Chapter Text
Vegas leans further back against the leather seating, wincing slightly as the button-down shirt tucked into his pants drags uncomfortably against the scarring on his abdomen. He rests his arm across the back of the seating to take some of the pressure off of his perpetually-raw wounds. He takes a sip of his drink, gazing out of the private booth and out into the club's dance floor below.
He doesn't want to be here.
He wants to be at home, in his soft worn t-shirts and pants. He wants to be sitting on their unreasonably comfortable couch, sandwiched in between Macau and Pete as they argue over what terrible action movie they're going to subject Vegas to tonight. He sends out another fervent wish into the world for Porsche's sudden and mysterious demise.
Then, of course, he takes it back. If Porsche died, their lives would instantly get way worse.
He can still be pissed at Porsche though. After all, Vegas is here cleaning up Porsche’s messes.
Vegas and Porsche have an agreement, per se. Vegas helps Porsche maintain stability on the surface, and helps Porsche unravel his parents' entanglements with the Theerapanyakuls under the hood. In return, Porsche provides Vegas with a far stronger security force than Vegas could have managed on his own, and Porsche starts eradicating Vegas's ties to the mafia, one by one, until one day — Vegas can take his family and leave Bangkok safely. And permanently.
Vegas holds onto that thought, the halcyon dream of escaping the life he's been beholden to since birth. It seemed impossible not so long ago — so impossible that Vegas hadn't even thought to dream of it. But he has Pete by his side now, and the dream shapes itself around Pete so easily.
He wants them to have a small house, somewhere where no one will think to find them. Somewhere not too far from a major city, so that Macau can still go to a good university, and maybe somewhere up north too, to be closer to Pete's grandmother. Somewhere where they'll have space to themselves, sunlight flitting in through the windows as Pete dimples at him over his tea. Somewhere that Pete can make the most obscene noises with no fear of anyone hearing them-
The music in the club abruptly switches to a pounding bassline, one that Vegas can feel reverb through his entire body, and he shakes himself out of his thoughts. He sighs, then glances at his watch. Moss has kept him waiting for far too long, and Moss is going to learn very soon that he shouldn't have done that.
Vegas is here because this club is owned by the minor family, along with a number of other upscale clubs scattered through the city. Moss manages these clubs, and Vegas has never had any trouble with him, despite Moss being one of the slimiest men Vegas has had the displeasure of working with. Moss understands business well, though, and he gave Vegas and the minor family all their due respect — right until Porsche took over.
Porsche thinks Moss has been skimming from the club profits. Porsche is probably right — Vegas has seen the signs, and they're convincing. But instead of lying in wait while hunting down the full evidence, Porsche went straight to Moss and chewed him out, which went extremely poorly for everyone involved.
(Vegas has to constantly remind himself that Porsche is new and doesn't know what the hell he's doing. This becomes much harder every time Vegas remembers exactly how he himself would have been treated for mistakes like this.)
So Porsche decided that Vegas needed to be injected into the situation, both to unruffle some feathers and to track down the evidence that Porsche desperately needs to be able to back Moss into a corner. It's one of the few smart decisions Porsche has made recently. Vegas really fucking hates that it involves him, though.
He's here specifically because this is one of Moss's smaller clubs — the one that tends to attract a certain type of exhibitionist clientele. He's already spotted more than one person mysteriously lose an item of clothing in the mosh pit of a dance floor down below. Vegas is betting that Moss hasn't quite gotten around to scrubbing his financial records at these lower-profile venues, and the fact that he's been kept waiting so long suggests that he's probably right.
He idly watches some guy hump one of the cages lining the dance floor, and he thinks to himself that Moss has had his chance to come grovel. Vegas feels perfectly at ease barging into the back rooms — wait.
His eyes follow a man picking his way through the edges of the crowd, and Vegas catches flashes of his bare legs through the throngs of dancers, carefully studies the face peeking through the man's disheveled hair. The man blends in well, dark head bobbing amongst other dark heads, but Vegas would recognize him anywhere.
He slowly pulls out his phone, dials a number, puts it to his ear.
"Khun Vegas?" Arm says, sounding surprised and resigned all at once.
"Arm," Vegas says pleasantly. "Please tell me exactly what it is I'm looking at, and why."
"Uhhh, Khun Vegas, I don't think — wait. Wait. Ahh, shit."
"Patch me through," Vegas says.
He promptly hears a click, and then some static before it clears up. He watches as the man on the dance floor puts his hand up to his ear.
"Baby," Vegas says.
"Vegas?" he watches Pete say, as his other hand comes up to block the earpiece better from the sounds of the club. "You okay? Is your meeting going badly?"
"It's going much better now," Vegas says, voice low, eyes tracking Pete as Pete swiftly weaves through the crowd and stops to lean back against a wall on the far side of the room. Good. The music is muffled from there, and now Vegas has clear line of sight on Pete.
"That's good," Pete says. "Vegas, I might have to call you back, I got called in-"
"I can see that," Vegas says.
"-and I'm not sure how long — wait, what?" And Vegas watches as Pete's head swivels, eyes darting across the dance floor.
