Chapter Text
Pete sits propped on the edge of one of the desks, munching away on his pork skewer as he watches men scurry around him. There's a lot of cleanup to do — they did leave a whole bloodbath in that back alley, and somebody has to get all the clientele out of the club before one of them sees something they shouldn't. And that's not to mention all the men frantically pawing through the documents in this record room — and in the center of all the chaos, Vegas and Porsche, hovering ominously over the shoulders of the poor technician trying to decrypt the hard drive.
Pete swings his legs idly. He's been instructed to sit tight, eat, and not make even a single attempt at being useful. Now that the adrenaline has worn off, he's sleepy and sore. He’s quite happy to do nothing.
He watches Vegas and Porsche cross their arms almost in unison as the technician blurts out more apologies, starts sweating profusely. He sighs. Then he pulls out his phone, opens up a text thread and starts typing one-handed.
Pete [23:52] : I'm okay, no injuries. Same for Vegas. There was a shootout, but it's over now and we're cleaning up.
Pete [23:53] : Not sure how long we'll be until we get home.
Predictably, within seconds, he gets a request for a video call.
"Show me your face," Macau demands, his own face only half-visible as he glares at Pete through the screen.
Pete holds up his phone obligingly.
"Hmm," Macau says. "Okay. Where's Hia?"
So Pete flips the camera, waits patiently as Macau squints at Vegas's form in the distance.
"Okay," Macau says again. "You're not lying, right? You didn't get shot?"
Pete holds up his hand in a show of promise — or, well, he holds up his skewer, which admittedly doesn't have quite the same effect. "I swear," he says. "Minus some minor scrapes, nothing."
"Hmmmm," Macau says, voice skeptical.
"Nothing that would require a hospital visit," Pete adds.
"Phi." The camera shakes as Macau starts to move. "You and Hia have extremely unreasonable standards for hospital visits."
And Pete can't really argue with that, so he winces, shrugs a shoulder, and takes another bite out of his skewer.
"Right. Tell me what happened," Macau says imperiously, thunking down on what looks to be his bed. "Where the hell are you? Weren't you guys on separate jobs?"
Pete tells him, mostly. They've collectively agreed that Macau is better off knowing the high-level threads of what's going on. Pete always edits out the sensitive information, drops some of the finer details, downplays the danger just a bit — but not too much. Macau can always tell when Pete is starting to tip over into lying, and regardless, for some reason, he enjoys hearing the action play-by-play.
"He had a machine gun?" Macau says incredulously. "Are you sure you didn't get shot?"
"He was really bad at using it," Pete says. "You probably could have done better."
Macau grins. "Damn straight."
So Pete tells him about the chase, and the standoff, and the grenades, and definitely does not tell him about the janitor closet. (The waistband of Pete's shorts is digging into the frankly massive hickey Vegas left on Pete's stomach, and Pete can't stop himself from covertly wriggling every once in a while to set off the pain again. On the other hand, the come drying inside his shorts is starting to yank at his pubes, and he's not looking forward to cleaning these shorts for the billionth time. Maybe he'll make Vegas do it.)
"Fuck, I wanna carry around a grenade," Macau says forlornly.
"No," Pete says.
"Phiiiiiii."
"They can really hurt you if you don't know how to use them properly, Macau. Also, isn't your taser enough for you?"
"But that's not long range," Macau whines.
"And what, exactly, do you need a long range weapon for?” Pete says, thoroughly amused.
“Obliterating my enemies.”
Pete looks to the ceiling for patience. “Lobbing a grenade at the milk tea employee who never gives you enough bubbles is not going to go over well, you know.”
“I’d show him,” Macau says, sniffing, “except you’re ruining my dreams.”
“Just tase him instead,” Pete says.
Macau gawps at him for a long moment before scrunching his face into a ridiculous sulk. "I totally would, don't try me," he grumbles.
Pete snorts at that, but before he can get a word in, a commotion erupts across the room. He looks up to see Porsche excitedly gesticulating at the screen, talking a mile a minute. The technician looks like he could faint from relief.
Vegas hasn’t moved, arms still crossed, but Pete spots the faintest smile on his face – and then Vegas looks up, catches sight of Pete, and the smile unfurls the rest of the way.
“Gross,” he hears Macau say, and Pete tears his eyes off of Vegas and back to his phone, where Macau is fake-gagging at him.
“Okay, that’s enough,” Pete says, narrowing his eyes. “It’s late. Go to bed. I think we’ll be done soon.”
Macau’s expression drops. “Then I’ll stay up until you get back-”
“Macau,” Pete says. “You have school.”
