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“I warned you about that car,” Droog says, glaring at Boxcars, who is curled on one of their battered sofas with his arms crossed over his middle. “I told you.”
“Ooooh,” is all he says, tightening his arms.
“If Spades Slick told you to jump off a bridge, would you?”
“Wh--” A brief shuffle of thought. Opening his mouth seems like a terrible idea at the moment, but Droog’s looming over him (for once) and seems to expect an answer. “What kinda bridge? We don't have any.”
A soft hiss and a curled lip. “At least tell me you learned something from this.”
“Droog, I don’t feel good.”
More looming. And glaring.
“All right, all right, I learned...I can fit a car in my mouth?”
Droog snorts in exasperation, and even Boxcars can tell it isn’t the fond kind.
Slick drops by shortly after Droog leaves, with a broad grin plastered across his face. He drops a stack of currency on the table and snaps his fingers at Boxcars.
“Worth every penny. Never change, big guy.”
Boxcars is trying to decide just what Slick means when Droog yells from the other room, warning Slick to stop encouraging that idiot.
“I’m not! Just settling my bet! Right, buddy?”
Boxcars gives him a woozy sort of nod, and Slick dances away, still grinning. Boxcars wonders what he missed.
He’s got his eyes screwed shut , and what part of his attention isn’t taken up by the chewed up car sitting heavily in his gut is occupied with an argument he can hear through the walls--Slick’s laughing protests (Not my fault--dumb as a post--) and Droog's quieter scolding, punctuated occasionally with the sharp rap of a pool cue on the floorboards. Thus distracted, he misses the creak of the door and the soft padding of small feet. It isn’t until the couch springs shift beneath him and a small, stub-fingered hand takes one of his that he cracks an eye to find Clubs Deuce in the process of burrowing beneath his arm.
“I thought it was really neat,” Deuce says, straight to the point. “I wish I could swallow a car.”
“No you don’t. This ain’t fun.”
There’s an unhappy pause, in which Deuce looks up at his face and Boxcars makes an effort to look less pained. “Will you be okay?”
“I dunno. Probably.”
“I think you will. You almost always are!”
“Ugh.”
Deuce wriggles his way onto Boxcars’ lap, the better to hug him. Or to try, at least: his arms only cover a fraction of Boxcars’ girth. But the warmth is welcome. It’s a little like having a hot water bottle.
“Everyone is being mean. It is not fair.”
...A hot water bottle with a hard shell. That takes your side. But it’s comforting, is the point here. He shuts his eyes again and returns the hug, gently, because his hand easily spans Deuce’s shoulders.
“Yer a pal, you know that?”
“I do!”