Chapter Text
The team walks across the tarmac toward their private jet, the night air sharp against their faces, their steps heavy with that familiar post-case exhaustion. Los Angeles had been Lando’s first time in the city—shame it had to be for a case. He and Max had once joked about throwing George’s bachelor party there, until they’d settled on a pub back home instead… mostly for Max’s sake, and his unhealthy devotion to poker.
Inside, the BAU jet feels like it always does: rich brown panels that make the cabin warm and inviting, pristine white leather that never quite lets you forget this is the Bureau’s version of comfort. The hours they spend on this jet are countless. It’s a second office. A second home. A place where adrenaline fades and reality catches up.
The jet hums quietly as it cuts through the night sky, bound for home this time—back from LA. Most of the team is scattered throughout the cabin with tablets and files open. Max, who has recovered suspiciously fast for someone who spent the last forty-eight hours running on vending machine coffee, leans over Lando’s seat with a grin.
“So,” Max says, nudging him like he’s doing Lando a public service. “Any more thoughts on Daniel from NYPD? Narcotics division. Tall, handsome, definitely into you. Doesn’t stop asking about you. I could set something up when we get back. Again.” Lando sighs, pushing his glasses up his nose and offering Max a lopsided smile. “I appreciate the effort, Max, but I met him once at your house and the guy is… well. Let’s just say he’s a bit too Daniel for me.”
Max raises an eyebrow. “Too Daniel? Can’t wait to hear your explanation for that one.” Lando shrugs, glancing around like he’s making sure no one else is listening—though his volume stays perfectly normal, like he’s not actually worried at all.
“You know. Bland. Predictable. And he’s got this ridiculous, overconfident swagger, like he’s the protagonist in some 80s cop movie.” He makes a face. “Plus, every conversation somehow ended up about him. How do you talk about yourself that much?”
Across the aisle, Lily chuckles. “Maybe he just needs someone to humble him. Come on, Lando, you could be that guy.”
Lando leans back, unimpressed. “Or I could not. I need someone with… I don’t know. Something to them. Daniel’s nice, sure, but he’s not exactly setting my world on fire.”
Max smirks, enjoying this far too much. “So what you’re saying is, you like them a little… complicated? Because Daniel is the opposite of that. Just what I think you need.”
Lando scoffs. “My previous boyfriends have not been the complicated types.”
Before George or Lily can pile on, a voice cuts in from a few rows back—deep, no-nonsense, but not cruel. The kind of authority that doesn’t need to be loud to land.
“Alright,” Oscar Piastri says, not looking up from his files. “Everyone, we are landing soon. Please have your reports ready for debrief later.We’re still working.”
The cabin goes quiet for a beat. Oscar has that effect—like he can flatten a room with a single sentence. Lando sits up straighter out of instinct, clearing his throat like he’s been caught doing something worse than talking.
He leans toward Max and mutters, “Do you think he heard everything?” Max whispers back, delighted, “Oh, he definitely heard everything.”
Lily and Max exchange a knowing glance before returning to their screens. The moment of levity fades, but Lando can’t help flicking his eyes toward Oscar anyway.
Oscar’s posture is stiff in that controlled way—shoulders squared, attention pinned to the page like nothing else exists. Oscar always carries the weight of his authority like a second weapon. Lando forces his eyes back to his own notes. The cabin settles into rhythm: paper rustling, keys tapping, the low drone of the jet.
And Lando, like always, works too hard at being good. He’s been with the team for a few years now. He’s proven himself more times than he can count. But the need never stops. Being the youngest doesn’t help. Neither does having Adam Norris for a father, and Oliver and James for brothers. Names that still echo in the Bureau with that reverent, impossible standard attached.
It’s suffocating sometimes. Not because his family doesn’t believe in him, they do, but because their belief comes with expectations. And because Oliver and James are protective in that way that makes Lando feel like he’s still the kid following them around, trying to keep up.
It also doesn’t help that Oscar and James are friends. The casual kind—grab-a-drink-after-a-stressful-day friends. Which is fine. It’s normal. It’s just… another reminder that Lando is always stepping into rooms where everyone already has history.
Oscar, though, Oscar is a different kind of pressure.
Lando has always described him like an onion: layered, sharp, capable of making your eyes burn if you get too close. The outer layer is what everyone sees—unit chief, steady under pressure, clipped sentences, commanding voice, eyes that seem to read people like they’re case files. But Lando has caught glimpses underneath. Tiny, accidental ones. A softness around Sam. The way Oscar carries the team’s weight without asking for help. The way he’ll look at Lando like he’s assessing him.
When the jet lands, the world snaps back into Bureau reality. The drive, the building, the bullpen’s familiar hum. They debrief as a unit, standing around the board while the LA case gets pinned down into clean bullet points. The official version sounds neat. Controlled. It never captures the real mess. Oscar assigns wrap-up tasks with the same precision he always does. He listens while Lando explains the digital trail—how the anonymous account wasn’t random, how the timestamps and network patterns lined up, how the old Kate Hudson incident wasn’t an accident but a buried truth that finally rotted through the surface.
When Lando finishes, the room is quiet for a half second—the kind that usually comes right before someone challenges you.
