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james is just minding his own business, hunched over a light in some back alley with a cig between his lips, when he feels the cold steel of a 9mm against the base of his skull. he rolls his eyes, dropping the lighter in favour of slowly raising his hands.
the voice from behind him speaks in rough, low tones, heavily accented.
“wallet. hand it over, and you live.”
james huffs out a laugh, fingers twitching for the .38 tucked into his waistband, and drops one arm to take the cigarette from his mouth, dropping it to join his light.
“i think i’ll take my chances.”
the muzzle is pressed harder, and he hides his wince under another laugh. he has the foreigner on his knees with his own gun to his head before the hammer can slide into place.
“nice piece, buddy. mind if i borrow it?” james taunts, thumbing a worn in groove on the grip. the blond at his feet just grins up at him, shoving his head up into the 9mm.
“take it if you want. i’ll come back for it.”
james stares at him, considers it for a second before uncocking the gun. he shoves it beside his .38 before offering a hand to the other man, some skinny little runt with half finished tattoos on his exposed forearms.
james looks him over, raising an eyebrow. “you got a name, kid?”
nameless-without-a-gun lets james pull him to his feet, seeming to hesitate for a second before he speaks.
“sasha. you?”
“nova. word of advice - don’t challenge anybody you aren’t certain you can beat.”
the kid - sasha, he corrects himself - rolls his eyes and nods.
“there are not many people who wouldn’t have killed me right there, you know.”
james scoffs, pulls out another cigarette to replace the one he lost.
“yeah, well. you caught me on a good day. get out of here before i change my mind.”
sasha looks thoughtful, eyebrows furrowed before he nods once again, turns away. “see you around, nova.”
staring at his retreating figure, james wonders why he didn’t kill him. it wouldn’t have been hard, and james doubts he would have been missed. maybe ‘cos it’s the same mercy james would’ve wanted to be shown himself, when he first started out. at least his lighter didn’t break, he notes as he stoops to pick it up. and he finally got his cig.
—
it’s two years later, and while james has spotted sasha around the place, he’s stayed out of his way. it hasn’t mattered much anyway, because along with brett, - a guy he met on a heist with biceps larger than james’ head - he’s managed to take over a little slice of LA, and even managed to avoid the notice of the kingpin. everybody knows that everything south of division street is their territory. brett (hundar) and the kid that came trailing behind him, (modest) found an empty warehouse down on san fernando road, and the three of them somehow managed to gather enough furniture to pretend they had any idea what they were doing, like they were professionals.
generally, things were going pretty good for them. no rivals in the general nearby area, a healthy cash flow, and no broken bones. (yet)
things were going pretty good, until sasha decides to show his face again.
it’s a pretty routine job, overtaking some rundown gang hideout downtown, should be easy in, straight out when the job’s done - before the rest show up - and check in a few weeks later, find a new den for the picking. should be, could have been - until sasha shows up, blows the whole thing to shit.
they’re just beginning to come to an end when the bastard bursts through the doors behind the table james was taking cover under, and opens fire on all the guys they had tried so hard not to kill. except, he’s one man against a group of maybe 7, even if they had been almost overpowered a second ago.
“goddamnit, sasha!” james yells, scrambling for better cover now all the bullets were coming in his direction. sasha follows, because he’s hell bent on getting james killed, apparently, and hunches down beside him, half of his gangly body hanging out like a living bullseye.
brett’s going in for the kill now that james is a target, the ever loyal wolf, and trevor is back at base hunched over a computer, keeping the cops’ interest in what’s going on dampened.
brett never misses, and the bodies drop like the beat of those shitty EDM songs trevor likes to play to piss him off, but even with his skill and james’ loose trigger finger, they’re outnumbered. the time spent attempting to recover from sasha’s appearance opened up the opportunity for the gang’s reinforcements to show up.
james glares up at the russian just in time to watch his whole body roll backwords with the force of a bullet, just beside his right shoulder, under his collarbone. it’s a bad place to be hit, and the blood starts pouring. james has him on the ground beside him before sasha drops his gun.
“you goddamn idiot,” he hisses over sasha’s wincing, rolling him onto his side to check for an exit wound. of course there isn’t one, because that would be too easy.
“what kind of idiot bursts in with no protection?” james asks himself, ignoring the blond’s yell as he pushes his hand onto the wound.
i can’t just let him bleed out here, he thinks. brett’s still shooting, but a quick glance in his direction shows him signaling for james to get out of here while he’s keeping the others distracted. he’s so frustrated he could scream, but he hefts sasha over his shoulder and makes a break for it all the same, throwing him onto the backseat of their torn up getaway van - pushing a cloth into his hands and pressing it to his shoulder - before climbing in, revving the engine and tearing off of the dirt path. sasha is spitting curses, slumped onto the seat in front of him. james knows trevor’ll already be on his way to collect brett, watching the whole time, so he switches lanes, heads for a motel they know doesn’t ask questions. it’s barely five minutes before he’s screeching to a stop, yanking their emergency first aid kit from under the driver’s seat.
james motions for sasha to walk in front of him when he gets out, rolling his eyes at the time it takes him to extract himself from the back seat. he slips the receptionist a 50, motions up the stairs, the path familiar to him by now. their room is at the back of the motel, usually reserved for prostitutes and drug deals, but it has heat and running water and that’s all james needs right now.
after he’s got confirmation from brett that he’s out and safe, it doesn’t take james long to go through the motions of cleaning up the wound, lifting off sasha’s shirt. the bullet isn’t deep, easy enough to pull out with his pliers. a few stitches later and sasha’s sighing in relief.
“knew it looked worse than it was,” he mutters, and james rolls his eyes at him.
“so did i, dumbass. still couldn’t leave you there, you would’ve been killed immediately.”
a silence falls over the pair, while james searches his pockets in hope of a forgotten cigarette. a second later there’s one in front of his face. he takes it from sasha’s hand, fishing out his lighter and moving to lean against the window.
he takes a few puffs before he speaks again.
“so, sasha. america treating you well?”
the russian laughs, wincing when it pulls on the new stitches in his shoulder.
“you could say that.”
he looks different, blonded his hair, made progress on his tattoos. lost the accent a little. honestly, he’s not too hard on the eyes. he speaks again.
“and it’s immortal. not sasha.”
“immortal, huh.” james rolls the name around in his mouth. “why the change?”
“sasha was my - a variation of my real name. too vulnerable.” his voice quieter, suddenly, and james drops it.
teasing, james opens his mouth again. “well, immortal. you look better than you did back then, at least. skinny little twink tryna’ rob me in a back alley.”
the memory is still strong in his mind - as it must be in immortal’s too, because they both laugh together. immortal’s got a nice laugh, james notes, strong and full-bodied.
“hey, you took my gun! took me a long time to find one as good.”
“and i still have it. maybe one day you can earn it back.”
“maybe i can,” immortal replies, and it’s a challenge, a game.
james can’t wait to play.