry sarcasm entering her voice at the end. Crane chuckles as he unbuttons his jeans and slowly wiggles out of them.
Maria was referring to Philadelphia, they both acutely remember that day. A lot of men died by his hand that bloody day. “What am I supposed to do beets?” Crane questions as he slides the jeans over his thighs. “Just turn my emotions and instincts off and become some sociopath?” He adds before sighing as he kicks off his jeans. The shirt was next to go revealing toned sun tanned skin covered with scars and tattoos.
“No of course not,” Maria starts in a gentle tone. “But we both know the twins aren’t here on vacation,” she continues making Cane sigh. He knows, he knows. There are only one and half weeks until their target comes home and gets assassinated. “And neither are you,” she states, making Crane pause before nodding before he remembered she can’t see him and hums.
“Do you still have the gun?” Maria asks in a patient tone making Crane snort. He tosses his sweaty grey tee onto the ground, too tired to care about the mess. “Are you kidding me? You know I’d never leave home without a gun.” He answers, making her sigh, somewhat reassured of the situation. “Me without a gun, what a joke,” he mutters.