And Macau doesn’t argue that, but Pete can see the apprehension growing on his face clear as day.
Pete sighs. “If I stay on camera with you, will you get ready for bed? And try to go to sleep?”
“Yes,” Macau says immediately.
“Good,” Pete says, and then relents a little, softens his own stern expression. “Okay, shoo.”
“Yes, sir,” Macau says, bolting into action.
Pete shakes his head as he mutes his end of the call, sends a quick update text to the guards at home before balancing his phone on his knee. He starts on another skewer as he watches Porsche and Vegas talk at each other, Porsche’s voice going louder and louder as he grows increasingly frustrated. Pete can’t quite make out what’s being said, but the guards around them are starting to get visibly antsy, and Vegas’s face suddenly goes hard before he yanks Porsche off towards the side, pushing him into an empty chair and hissing at him in a low voice.
Vegas and Porsche haven’t had a serious fight in a while – Pete is definitely keeping track – but that just means they’re overdue for one. Pete grabs his phone, jumps off the desk, and cautiously makes his way over.
“-And we saw exactly how well that went last time,” he hears Porsche snarl.
“So you know not to do that again,” Vegas says, leaning back against a nearby desk.
“But I have to go over there and confront them. Otherwise the Sukpraserits, and everybody fucking else, will see it for what it is – a sign of weakness.”
Vegas’s eyes flicker over to Pete. He pats at the desk so that Pete can hop up onto the space next to him. Porsche gives Pete an inscrutable look, then lets out a long sigh.
“I don’t know what to do,” he says, eyes shuttered.
Vegas hums. “Tell me what your options are.”
Porsche leans back, takes a long moment to stare blankly at the wall behind Vegas and Pete, before starting to tick off his fingers one by one. “I go to the Sukpraserits and light them up.”
Vegas snorts.
“I go to the Sukpraserits and threaten to – to ruin some of their existing business relationships until they return my money,” Porsche continues. “Or get them to hand the cocaine contract back over.” He pauses. “Would they even be able to do that?”
“Probably not,” Vegas says, “unless the suppliers agree to it. And you’d have to talk them into promising you a higher cut of the revenue, which they’re not going to like.”
“So I have to get the suppliers to come to me,” Porsche murmurs. “Okay. Gonna come back to that later. Uhhh. I go to the Sukpraserits, act all nice and like I don’t know anything, and leave. Intimidate them into thinking I know something, and get them to start panicking and making moves they wouldn’t normally make.”
Vegas leans forwards, a gleam in his eye. “Like what?”
Porsche starts massaging at his temple harshly. “If they think I’m going to try to take revenge on them somehow, they’re going to stretch themselves thin. Increase security at their warehouses, keep their allies close to make sure they’re not going to suddenly turn to me. And they’ll probably slip up somewhere.” He looks up suddenly. “They need money, right? They’ve lost out on a huge cash flow now that Moss is out of the picture.”
Vegas nods.
“So they’re going to be scrounging up funds too. They’re going to try to make new deals.” Porsche sits up excitedly. “And if we can get them to deal with someone in our pocket, we can rip the whole thing out from under them later.”
Vegas nods again. “It’s a good idea. There’s only two problems with it.” He gestures to the room at large. “They’re not just going to think you know something. They’ll know. If they haven’t already heard about what happened here tonight, then their spies aren’t worth shit.”
“So they’re already panicking,” Porsche says slowly.
“Probably. And they’ll definitely slip up, like you said.” Vegas tilts his head. “But they might not go looking for new funding.”
Porsche looks stumped.
Pete looks back and forth between them. “Do they not need the money?” Pete asks.
“Oh, they definitely need it,” Vegas says. “It was covering for about half of their operating losses.”
“But not all of it,” Porsche says. “You think they have another backer. Or backers.”
Vegas raises an eyebrow.
“Great,” Porsche mutters. “They’re just going to run straight to those bastards for more money, who are already all-too happy to fuck me over. So intimidating them won’t get me anywhere.”
“Well-” Vegas starts.
“Just tell me what you would do, Vegas,” Porsche says.
Vegas looks a little too intrigued by that.
Don’t say it, Pete thinks, don’t say it.
“Look at you, asking me to hold your hand,” Vegas murmurs.
Pete shoots up, places himself in front of Vegas as Porsche rockets to his feet. “Porsche,” he warns, “no.”
“Then tell him to be a smug bastard somewhere else-” Porsche shouts.
Pete holds his hand up, which is unfortunately still brandishing a half-eaten skewer. “Porsche,” he says again.
