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"He wants to join up," Slick said, shoving the kid farther into the center of the room.
For his part, the youngster Slick had probably cornered – Droog could never be certain how they came by any of their perennial subordinates, and he rarely chose to ask – managed not to trip, nor to stumble much. He took a few halting steps toward the center of the war chamber, and stood up tall, raising his chin in telegraphed defiance. If nothing else, Slick's interloper had spunk.
Deuce was the one to really peer up at him, perched on his chair with his legs curled underneath and his head slowly tilting to one side. It was an inquisitive look, inquiring more than judging. It was just the way with Deuce – he'd accept a dancing bear into the crew, if Slick dressed it up in a suit and told Deuce it was going to work for them. God forbid Deuce ever be asked to show a little discernment in his judgment.
"What's your name?" Deuce asked.
Deciding to be polite about it, the quiet little bleeding heart.
"It's Ampora. Eridan Ampora," the kid said, still with his chin pointed up, looking down the lengthy sweep of his nose at his diminutive interrogator.
"I imagine he meant just your first," Droog cut in, precise as a switchblade. "No one here cares about your pedigree."
"Of course we care about his pedigree," Slick objected, dismissing Droog with an absent jerk of his hand. That, of course, was just like Slick – never thought once about undermining the authority of his literal partners in crime. Droog had never quite been able to teach him manners. "That's exactly why he's here, for fucking bloody's sakes. Why would I want a weedy little rodent like him underfoot if he didn't have something to offer?"
"It does beg the question," Droog conceded.
He'd forgive Slick the damage to his image, in the eyes of the kid's first impression. Now Eridan just looked chagrined and peevish, too irritated to remember that Slick had slapped someone else in their dignity first. He was every part the child, riling so easily at an assessment that conveyed only simple fact.
Slick dropped himself down into his usual chair, considering the introductions to have been well enough underway for him to dispose of the formalities. He propped his feet up on the table their chairs crowded around, pulling a small butterfly knife out of his breast pocket and flipping it open. He proceeded to pick his nails with it.
"His family's big money," Slick said. "Real fucking well to do, the pinnacle of society kind of bullshit. He's going to help us rob daddy dearest blind."
Droog raised his eyebrows, skepticism lightly etched all over his dark face, but Deuce lit up like a candle. He was eager at the merest mention of a new grand scheme. Boxcars remained firmly planted in his seat, arms crossed over his chest and presenting nothing so much as a featureless brick wall. He'd chime in if the talk came around to one of his specialties, but otherwise he deferred to the boss. And, sometimes, to Droog's informed judgment.
Eridan nodded, eagerly, too much foolish excitement splashed all over his face. He'd put Deuce to shame for cheeriness, at that breakneck rate. "It's not like he needs all that money," Eridan said. "He's just been flushin' it away on all kinds a wasteful crap, I'm sure a buncha distinguished gentleman like yourselves would find far better use for that influx a new financin'."
Slick nodded, giving his blade a sharp flick in Eridan's direction. "That's the ticket."
Droog watched Eridan try not to blanch at having a knife pointed at him, even for so ordinary a purpose as the illustration of a conversation's finer points, imagining the crew's alliance with this one would not endure for long.
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Droog was the one who got saddled with the real work of integrating Eridan into crew operations, which was again, entirely typical.
Slick was their mastermind, their big thinker and the one with the top-down approach and the knack for seeing the forest. The downside was, he didn't give a single fuck about anything so unimportant as a tree – unless it got right up in his face, at which point he'd just take a chainsaw to it. Slick wasn't one for subtlety in the face of improvisations. No, Droog was the technician, the one relied upon to troubleshoot any kinks that came up in Slick's plans, because he only saw trees, and every one of them a hideous affront to his sensibilities.
Eridan was in the same category of "tree." Given free reign, he flounced around their base of operations, quickly making himself at home and staking out a place for himself. Droog wanted to be disgusted, watching the veritable rolling train of suitcases Eridan wheeled in. To his discomfort, his actual reaction was more in the lines of grudging admiration. There was something to be said about a man who had an eye for image, even if he was a spoiled little rich kid who'd never lived without a father's heavily guiding hand.
"Is there someplace I can put this?" Eridan asked, poking his nose into the room Droog had laid claim to for an office.
