Chapter Text
The thing is - Los Santos might not have been kind to Aleks, but it he had been through worse. Here, at least he had fast cars, clean clothes, a couple of people to watch his back. It wasn’t like it had been in the Creatures, he didn’t feel at home here, but sometimes survival was all you could ask for. As he rested his unlit cigarette out the window of the speeding car, Aleks couldn’t help but shake the feeling that something was off. A branch of the Fake syndicate had tucked a squirming, hooded body in his trunk, and Aleks was the one who was supposed to take care of it. True, joining the syndicate was less a choice and more of a move for survival, but they hadn’t done him wrong yet. He wasn’t sure what was off about the drop to spook him this much, and he wasn’t sure if he should just shrug off his instincts. In the passenger seat, Brett stared out the window, oblivious to Aleks’ mood.
Still, Aleks drove them deep into the desert like he always did when someone when in his trunk, and pulled over from the road, off into the desert where no one would be likely to see them.
“I’ll go grab ‘em” Brett said, grunting softly as he pushed himself up from his seat. While Brett popped the trunk open, Aleks took the time to lean up against the clean, white lambo and flick open his silver lighter. After lighting his cigarette, he wiped the worst of his fingerprints off the reflective surface, and slid it back into his pocket. Brett pushed the hooded man past him as he took a long drag, and Aleks tensed. There was something, something, maybe the slope of the man’s shoulders, something that scratched uncomfortably at the back of his head. He stepped forward, and the man tried to shake Brett’s hand from his shoulders - but Brett just tightened his grip. Pursing his lips, Aleks blew a tight furl of smoke into the covered face of the man, and he jerked again, this time away from the smell. Brett kicked the back of his knees out, forcing him to kneel. Aleks took another breath of smoke, feeling the nicotine seep into his bloodstream. He met Brett’s eyes, nodded, and rearranged his posture. He was relaxed, he was confident, he was judge, jury, and executioner for the Fakes. Aleks pulled his pistol from where it was tucked up against the small of his back with his free hand, and carefully flicked the ash away from where it could get on his white shirt. Brett yanked the hood off.
“Frank,” Aleks started, before the black bag was fully off , before his breath caught in his throat, and he was watching the man kneeling in front of him shake long, loose curls from his face.
“Oh,” James said, and it was James, James, but he was different, he had gained muscle and lost some weight, his hair was long and soft around his shoulders - he was wearing a god awful Hawaiian shirt. He both was and wasn’t the James Aleks remembered from the Creatures, from what he had considered his family. He dropped the cigarette into the sand shifting under his scrubbed adidas.
“You,” Aleks said, at the same moment James opened his mouth and said:
“You’re blonde now.”
Brett had let James’ shoulder go at this point, had taken a step back. Aleks realized he was doing the same as the action happened, unconsciously putting distance between them. James was staring at Aleks with a steady gaze, his brown eyes still familiar enough to twist something in his chest. It had been a few years, a hard few years, but you don’t forget your family. Aleks raised his hands to his head, gun still in his grip. It wasn’t like he was going to use it now, didn’t matter what the Fakes had to say about it.
“You’re not who I expected,” Brett said, sounding mildly impressed. That could definitely be said again. James wasn’t supposed to be here. When they had to leave the Creatures, their home, just to get out before it burned, James left. James went clean, said he was done, said he was sticking to the straight and narrow. James and Aleks left together, but then James left Aleks too, and he had to join the syndicate if he wanted to be safe. The syndicate watched his back when James had left it unprotected.
“What the fuck are you -” Aleks started, not sure what question he wanted to ask first. He managed to settle on “Why did Fakehaus stick you in my trunk?”
“Can you put down the gun, first?” James asked, tone overly bored for someone who had his hands tied behind his back and knees in desert sand. Aleks looked down at the silver pistol in his grip. Did James really think he would use it?
“What? I’m not going to shoot -” Aleks cut off and flinched when a gunshot cracked through the air. He spun around, pistol raised.
“Aleks, put the gun down,” James said, and he must think Aleks was stupid. Someone was shooting at them. A figure was picking their way down a dune, eighty feet from them at least, but Aleks raised his pistol again, leveling the muzzle at whoever this was. His shots would probably go wide if he shot now, but he was ready.
“Aleksandr,” James ground out, “That my backup, don’t fucking shoot.”
“Hold up, what?” Brett asked, and Aleks glanced back at him to see he still had his pistol raised. That made sense. Brett had known James, but not anywhere close to how Aleks knew him. Brett would definitely keep them covered. Aleks lowered his, just a bit, to look at James.
“Backup?” He asked. James rolled his eyes.
“Well, I didn’t think I knew the owner of the trunk I was stuffed in, asshole,” he snapped. At this point, Aleks could make out a sandy blonde haired man, denim up to his ears and wearing a cowboy hat.
“Who the fuck is he?” Aleks asked James, gesturing towards the man who came to a stop in front of them. He held a shotgun in both hands with a casual air that meant he also knew how to use it.
“If you want to get out of here alive, I suggest you let this man go,” the stranger drawled.
“That’s Asher. Asher, shut up, it’s fine, I know them,” James said, loud enough to be heard. “And what did I tell you about that shitty Southern accent?”
“Really? I think it sounds badass,” Asher said, dropping both the accent and the muzzle of the shotgun. It swung down to point at the ground.
“That was supposed to be Southern?” Brett muttered, and Aleks glanced over to see him lower his pistol, finally. Somewhere in the back of his head, he wished that Brett would keep it up.
“Well, you don’t sound badass. Is anyone gonna help me up? Maybe untie my hands?” James asked, sounding both angry and cheerful, like Aleks and Brett hadn’t dragged him out here in a trunk, like he hadn’t been gone from Aleks’ life for years, like he wasn’t kneeling in desert sand wearing a goddamned awful Hawaiian shirt.
“No,” Aleks said, and flipped the safety back on his pistol. “No, first you gotta talk. What the fuck are you doing here?”
“Well,” James said, and gave a dangerous grin, “Maybe I should start over…”