"I like the top," Vegas says, peering at the black crop top that looks like it could be a long strip of cloth wrapped round and round Pete's chest, showing slivers of skin here and there and leaving his waist completely exposed. "Wish you would lose the jacket so I could see more of it."
And Pete finally thinks to look up, eyes locking onto Vegas almost immediately. "Oh," he breathes out.
Vegas smiles crookedly at him.
"You know full well why I'm wearing the jacket," Pete says, giving Vegas his best mock-glare before breaking eye contact, presumably to keep watch on the entrance to the club. "Hi. What are you doing here? Weren't you going to go see Moss?"
"Yes," Vegas drawls.
"Fuck, is that here?" Pete pokes out his tongue a little, lost in thought. "That adds up, and not in a good way."
"Please," Vegas says, "feel free to explain." Pete can take his time. Pete is wearing his leather shorts, the ones that he knows Vegas is aggressively into, and Vegas is very much enjoying the view.
"Asshole." A small smile appears on Pete's face. "Okay. You remember that coke deal that Porsche got cut out of?"
Vegas hums. That was an early loss for Porsche — and a big one, too. One of the minor family's most lucrative drug deals had been up for contract renegotiation with the suppliers, and the minor family had long been responsible for en-route warehouse management, along with distribution once the drugs made it to Bangkok. Porsche had been severely undercut by the Sukpraserits, a smaller mafia family in Bangkok, and the suppliers had swiftly turned to them in order to secure a higher percentage of the drug revenue.
It had seemed on the surface that Porsche was simply not capable of handling a negotiation of that scale. But Vegas had offhandedly mentioned to Porsche to look into the Sukpraserit finances, see just why they were able to take the deal at such a poor profit for them. He knows Porsche has been digging into this for months now. He didn't think there were any leads there to be found.
"The Sukpraserits were heavily financed for that deal," Pete says. "Well, we knew that. We just didn't know who was backing them. But Arm found a lead-" he pauses for a moment as a group jostles him on their way past, "actually, Arm, you should explain."
"Khun Vegas," Arm says, and Vegas had honestly forgotten that Arm was there, "we've been watching their warehouses and we noticed one of their accountants makes trips into Bangkok fairly often, and always visits the Sukpraserit head on his way out. We bugged his car a while back. We never got anything concrete though — until a couple of hours ago, when he got an urgent call that he needed to come pick up some documents from 'the usual place' in Bangkok."
Pete nods along, adding, "This is one of the places he frequents."
"Yep," Arm says. "We've got men at each of his haunts. We're not sure what's being handed off, or where. It's a shot in the dark."
"But Arm," Pete says, "could you check-"
"Already on it."
"Vegas," Pete says, quiet enough that Vegas has to strain to hear, "when did you let Moss know you were coming?"
And Vegas sees where Pete is going with this. "Mmm. A few hours ago." He fires off a text to Arm with the time.
Arm is silent for a long moment. "That's one hell of a coincidence."
"Or not," Vegas says, as he sets his half-full glass down on the table. "So who's going back there first?"
"I think you know already," Pete says wryly. "If you smoke them out, we can intercept their exchange." He looks back at Vegas, just for a moment, smiles softly — and Vegas is immediately overrun with fondness for him.
Vegas stands, gives his wounds a second to readjust. He uses the time to drink in the sight of Pete from across the room. Pete is so cute, in his oversized jacket and his shorts that barely clear his ass and his honest-to-god combat boots that are too real to be fashionable. Vegas wants to slide his hands under that jacket. He wants to look at the bruises he knows are running up Pete's thighs, maybe press on them to hear Pete hiss — maybe even make them anew. He briefly considers just grabbing Pete and booking it out of there.
When this is over, he's going to follow through on that.
He motions at Nop, who's been standing watch behind the booth. "Arm, get Nop up to speed, and keep me posted." Then he gentles his voice. "I'll see you soon, Pete."
"Be careful," he hears Pete say. "I expect to bring you home in one piece."
Vegas puts a hand to his stomach, presses slightly to set off a discomfort he's intimately acquainted with now. A constant reminder of what he's lost in the carnage — and what he's gained. "Always."
Vegas turns the handle on the door to the back room, just enough to unlatch it — and then kicks it open. The handful of men sitting amongst the desks and scattered stacks of paper immediately stand up in shock, then double-take as they begin to recognize him.
“Good evening,” Vegas says, putting on his most disarming smile. “I’m here to check on the accounts. I’m sure one of you wouldn’t mind walking me through them?”
“Kh-khun Vegas,” one of the men stutters, “I – we, um, one of us will be right with you, if you don’t mind waiting outside-”
“I don’t think so,” Vegas says, strolling further in, flanked on either side by two guards who start poking at everything in the room with the ends of their guns. He leans over the man who spoke, short and stout and sweating profusely, and raises his eyebrows. “I think I’ve been waiting quite long enough, don’t you?”
“Um.” The man swallows.
Vegas tilts his head. “And I think you just volunteered.”
