Chapter Text
Droog is holed up in a private corner of the gang’s latest hideout, dressing the new, ugly wound on his shoulder, when he’s interrupted by Clubs Deuce’s unmistakable chirp. “Um. Droog?”
He turns a bit, eyes narrowed, but with less casual menace than usual. “Little busy here, Deuce.”
“Oh.” But, ever dense, Deuce continues. “I think that you should stop fighting Slick, Droog.”
He rolls his shoulder gingerly, testing the bandaging. “And give up all this fun?”
Deuce makes a sad little noise, twiddling his thumbs. “But Slick always wins.”
“Don’t cringe so much. Gave Slick a nice black eye, didn’t I?”
More thumb-twiddling. Getting hurt is no fun, in Deuce’s book.
“Think back a little, Deuce. Have you ever seen me take Slick on with my suit on?”
“...No?”
“Take my word for it. I never have. You know why?” When the expected headshake is not forthcoming, Droog reaches with his good arm and shakes it himself. “It’s a game, see. I could beat Slick down anytime I wanted. I’m bigger. And smarter.” He grins a little, showing fang. “But I’d rather let him win. The trick is letting him without letting on that I’m letting him.”
“Letting...let....what?” Deuce blinks for a moment, processing. “Why?”
A shrug. Droog could explain how it’s better that Slick pick his fights with him than Deuce, who can’t fight back, or Boxcars, who will, but he senses that Deuce is already getting overloaded. “It’s just how it is.”
Deuce nods after a long moment, accepting this as one of the many mysteries he’ll never solve, and, after hugging Droog’s leg, toddles off. Looking after him, Droog sighs. He’ll give it a week before Deuce asks again.