And then a tinny clatter erupts from Pete’s other hand, where Macau seems to have dropped his phone on his end. Pete and Porsche stare at the tiny screen as Macau finally manages to right his camera, clumsily propping it up against something in front of him.
Pete lets out the deepest sigh of his life. Trust Macau to be a nosy brat, even when he can’t hear a single word being said.
“Sorry, m’sorry, just – continue, I’m not here,” Macau says, toothbrush half-hanging out of his mouth as he fumbles for the mute button.
Pete looks up at Porsche, who looks amused and sheepish and resigned all at once. Sorry, Pete mouths at him.
Porsche shrugs, then glances down at Pete’s raised hand, snatches away his skewer and takes a giant chomp out of it before Pete can retaliate. And Pete would definitely kick Porsche’s ass over it – except it is technically Porsche’s food. Also, he seems much calmer now.
“I would go over there,” Vegas starts suddenly, and Pete and Porsche both swivel to look at him, “to the Sukpraserits.”
Pete steps back, keeps a wary eye on Porsche as Porsche moves to sit down again. He takes care to angle his phone camera towards himself, this time.
“And I would tell them that I’ve heard they’ve just lost a terrible amount of money,” Vegas continues, “and I’m so sorry to hear it, and I understand how guilty they feel, because of course they had no idea that the money was stolen from me. So I’d offer them my help. Perhaps I could front them the money – but on loan. Or I could take over some of their warehouses, since they can’t possibly manage all of them anymore.” Vegas’s voice goes low. “And then I’d have an in.”
Porsche chews mechanically, swallows. “Okay,” he says. “That sounds great. Perfect. If I tried that, they would just shut me down. Or run me in circles, probably.”
Vegas nods. “You’d have to be able to play their game, adjust in real time.”
Porsche scoffs. “Yeah. Okay.”
Vegas smiles. It doesn’t reach his eyes. “You asked.”
“Dammit, Vegas, you know I can’t pull that kind of shit off.”
“Which is why I’m not telling you to do it,” Vegas says. “It’s not a good option for you.”
“Because I’m an under-qualified idiot. You can say it.” Porsche gestures at all of them in turn. “We all know it.”
Vegas pinches at his nose in frustration. “No, Porsche. Because you should be playing to your strengths, not mine.”
And Pete would be marveling at the dumbstruck look on Porsche’s face, but he’s too busy being a tiny bit dumbstruck himself.
“I’m a… manipulator. It’s what I’m good at. I trick people into doing things for me. You,” Vegas points at Porsche, “you charm people. You get them to like you, genuinely, and then they trip over themselves to help you.”
“Okay,” Porsche says slowly, after a long pause.
“The last idea you had, where you say nothing meaningful to them and make them sweat – it can work,” Vegas says. “In their scramble for money, they’re going to be flaking on their obligations, pissing off some of their partners. If you’re smart about figuring out who they might drop, those are people you can… befriend. Turn to your side.”
Porsche nods absently, lost in thought.
“They’ll have information,” Vegas says, leaning back. “And, eventually, if you play it right, some of them won’t be able to stop themselves from giving it to you.”
Images of a past life flash before Pete, one he barely remembers living – Porsche sat upon the edge of the bathtub, looking at him with the most honest concern, the rawness of his gaze too much for Pete to bear. In that moment, Pete had been balanced on a razor’s edge, ready to let every precious, terrible, damning secret fall out of his mouth. If Porsche hadn’t stopped pushing right when he did… well. Pete is grateful he didn’t have the chance to find out.
“I’ve met some of their partners before,” Porsche says. “Some of them… yeah. I could do it.” He pauses, hunched over in his chair, hands interlaced in his lap. “And in the meantime, I can keep my eyes on everything else. Figure out where they’re getting the rest of their money from, who else might be trying to screw me over.”
Vegas says nothing, just watches Porsche keenly.
“And once I have all the information I can possibly get,” Porsche continues, “that’s when I sabotage their operation. All at once. One shot.”
Vegas lets out a breath.
Porsche fixes his gaze on the ground. “This isn’t going to be over any time soon, is it,” he says quietly.
“If you want to do it right,” Vegas says, “months. Years, maybe.”
“And you think it’s worth it?”
“Depends. Why are you doing it?”
Porsche grimaces. “I wanted the contract back, at first. Then I wanted to know who the hell was working with them. That’s all still true. But now?” The veins in Porsche’s forearms flex. “They owe me.”
Vegas leans forwards. “And why does that matter?”