“Right. Yes.” The man pulls out a handkerchief, wipes at his brow. “If you’ll follow me, Khun Vegas-”
“In all my years, I don’t think I’ve seen such brash… impatience from you,” a voice says from the doorway. Vegas’s guards swivel to point their guns in that direction, but Vegas takes his time, straightens up before pasting another smile on his face and glancing over.
“Khun Moss,” he says. “A pleasure, as always.”
“I would say the same, Khun Vegas,” Moss says as he slinks his way in, followed by his own entourage of guards, “except you’ve shown me disrespect today.”
Moss is a tall, wiry, sniveling-rat of a man, positively drowning in an ill-fitting emerald velvet suit, long greying hair slicked back tight into a ponytail and gold chain glinting round his neck. His taste hasn’t changed at all – not that Vegas expected anything better from him.
Moss tsks. “Between you and your new leader, you seem determined to sour our long-standing business relationship.” He peers down his nose at Vegas. “I don’t appreciate that.”
Vegas raises his hands graciously, shrugs. “I was merely… concerned you were otherwise occupied. I figured that I shouldn’t trouble you directly.”
“You were wrong to presume that.”
“Unfortunately, I have other pressing engagements after this,” Vegas says, the image of Pete from the dance floor flashing through his mind, “so let’s not linger too long, shall we?”
Moss gives him a long, unsettling look. He steps to the side, gestures to the door. “I think you’ll have to clarify your request first, Khun Vegas. I didn’t quite understand what you were looking for.”
“I think I was very clear,” Vegas says softly, stepping closer until he stands merely an arm’s width away from Moss. “I’m here to check the accounting books for the last year.”
“Such an obvious sign of mistrust does not inspire faith or loyalty, Khun Vegas,” Moss says, shaking his head condescendingly.
“This is a routine inspection, Khun Moss.” Vegas’s mouth quirks up at the corner. “There’s no need for concern. We’ll check off all the boxes and then I’ll be on my way.”
“Sending the family heir for a routine inspection?” Moss furrows his brows in thought. “Although, I suppose you’ve been demoted, recently.”
Vegas steps forwards, gets up and close. “Khun Moss,” he says, voice lowering dangerously. “If you keep insisting on delaying me, I’ll start to think there’s a reason why.” As one, he hears his guards click the safety off their guns. “And I don’t think any of us want that. For the sake of the business relationship.”
Moss’s guards raise their guns in response, but Moss doesn’t move, just stares him down for far too long, before gesturing once again out the door. “To my office, then, Khun Vegas – and then we can send you on your way.”
The hallways back here are dimly lit, with only the occasional light fixture casting shadows against the red walls. Vegas focuses his awareness on Moss up ahead of him, Moss’s guards trailing them, and on the gun tucked into his own waistband – until he’s distracted by a slight buzzing from his pocket.
Arm [21:22] : target spotted. he’s heading towards you
Arm [21:22] : scratch that, he turned around. tailing to the back entrance now
Smile concealed in the dark, Vegas pockets his phone again.
Once they’ve sat down in Moss’s office, Moss does an admirable job of leading him in circles, and Vegas leans back in his seat and lets him. He’ll know in a few minutes whether or not Pete’s mission here is a complete coincidence – and if Pete’s right, and it isn’t a coincidence, Vegas doesn’t need to try all that hard to get the information he needs.
Like clockwork, he hears a muffled gunshot in the distance, and Moss stands up abruptly at the sound.
Vegas follows suit, affixes a worried expression to his face. “Is everything all right?” he asks.
Moss glares at the door, then glances at Vegas and back. “If you’ll excuse me for a moment,” he says.
Vegas lets him leave, then leisurely trails him out, right until Moss stops in his tracks and whirls around.
“I’ll only be a moment, Khun Vegas,” he says, smile far from reaching his eyes.
“I think, Khun Moss, you sometimes forget who owns this establishment.” Vegas tucks his hand into his pocket. “I’m perfectly at my liberty to observe – especially if there’s damage being done to the property.”
The look Moss gives him is a respectable attempt at lighting Vegas on fire right where he stands, but Vegas just puts on his most insincere smile in return. And then they hear two more gunshots, and Moss turns to one of his guards, mutters something to him, and rushes down the hallway.
The guard turns to Vegas. “Khun Moss asks that you remain here for your safety.”
Vegas narrows his eyes as the guard comes to stand directly in front of him, more guards seemingly melting out of the shadows to encircle them. Five, if Vegas is counting correctly. Not a number that he can easily subdue with just two of his own men. Vegas is not under any false impressions that he’s going to be especially useful here.
“It’s best you let me through,” he says anyway.
The guard remains unmoved.
Vegas glances to the side, waits. Then he lets out a small huff of laughter.
A gunshot cracks in the darkness of the hallway, and the guard in front of them goes down. Vegas quickly pulls out his own gun, but the two guards barreling at him get taken out one after the other, the one closest to Vegas clutching desperately at his knee as he collapses to the floor. From up ahead, he sees Nop approach slowly, gun raised to fire again.
Vegas sidesteps the bodies, turns to see his men fending off the last of the guards. Vegas puts his gun up again, but can’t get a clean shot in.