Oscar doesn’t.
He just nods once. Small. Rare.
“Impressive work, Norris.”
Pride sparks in Lando’s chest, bright and stubborn. He tries to shove it down with a shrug. “Lily did most of it.”
Oscar’s gaze holds him—stern, but not cold. Close enough that it feels like a private conversation even with the team around.
“You did good,” Oscar says, softer than his usual edge, almost a whisper and sitting beside Oscar, he was the only one that heard that.
Lando doesn’t look away, because he never wants to when Oscar looks at him like that. “Th-thank you, sir,” he manages, and hates the stutter because it gives him away.
Oscar breaks eye contact first, like he hasn’t just rearranged something in Lando’s chest. As he goes to finish the reports of the rest of the team. They all finished up after a while and then they all agreed to meet up for drinks. Well not Oscar unfortunately. He never comes. Which makes sense being the boss and being a single dad and all.
----------------------
The pub is alive with noise and laughter, a welcome relief after the intensity of the week. Lando and George have already claimed their usual corner table. Max, Alex and Charles are on their way. Lando wanted a quiet night in, but when George asks for a night out, it happens.
“And then,” George says, laughing, probably on his sixteenth story and they’ve only been there for twenty minutes, ‘out of nowhere, Max trips over his own feet and spills coffee everywhere. Right on the files.”
Lando chuckles, shaking his head. George’s stories have a way of pulling him in, even when they’re ridiculous. The team decides to let loose for a night, and Lando finds himself seated at a table with George, Max, Charles, and Alex, a round of drinks in front of them.
Lando raises his glass. “To a case well solved and not having to face paperwork until Monday!” They clink glasses, though Max has already finished half his beer before the toast. He slams the glass down with a satisfied sigh.
Max grins. “That paperwork is future me-problem.”
George snorts. “You’re going to hate future you come Monday morning.”
“Eh, future Max can handle it. He’s strong.”
Lando snorts, taking a long sip of his whiskey. The banter is the perfect break from their usual high-pressure conversations. This, being out with his friends, is exactly what he needs.
Alex leans over the table, pointing a finger at Lando with a mischievous grin. “Speaking of future you, Lando—when are you going to actually date someone? Max says he’s got a bet going that you’ll be single for the next five years.”
Lando raises an eyebrow, looking at Max, who scratches the back of his head. His love life somehow ends up being a conversation for some reason.
“Oh, really? You think I’m going to be that hopeless?”
Max laughs. “Hey, it’s not personal, man. You’re just… picky.”
Charles leans back with a smirk. “Not picky. Just… unavailable. Always so focused on work.”
Lando shoots them both a look of mock offense. “I am not unavailable!”
George grins. “And that’s why the bet still stands.”
Lando shakes his head, amused. He knows it’s in good fun, but it does make him realize how much of his personal life he’s let slide while being wrapped up in the job. Still, it’s not like he’s in a rush to settle down.
Alex asks, “Okay, so if it’s not work, what’s the deal? You meet plenty of people through the job. None of them spark anything?”
“Oh sure,” Lando deadpans. “If you count serial killers and suspects, then yeah—I’ve got tons of options. Real charmers they are.”
Max leans in, suddenly serious. “That Lance guy from SWAT seemed into you. Didn’t he ask you out? And Daniel—still think he’s not an option?”
Lando groans. “Please. Lance is about as exciting as watching paint dry. The guy thinks he’s God’s gift to law enforcement, and I can’t deal with that level of cockiness.”
George snickers. “That’s saying something, coming from you.”
Lando shoots him a playful glare, grinning. “Hey, I’m charming. It’s not the same.”
The table erupts into laughter.
“Alright, alright,” George says, raising his glass. “We’ll give you that. You’ve got charm. But that doesn’t get you out of the bet.” Max adds, “Yeah, I’m counting on that money, man. So stay single.”
Lando rolls his eyes. “You guys are ridiculous.”
The teasing continues, bad dates, horrible takeout, random bar trivia. The warmth underneath it all makes it clear: this isn’t just a unit. It’s something closer to family.
At one point, Max leans in toward Lando again, voice dropping like it’s a secret. “You know… I’m just saying, you and Oscar spend an awful lot of time together. I don’t have to set you up with anyone.”
Lando nearly chokes on his drink, giving Max a look that says ‘don’t even’.
“Max, no. Not a chance. I spend just as much time with him as you.”
Max only grins. “Just saying. You two have that whole ‘grumpy and sunshine’ thing going on.”
Everyone bursts into laughter—everyone except Lando, who feels that comment land somewhere deep and quiet. George shakes his head, chuckling as he raises his glass. “Alright, alright. Let’s give Lando a break. This is supposed to be a fun night out.”
“Yeah,” Max says, unapologetic. “And we’re having fun. What’s more fun than teasing Lando about his love life?”
Lando sighs dramatically, looking around at his teammates like they’re the problem. “Why do I hang out with you guys again?”
The table dissolves into more laughter, and despite the ribbing, Lando smiles.
Because nights like this are rare.
And because even as that comment about Oscar lingers like a spark he refuses to touch… This, this messy, loud, protective little circle means more to him than any date ever could.