Eridan was carrying under his arm what looked like a mounted swordfish near as long as he himself was tall, displayed against a polished mahogany backing. Droog couldn't even excuse himself from staring, the trophy left him that aghast.
"Garbage pickup is on Thursdays," he said dryly. "Though I'll be quite alright with you taking it out back and leaving it right now."
"Garbage!" Eridan exclaimed, scandalized. "Does this look like a piece a trash to you? Don't answer that, I thought that out of all of you guys, you at least might have some semblance a taste but it's beginnin' to sound like I was wrong. This isn't garbage. This is art."
"I must have missed the cultural memo," Droog drawled. "Did you shoot it yourself, or did you only perform the stuffing?"
"You don't shoot fish, every idiot an' his inbred cousin knows that," Eridan scoffed. "My-- My dad took me deep-sea fishin', once. It's a trophy, to commemorate the occasion."
Droog ruthlessly resisted the urge to drop his long-suffering face into the cradle of his equally lengthily-beleaguered hand. It only went to show – humor was not among the many talents he'd been blessed with. He wouldn't make the mistake of joking again.
"Ah," was all he said instead. "So you've brought it as a symbol of our plan to, how should I say, financially cripple your father. In that case, put it over the mantle. I'm sure Slick has one about here somewhere."
Eridan made another indignant face, before visibly stopping in what was so obviously an assessment of just how much, if at all, he had been insulted. Kid was prideful as a peacock, and hadn't yet learned to temper his reactions so he wasn't as open as a book. Vain as a peacock, too – now that he'd been graciously been awarded the pleasure of Eridan's company, Droog could truly come to appreciate the amount of time and styling product the kid put into his hair.
Droog would continue to keep his cropped close and short, tended to only by his own electric hand-razor.
"I'll ask him about it later," Eridan finally concluded, breezily, pushing his concern aside and propping his ungainly piece of taxidermy against the wall outside Droog's door.
He was not expecting Eridan to come inside. "Is there something else I can help you with?"
"If you're offerin'," Eridan said, clearing his throat and taking a few steps closer to the chair where Droog sat. "Not to be a pry, but I've been noticin' while I'm here that you tend to be real sharp with your ties, and none a the other guys really have that same pizazz. I've never been a tie man myself, kinda think they make my neck look too thin, but I got to thinkin' that maybe a man like you would have some tips."
Droog only stared, eyebrows raised up in disbelieving question at the apparent reality of their newest recruit asking him for fashion advice. It was true he cared for always appearing well-dressed, but it was simply not a matter worth taking especial notice of by other people in his line of work.
"Perhaps," he said, at some length. He was unable to dismiss the invitation to speak on a subject he did quietly hold dear. "You wouldn't be able to wear a tie with a cape, I hope you know. You'd look atrocious."
"Oh, definitely," Eridan said, taking the last few steps across the room. He inserted himself into the chair across from Droog's. "That'd be a catastrophe, an' I wouldn't be caught dead lookin' like such a moron. Nah, I've been thinkin' that now I'm gettin' a bit older, it might be time to expand my repertoire with my wardrobe."
Droog wanted to laugh, he really did, the vain little popinjay. He couldn't bring himself to do that. He looked at Eridan and he still saw a petulant child trying to shove his daddy's overbearing expectations back in his face, but if he looked more closely he also saw a handsome young man, with sharply-angled cheekbones and a thin, well-defined nose. His narrow-lipped mouth was mobile, his entire face expressive in a way that Droog read as weakness, but that someone else might read as charming.
He saw someone who was aware of what good looks he had and cared about accentuating him, and that attention to image was something Droog had come to value far too well.
"You'd look good in a suit," he conceded. "With the right cut, and the right colors. No one respectable goes around in capes."
"You think?" Eridan asked. "I mean, I figure I could part with the cape. If I was wearin' a suit."
Though Eridan cruelly squashed down his pleased bit of preening, Droog could still see it. He conceded that if Eridan would at least try not to be such an obvious kiss-up, there might be hope for him yet.
"I do think," Droog said, going so far as to let himself sound amused.
Eridan smiled, obviously envisioning himself in a dapper, personally-tailored ensemble, and Droog realized that the kid liked him, and might not wash out on his crew alliance after all.
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