“Khun Vegas,” Nop says, as one of the doors along the hallway bursts open and more guards spill in, “we should go.”
Vegas turns and sprints for the far door, trusting that Nop will watch his back. When he wrenches it open, he’s met with the sight of a large, cluttered storage room. He hears sputters of gunfire, realizes that the sounds are coming from outside the room. His eyes immediately find a loading dock entrance in the back, heads straight for it – but then he has to throw himself behind one of the large crates as bullets whizz straight over his head.
“Nop,” he yells, “you’re going to need to fill me in.”
“Khun Pete caught them handing off a hard drive in the back alley,” Nop shouts back. “He tried to intercept it, but got ambushed.”
Vegas takes a deep breath, then another, and then peeks out over the crate, firing off a series of shots into the hallway. He hears at least one man go down with a grunt, but ducks again as a shot lands dangerously close to his shoulder.
Nop slides over next to him.
“Is Pete okay?” Vegas says, breathing harshly. His physical stamina tanked after being bedridden for months, and it sure is showing right now.
“Khun Porsche sent backup. They’ve at least blocked the alley off, and Khun Pete isn’t outnumbered anymore. But it’s become a bit of a mess.”
Vegas swears. If Moss is going to such drastic lengths to deter Pete, then that hard drive must be pretty damning.
Nop leans to the side to let off another shot. “They’ve got knives,” he grits out, surging up to charge at the men flooding through the hallway door. Vegas crouches for a moment longer, waits to see if any more bullets are coming their way, then stands up and starts picking off men one by one. He takes care to avoid Nop, who is knocking guards flat with his gun in one hand and a knife he filched from somewhere in the other.
The sounds from out back suddenly change to a more steady rat-tat-tat-tat, and Vegas swears again, because someone out there has a machine gun and it better not be aimed at Pete. He doesn’t have to wonder for too long, though, because the loading dock crashes open and two men stumble inside, followed closely by someone Vegas recognizes as one of Porsche’s men – and then by Pete.
Pete comes in at a mid-crouch, gun held up at eye level as he fires shot after shot, and Vegas almost forgets why they’re here. Pete has a streak of blood smeared across his arm, a large bruise forming on his thigh, reddened knees, and murder in his eyes. Vegas, despite everything, feels himself start to go hard.
Then Pete flattens himself to the ground as bullets rain over him, and Vegas goes blind with rage, starts shooting at the loading dock in an attempt to halt the siege. It seems to work, and Pete scrambles to Vegas just in time to yank him down behind some boxes as more shots go over their heads.
“Hi, you,” Pete gasps, flushed with sweat and adrenaline.
Vegas grips the back of Pete’s neck tightly, brings their foreheads together for just a moment. “Hey,” he says. “What the hell is going on?”
“Yeah,” Pete laughs, “okay, so. That man in the red shirt? You saw him?”
“Yep,” Vegas says. Pete’s eyes are outlined in black, and he has some sort of glow on his cheekbones, and Vegas is definitely not distracted by either of those things. “You chased him in, yeah? He ran behind the shelves in the far corner.”
“He has the hard drive,” Pete says, voice fast and low, “and he’s a runner. And a fighter. We need to get to him as soon as possible.”
Vegas reaches around their cover, just barely spots the man in red and tries to get a good shot at him, but another man waltzes in through the loading dock with the machine gun and starts to absolutely lay into their half of the room.
“Fuck,” Vegas says under his breath as he leans back in. “Why does Moss have a gun like that lying around here?”
Pete doesn’t answer, seemingly waiting for the bullets to let up. Vegas watches him intensely. He tracks a bead of sweat running down Pete’s hairline, over his cheek and down to his jaw – and then puts his hand on Pete’s bare waist.
“Vegas,” Pete says threateningly.
“Hmm?” Vegas trails his hand back and up under Pete’s jacket, relishing at the slight twitch in the muscles there.
“Vegas, I swear to god-” Pete hisses.
Vegas relents a little, does a quick patdown before pulling out what he’s looking for. “Really, Pete?” he says. “How the hell were you hiding three guns back there? And this?”
“Best jacket,” Pete says as Vegas puts the pin of the flash-bang grenade in his mouth, yanks it out. “Never going anywhere without it. Throw it a little to the left – yeah.” And Vegas lobs the grenade, covers his ears and squeezes his eyes shut with mere seconds to spare.
Once Vegas blinks his eyes open again, Pete hauls him up to his feet just as the man in red hurtles out into the hallway.
“Shit, shit,” Pete snarls, taking off in a sprint after him. Vegas follows, slowing down only to grab Nop by the arm and drag him through the door.
“You couldn’t have given me a warning, Khun Vegas?” Nop grumbles, hands rubbing at his eyes.
“Maybe next time.” Vegas hastily picks his way through the bodies littered in the hallway, and he tries to take his mind off the way his wounds are pulling roughly in response. He swallowed a handful of painkillers right before this, which is the only reason he’s still vertical and not horizontal. He’s in for it tomorrow.
