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Next up, a Guerrero/Chance drabble quintupled for

draycevixen. Prompt: Accord.

Breaking the Rules

"C'mon, you can tell me." Chance's voice was teasing, but Guerrero wasn't in the mood for teasing.

"No." And that should have been the end of it. Except that Chance just wouldn't shut up.

"I dare you." He smiled, that smile that went all the way to the corners of his ridiculously blue eyes. "I double dog dare you."

"Dude." Guerrero could hear the warning in his own voice, but apparently Chance couldn't.

"C'mon. Look, I'll even start for you: 'I confess of my own accord what I was just thinking about.'"

"Accord? Who says that, man?"

"I say that."

Guerrero gave him a look to let him know how full of shit he was.

"Okay, I don't really. But I could say that. And so could you."

"I can't, and I won't. And there's nothing to tell you, because I wasn't thinking about anything."

"Now you're just lying to me."

And then Chance did it. He broke the rule. The unspoken bro' code that said guys didn't touch. Not unless they were sparring or otherwise beating the crap out of each other. Not unless a job required it.

But there was no job, and they weren't sparring, and they weren't even beating the crap out of each other. They were just arguing about what Guerrero had or hadn't been thinking about.

Chance grabbed his arm and held it. Held it tight enough that it hurt. A lot. Guerrero might have winced if he was the sort of man to do that. Which he wasn't.

He looked up at Chance, locked on to those blue eyes, and willed him to back off.

"What are you afraid of?" Chance asked, his voice quiet.

Guerrero clenched his jaw and debated how much damage he was willing to inflict on Chance to get out of answering that question. How much pain he was willing to dish out to avoid what now seemed inevitable. And he knew it wouldn't be enough. That Chance was never going to let this go. Not now that they both knew there was something to let go of.

So Guerrero decided to break a rule of his own.

He reached up and grabbed Chance's shirt and yanked it down until Chance's face was level with his own. They both froze there for a long minute, looking at each other. Calculating. Judging.

Then Guerrero kissed him, if you could call what he did kissing. There was no softness, no tenderness. It was all teeth and hardness and breath and heat and strength. And Chance didn't pull back, didn't recoil, didn't hit him, didn't throw him. Instead he grabbed Guerrero's shirt and held on so hard that Guerrero could feel the seams in his shoulders begin to tear.

After a minute, five minutes, an eternity, they pulled apart, chests heaving, eyes sparking.

"That's was what you were thinking?" Chance asked.

"Yeah," Guerrero said, because what else could he say.

"Oh," said Chance. And then he smiled.