“In this business, it’s an eye for an eye. Nothing less. The only way to prove myself.” Porsche looks up. “The only way to earn respect.”
And this time, the smile that spreads on Vegas’s face is real.
Pete keeps half an ear out as Vegas and Porsche start picking at the details of Porsche’s plan, but is mostly watching Macau not fall asleep. He doesn’t have the heart to yell at Macau about it, but he’s not above making stern faces at him. Macau, of course, is completely ignoring him, all his focus on whatever mobile game he’s chosen to sink his time into tonight.
Then Porsche gets called away by one of his men, and it’s just him and Vegas now.
Vegas lets out a deep sigh, rolls the cricks out of his neck. He catches Pete’s gaze and his face – releases. Softens.
“Did you eat enough?” he asks.
Pete nods.
“Good,” Vegas says, beckoning him closer, slipping his hand into the space between Pete’s jacket collar and his neck, resting his thumb on the tendon there.
“Do you want some?” Pete says.
Vegas’s mouth quirks up. “And what? You’ll steal it back from Porsche?”
Pete reaches inside the flap of his jacket, pulls out the entire packet of sticky rice he’d stashed away for later – and Vegas grins, waits patiently for Pete to rip the plastic open and push some of the rice out.
Vegas wraps his hand around Pete’s wrist, tugs gently to move the packet closer so he can take a bite. He swallows, looks up at Pete before taking another bite.
Pete steps even closer. Vegas makes room for him in the space between his legs, curls his free hand around Pete’s thigh. His eyes don’t stray from Pete as he chews.
“You probably think I was being nice to him,” he says.
“Weren’t you?” Pete asks, amused.
Vegas tilts his head, doesn’t answer.
Pete pushes out more rice from the packet. “I think you were being good to him.”
Vegas snorts, lets that hang in the air as he finishes eating, releases Pete’s wrist so Pete can roll the packet up and stow it away. He hums as Pete threads his hand into Vegas’s hair, tousles at some of the loose strands.
“If we're going to leave him in charge,” Vegas says eventually, “might as well make sure he's competent enough to keep himself there.”
It’s true. Pete knows it. Pete knows Vegas knows it. But it has never, ever been easy for Vegas to act like it.
“You did well,” Pete says, voice gentle.
Vegas leans forwards, lets his forehead rest against Pete’s chest. He grips Pete’s thigh even tighter. “Let’s go home,” he says.
So Pete leaves his phone behind with Vegas, gives Macau time to interrogate Vegas and get yelled at in turn, and goes to find Porsche.
“Yeah, dude,” Porsche says, mind clearly in five different places at once as he waves some of his men off, “I think we’re good. I probably should go over some of these records with Vegas, but there’s nothing that can’t wait until later.” He claps Pete on the back. “Thanks, man. You saved my ass today.”
“Maybe give me more than an hour’s notice, next time,” Pete says, wry.
“I fucking wish,” Porsche groans. “But really, thanks. It was… you didn’t have to.”
Pete shrugs. No, he didn’t have to. But it’s Porsche asking.
(And every win for Porsche is a debt cleared for Vegas.)
“It was fun,” Pete says.
Porsche stares at him. “I mean, if you want me to call on you more. Since you’re having a blast and all.”
Pete grins. “If Vegas agrees, then yeah, sure.”
“Uh-huh. Yeah. Okay, see you never.”
Pete gives Porsche a light sock in the shoulder, which Porsche of course immediately returns. And maybe in a different world it would have escalated into a scuffle, with Pete trying to ruin Porsche’s perfectly-slicked-back hair and Porsche trying to get Pete to squawk by poking him in the armpits – but Porsche just gives him a smile, waves, and then takes off to handle his next problem.
When Pete heads back, he catches his own next problem trying to sneak a handful of painkillers behind his back.
“Vegas,” he hisses.
Vegas finishes downing his pills with a swig of water. “Baby,” he says.
Pete alternates between glaring at him and Nop, who is not even trying to hide the pill bottle. “You said you were feeling okay today.”
Vegas doesn’t look nearly guilty enough. “I was.”
Pete turns to Nop. “How many did he take before getting here?”
“I don’t know, Khun Pete,” Nop says, in the most blatant lie he’s ever told to Pete’s face.
“You know what,” Pete says as Vegas gets up, starts to herd him towards the exit, “We’ll find out tomorrow, won’t we.”
Vegas presses a kiss to his ear. “It was worth it for this,” he says, palming at Pete’s ass.
“See if I dress up for you again,” Pete mutters.
“You will,” Vegas says serenely.