Up ahead, he sees the man in red wrench open the door leading back into the club, Pete hot on his trail. Vegas motions for Nop to go up to the second floor, skids to a halt next to Pete as Pete frantically tries to spot the man through the crowd.
“There,” Vegas says suddenly, pointing at the bar, and Pete grabs his wrist, yanks him through the room. The man is moving slowly, possibly to prevent drawing attention, but he catches sight of them as they get close and he bolts straight into the mosh pit.
“Are you fucking kidding me,” Vegas spits out.
“He can’t move that fast through there. We’ll catch him on his way out.” Pete puts a hand to his ear. “Nop, do you have eyes on him?”
Nop must reply in the affirmative, because Pete has them circle towards the entrance just as the man bursts out of the crowd. He visibly panics when he finds them waiting for him, yet somehow dodges them entirely, the little shit.
Vegas and Pete elbow their way through the throngs of club-goers at the entrance, but the man is small and agile and manages to get a significant lead on them. Once they make it outside, Vegas clutching at his side to stave off the dull pain, the man is halfway down the road. Pete, ever-stubborn, takes off after him.
But Vegas spots a vehicle screeching up to the curb far up ahead, and watches a man jump out, and thinks to himself that he’s never been so glad to see Porsche in his life.
“Porsche,” Pete yells, “that’s him, get him-”
And Porsche asks no questions, nails the man in the face with the meanest roundhouse kick Vegas has seen in a long while. The man goes down like a sack.
Vegas walks over slowly, eyes on the man wriggling under Porsche’s unforgiving knee as Pete pats him down. And then Pete makes a small noise of triumph, holds up the hard drive, and Vegas feels the relief rush through his limbs.
Pete stands up once Vegas gets there, lets Vegas lay a hand on the small of his back as he looks down at Porsche. Porsche looks back up at them, face inscrutable for a moment, before he grins.
“A win for the minor family,” he says.
And Vegas doesn’t get it at first, but Pete starts snickering, and then Porsche follows, and then they’re full-out laughing as Vegas pockets his gun with a deep sigh, pinching at his nose.
“Worth it,” Porsche says cheerfully, before a veritable flood of men come to help Porsche restrain the man in red and haul him away. Porsche stands up, brushes off his pants, and motions for the hard drive. Pete hands it over immediately.
“There better be something good on there,” Pete mutters.
Vegas nods absently, shifting gears into damage control mode. Then he remembers. “Pete. Did you see Moss at all?”
“Yeah?” Pete says, face pinching with worry. “He was in the alley. He didn’t follow us back in, though.”
“Did he try to run?” Vegas says, turning around. They’re going to have to hunt him down-
And Moss saves him the trouble by running headlong out of the club, followed closely by a handful of his own men, guns pointed in their direction. The people standing in line outside start screaming, scatter left and right, but Moss pays them no heed as he stalks straight towards Vegas.
Pete immediately puts his gun up, but Vegas just stands there, one hand still wrapped around Pete and the other tucked into his pocket.
Moss’s chest rises and falls unsteadily, strands of hair flying around his face. “Was it worth it, Khun Vegas,” he snarls, “for the world of pain I’m about to put you through?”
“Khun Moss,” Vegas says, “was it worth it for you to embezzle all that money, only to hand it straight to the Sukpraserits?” He smiles cruelly. “All of that risk, and nothing to show for it.”
Moss looks taken aback for a moment, before his eyes harden. “You think I’m going to just let you accuse me like that?”
“Maybe if you hadn’t betrayed us twice, using our money to push us out of our own damn deals, this would have been a conversation instead of a bloodbath,” Porsche says from behind him.
“Shut your mouth, boy,” Moss sneers, gun swiveling towards Porsche. “I should have put you in your place long ago.”
“Give it up, Moss,” Porsche says. “It’s over.”
Moss grips his gun tighter. “I think not. You’ll let me walk away, right now. And if you don’t, I’ll make sure you regret it. Are you prepared to deal with the consequences?”
Vegas watches Moss and Porsche go back and forth, eyes narrowed, and he pulls Pete just that little bit closer. To his credit, Pete doesn’t stumble or anything. His gun remains unerringly fixed on Moss.
Vegas’s hand starts wandering, and Pete still doesn’t move. Good boy.
“You’ll be crawling out of here when I’m done with you,” Moss roars as Vegas fumbles inside Pete’s jacket again, slowly pulls out Pete’s spare flash-bang grenade. He loops his finger carefully through the pin, then flicks it out as he tosses the grenade directly at Moss. He quickly frees his hands to cover Pete’s ears, tucks Pete’s face into his chest, and then the bang goes off and he blanks out for a long moment.
When he comes to, hunched over on the ground and hands rubbing at his ears in vain, he sees that Pete has Moss down on the ground and halfway to tied up. He grins savagely.
“Vegas, you complete bastard,” Porsche groans from somewhere to his left.
Vegas lets out a groan of his own as he rearranges himself to a sitting position, glances over his shoulder just in time to see Porsche flip him the bird.
Vegas grins at him too.
Once Moss is down, the rest of his guards attempt to flee, and Porsche’s fleet of men begins to round them up. Vegas ambles over to Pete but Nop beats him to it, helps Pete cuff Moss and haul him up.
Moss glares Vegas down, makes to spit at him – but Nop yanks him harshly to the side and away. Vegas watches them go with an amused tilt to his mouth.
He feels a gentle touch at his ear, and then along the curve of his face. “Can you hear me?” Pete says.
Vegas turns towards him, smiles helplessly. “They’re still ringing a little.”
Pete flicks at his cheek. “Idiot.”
Vegas looks him up and down, lingers on Pete’s face and then Pete’s neck for an eternity. He raises a hand to brush at the sweat pooling in Pete’s collarbone, moves the hand up to grip loosely at Pete’s jaw, tilts it back.
He glances over at Porsche, who is paying absolutely no attention to them, and grabs Pete’s hand. “Come on,” he says, dragging Pete back into the club. “You and I have unfinished business.”
They stumble into the janitor’s supply closet, almost tripping over each other as Vegas shoves Pete against the back of the door, goes straight for Pete’s neck. He licks at the salt there, mouths along Pete’s jawline and down the straining tendons of Pete’s throat, leaves a harsh nip along his collarbone and then a proper bite in the meat of his shoulder. He feels Pete shudder, hears Pete let out a moan – Pete always sounds so good. And with the bass thumping in the distance nobody is going to hear them. Vegas can hoard Pete’s noises all for himself. He smiles into Pete’s skin, leaves a fleeting kiss on his Adam's apple before gnawing at that too.
Pete’s hands are scrabbling at Vegas’s shoulders, managing to push off his suit jacket before fumbling at the buttons of his shirt. Vegas frees his arms and then puts his hands right back where they belong, skimming over Pete’s waist.
“Dressed like a slut today, I see,” Vegas says directly into Pete’s ear, tounging at the shell just to hear Pete whine. “Were you trying to blend in, Pete? Did you do it for the mission?”
“Vegas,” Pete gasps.
“Or did you do it to be seen,” Vegas says, digging into Pete’s waist hard enough to leave marks. “Did you know I was gonna be here, baby? Hmm? Did you do it on purpose?”
“I – I didn’t,” Pete says, hands stilling on Vegas’s chest, and Vegas looks up in surprise.
“Really?” he asks.
Pete shakes his head.
Vegas waits, watches as Pete’s eyes darken.
“I thought, it would be good for cover here,” Pete says, swallowing, “and then when I got home, you could…”
Vegas smiles, slow and creeping. “I could what?”
“You could look at me,” Pete finishes.
Vegas leans in closer, mouth just barely brushing against Pete’s. “I’m going to do a lot more than just look,” he murmurs. He holds there for a long moment, feels Pete’s breath against his, makes Pete squirm with want for it. Then he closes the gap.
He relishes in the way Pete’s mouth opens so beautifully under his. He loses himself in the searing warmth of Pete’s mouth, slips his tongue in, feels Pete give way only to immediately press back. Pete always kisses like he’s starving for it – and he was starving, for so long. Vegas is of no mind to ever let him go hungry again.
They separate just long enough for Pete to tug Vegas’s shirt open and out of his pants, hands immediately stroking along Vegas’s sides. Pete's mouth gapes slightly as he stops, stares at Vegas's chest, before glancing back up at Vegas and dropping his mouth open just that little bit more. Vegas surges into him, feels Pete tilt his head to the side so that Vegas can better lick into his mouth, slick and hot and messy.
“Off,” Vegas growls against Pete’s lips, tugging at Pete’s jacket, needing to put all that skin on display as soon as possible. Pete obediently slackens his arms, jacket dropping to the ground with a loud thud. The sound startles them apart. They look down as one to see half of the contents of Pete’s jacket strewn out on the floor, and Vegas can’t hold it in – he snorts, and then they’re both knocking their foreheads into each other, breathless from laughter.
“You’re insane,” Vegas breathes out, arms coming up and behind Pete’s shoulders to pull him as close as possible, so that Vegas can’t tell where he ends and where Pete begins, “carrying around a whole armory like that.”
“You sure made good use of it today,” Pete says, before he bites at Vegas’s neck in retaliation. He settles in and starts to suck at the skin there.
And Vegas lets him, lets out a deep rumble of approval as heat rushes through his veins. He takes the opportunity to drag his hands over Pete’s shoulders, then down, down, dipping into the small divots in Pete’s back and over the gentle swell of Pete’s ass. He palms at Pete’s ass in slow circles — grabs it roughly, pushes Pete’s hips forwards into his. Pete arches so prettily in response, letting out a muffled sound into Vegas’s neck before earning a shiver from Vegas by sucking harder.
Vegas looks down at the curve of Pete’s spine, half-hidden under his top, and snakes his hand underneath the fabric. He strokes at the heated skin there before placing a single finger on Pete’s spine and slowly, feather-light, dragging his finger all the way down. The reaction that gets from Pete is gorgeous, thrilling – so much so that Vegas does it again.
“Vegas,” Pete pants into his neck.
“Mmm,” Vegas says, nuzzling into Pete’s hair for just a moment – before pushing Pete back, shoulders flush with the door. He grins, taps gently against Pete’s side. “Arms up, baby.”
Pete does so immediately. And Vegas takes a step back, indulges in the sight of Pete stretched out in front of him, all long glistening lines and heaving breaths and quivering muscles. He skims a knuckle down Pete’s exposed stomach and watches him tremble with pleasure.
“Keep them there,” he says, and then he sinks to his knees. It’s not as fluid as it could be – his abs put up a decent protest – but he is well beyond caring.
He puts his hands on Pete’s waist again, thumbing at it in circles before nosing at the sensitive skin of Pete’s lower belly. He licks there once, quick and light, and then again, savoring the vibrations he feels as Pete moans. Then he latches on, sucks hard and deep, determined to leave a mark. Pete’s hips jump in response, but he holds them steady as he works diligently on the bruise, soothing over it with his tongue now and then.
“Vegas, please,” Pete chokes out.
“Please what?” Vegas asks. He looks up, pleased to see that Pete’s face is thoroughly flushed with arousal. He slides his thumb across Pete’s belly, presses on the bruise he’s just made.
Pete hisses at the spark of pain. “Please,” he says again.
Vegas moves a hand, brushes over the bulge in Pete’s shorts, feels Pete twitch. “Is this what you want, Pete?”
Pete lets out a shuddering breath, nods.
“Good,” Vegas says, and then he presses a kiss to the bruise as he slowly unzips Pete’s shorts, pulls Pete’s underwear down with a jerk and finally gets his hand on Pete’s dick.
Pete’s already halfway to hard, and Vegas gets him the rest of the way there with long, languid strokes of his hand. He continues to mouth all over Pete’s stomach, licking up the sweat dripping down Pete’s skin, humming as Pete arches desperately into him. He thumbs at Pete’s slit lazily – then squeezes hard, smiles as Pete lets out a guttural groan.
Without warning, he grabs Pete’s dick at the base and swallows it whole.
He braces against Pete’s hips as Pete shouts, digs his hands in deep to keep Pete still. He goes fast. He makes it sloppy, gets Pete’s dick wet as quickly as possible. He loves the taste of Pete, here. He loves the weight of Pete’s dick in his mouth, more than he ever thought possible – loves the choked-out sounds that Pete lets out when Vegas runs his tongue along the underside of Pete’s dick, with just enough of a hint of teeth to make Pete keen.
He forces his fingers deeper into Pete’s hips, ensures that they’ll leave the most beautiful spattering of colors tomorrow – and then lets go. Pete gasps, and then immediately, instinctively holds so still for him.
But this isn’t what Vegas wants right now.
Vegas bobs his head once more, pulls up until just the tip of Pete’s dick is in his mouth – and then he stops. And he waits.
He hears Pete breathing erratically, peers up as best he can to see confusion bleed into Pete’s face. “Vegas?” he says shakily.
Vegas raises his eyebrows, and he still doesn’t move his head. He does shift his hands, though, puts them up in the air for show. And he watches as Pete thinks it through, ever-so-slowly shifts his hips forwards, sliding his dick into Vegas’s mouth.
Vegas makes a pleased noise, muffled by the dick in his mouth, and Pete’s breath hitches. He senses Pete bracing his hands and shoulders against the door, the only leverage he has, and he continues to carefully thrust his dick in and out of Vegas’s mouth. The pace is glacial, by design – he can’t go fast, not without some way to hold Vegas’s head in place.
Vegas places his hand back on Pete’s stomach – not to guide him, or help him, but just to feel. To luxuriate in the shifting, trembling muscles there. He ghosts his fingers across the skin and Pete sobs at the touch, halts an impulsive thrust before continuing his slow pace.
And then Vegas takes his other hand, moves it in between Pete’s legs, and presses two fingers against the seam of Pete’s shorts, right over his hole.
Pete tenses, unthinkingly snaps his hips back and forth, and Vegas can’t have that. So he pulls off entirely, listens to Pete cry out in protest.
“Vegas,” Pete says, frantic, “no-”
“You know what you did, baby,” Vegas says soothingly, rubbing gently at Pete’s hole. He hooks his chin on Pete’s hipbone, looks up. “Should I let you try again?”
“Yes,” Pete blurts out, “please, I – please.”
And so Vegas drops his mouth open again, helps Pete guide his dick back in. Pete’s dick is pulsing with heat now, and Vegas can tell that Pete’s getting close. Vegas draws it out, though, runs his free hand over the edges of the giant bruise on the outside of Pete’s leg, along the sensitive skin of Pete’s inner thighs, down the back of his knee – all while continuing to fondle Pete’s hole. And Pete can’t stop shuddering, is struggling to hold himself up while maintaining his pace, knees going weak with want, just how Vegas likes him.
Pete lets out an uneven breath, says “Vegas,” in that soft desperate tone of his, and Vegas suddenly shoves Pete’s hips against the door, starts to rapidly fuck his mouth onto Pete’s dick. Pete makes a punched sort of noise, and he’s right there on the edge. He just needs to be tipped over.
Vegas runs his hand back and forth along Pete’s taint – sucks, hard – and Pete writhes, moans as he shoots deep into Vegas’s mouth.
Vegas swallows it all. He works his throat around the length in his mouth, hums as Pete’s spurts slow to a trickle. Once he’s sure he’s gotten most of it, he slides off, stopping to swirl his tongue around the head of Pete’s dick, savoring the bitter taste. And then he swiftly stands up, one hand going straight for Pete’s hair as the other hastily unbuttons his own pants.
“Eyes on me,” he says, voice hoarse, as he yanks Pete’s head in place. Pete’s eyes are hazy from post-orgasm, but he tries, blinks once or twice before blearily focusing on Vegas.
Vegas pulls his own dick out, long gone hard, and traces it up Pete’s stomach, uses it to poke at the bruise there. Pete squirms weakly, eyes dropping shut again and Vegas tightens his grip on Pete’s hair in response.
“Pete,” he says, as he starts to move his hand up and down his shaft. “Look at me.” And when Pete does, he steps closer, lets Pete pant into his mouth but holds Pete just that little bit away.
The noise from the club is just barely muffling the wet slapping sound of his hand as he goes faster and faster, as he watches Pete fight to keep his eyes open. Pete’s chest heaves, and the sweat on his face gleans in the dim light, and he looks dazed and disheveled – and so, so beautiful. Vegas’s breath catches.
“The moment you walked in,” he murmurs, “I knew it was you. And as soon as I did, I couldn’t look anywhere else. No,” he pulls Pete’s head up again as he droops, “look at me. I’m watching you, you see? You gave me no choice.”
Pete tries to surge against Vegas’s grip, glances down at Vegas’s cock and lets out a pleading noise.
“No,” Vegas says again, voice dropping low, “you’re going to stay up here,” and he loosens his hold on Pete’s hair, traces his hand down Pete’s face and grips his jaw tight, pushing his spare fingers into Pete’s mouth. He lets Pete choke on them a little, tangles them with Pete’s tongue, pleased with the way Pete moans and drools and sucks on them.
“You do this to me,” Vegas says quietly, almost unsteadily, as Pete meets eyes with him. “Only you.”
The air in the cramped closet is humid, smells of sex, smells like them. Vegas feels beads of sweat trickle down his own face as he rapidly strips his cock, pace fast and sloppy. And Pete’s cheeks are red with heat and shame and bliss all at once, and he seals his mouth around Vegas’s fingers and hums, smiles around them as best he can, and Vegas shudders – and with one final stroke of his hand, comes.
He has just enough presence of mind to aim the ropes of come onto Pete’s softened dick, then up onto his stomach. Pete makes a faint, unintelligible sound as the come dribbles down his skin, squirms, and Vegas grins sharply at him. His fingers continue to move lazily in Pete’s mouth, breath beginning to slow.
“You can put your hands down now, baby,” he says, and Pete’s arms drop in clear relief, hands shakily weaving into Vegas’s hair as Pete tries to pull him closer. And Vegas lets him, presses a kiss onto his own fingers before using them to pry open Pete’s mouth, laps his tongue against Pete’s with his fingers still in the way.
Then he removes his hand from Pete’s mouth, only to swirl his fingers through the mess on Pete’s stomach and scoop up some of the come to offer to Pete. And Pete practically bucks forwards to get his mouth back on Vegas’s hand, licks between Vegas’s fingers with pure delight.
Vegas smiles, feels all sorts of helpless again. He rests his forehead against Pete’s, fingers trailing absently through the slick of Pete’s mouth and then across Pete’s cheek as Pete scratches at his scalp.
“How do you feel,” Vegas says roughly. “Good?”
“Mmm,” Pete says, still not all the way there, and that’s okay. Vegas can wait. He loops his arm round Pete’s back, holds him close.
Someone else seems to be impatient, though, as they hear a banging noise further down the hallway.
“Vegas!” a voice hisses. “Goddammit.”
Pete bursts out into laughter.
Porsche bangs on their door, then. “Vegas, I take my eyes off you for three seconds-”
Vegas watches Pete, impossibly fond. “I’m sure you can handle everything from here on your own, Khun Porsche.”
“Shut the hell up,” Porsche says, “and get your asses out here. And I better not see any bits hanging out either.”
Vegas rolls his eyes, then reaches for a stack of paper towels, starts to wipe the come off of Pete.
“You hungry?” Vegas says.
Pete blinks, then nods furiously.
“Good.” He cleans off his own hand, moves to tuck Pete in and zip him up. Then he raises his voice. “Porsche. Food?”
“God,” he hears Porsche mutter, “the shit I put up with.” Then, silence, as Vegas starts to tidy himself up, before they hear a faint, “can you bring some food up here? Yeah? Yeah, should be fine. Thanks.”
Pete winks at Vegas. (Pete is very bad at winking.) Vegas helps him into his jacket, guns and all, and drops a kiss onto the corner of Pete’s mouth.
Pete straightens out Vegas’s collar in return, beams at him – and then they go, hand in hand.