Work Text:
It’s been four days since Victor’s phone call with the Jackeyes.
Those days had been spent in a state of aimless consideration. At first they’d thought the choice would be easy, but every time they dialed it suddenly seemed almost impossible. The thought of what to do was always pacing in the back of Victor’s mind, following him from the local grocery to the dusty weight room to the fluorescent lights of The Birdcage and back to the dingy apartment where it curled up at his feet and refused to move.
And now that persistent questioning has woken them up at 6am and left them staring at a slowly lightening sky, their mind swirling with thoughts and options.
Victor groans and rubs their face with their hands, pushing the tangled bedhead back from their eyes as if it’ll make their vision any less bleary. Normally if he was struggling with a problem he’d go hit something, but it was too early for the gym to be open and too late to take a lonely walk down by the piers.
That leaves only one option. Victor almost doesn’t want to send the text, but the tiny catch in their right arm as they reach for their phone makes it clear they’ll have to sooner or later, regardless of the Jackeyes problem.
V: Mads is it cool if I come by today? Got a bit banged up at work and need a tune up.
V: I’ll pay for any damages
And it was half-true, at least. The prosthetics definitely hadn’t been at peak operation since that night, but Victor also added plenty of wear and tear on his own, too. They need a tune up, and Madeira would never say no to poking around her favorite project.
And maybe I can get myself something good along the way, too.
So now Victor is striding down the streets with two and a half coffees perched precariously in a cardboard cup holder and a hoodie that’s still too warm for the slight chill in the October air pulled down over their wrists. The phone in their pocket buzzes four times in rapid succession and Victor somehow manages to pull it out without spilling any of the drinks now nestled in the crook of their right elbow.
M: i can probably fit u in if u come early
M: but if u actually broke them im gonna charge u double
M: also u still owe me coffee from last time
M: three sugar half n half light ice
Victor laughs behind his mask. At least she’s consistent , he thinks, looking at the iced coffee he already bought before glancing up and jogging across the street, narrowly missing being hit by a taxi cab. The driver yells something at their back, but Victor’s already tucking their phone back in their pocket and pulling their sunglasses down.
It wouldn’t take long to walk to Madeira’s shop in East Liberty from their Southside apartment if they took the easy way. But Victor can feel that route in his bones, can remember a thousand and one afternoons spent walking down those sidewalks, and he isn’t keen on reliving those particular shadows today.
Luckily the alleys and side streets are a well-worn path, too, if a bit more winding. Each step is made with muscle memory just as strong, and after fifteen minutes they find themself in front of a familiar metal door. They rap on the steel with their knuckles once, twice, three times, and lean against the brick for a moment. The sun-warmed wind rushing down the alley tousles what little tangled hair isn’t shoved under their baseball cap, and it makes Victor oddly glad they went outside today.
And then the door buzzes loudly and there’s the thunk- clunk of a lock unlatching. Victor pushes themself off the wall with a huff and takes their cue to enter, pushing the handle down just a bit before pulling to coax the sticky door open.
“Did you get the stuff?” Madeira calls from the other side of the room as soon as they crack it open, her voice muffled by the fume hood. Her feet rest on the wheels of the rolling stool she’s sitting on, keeping her still while she works, but the rest of her is shoulders-deep in the metal box.
Victor lets the door swing slowly shut on its own and walks to the nearest empty worktable to put down his offerings. The first one with any open space is halfway across the room - the rest are strewn with mechanical parts that are half-soldered together and scraps of fabrics that are definitely not to be touched.
“Cold brew, three sugars, half and half, light ice... and a little something extra for today’s trouble,” Victor says with a smile hidden by their mask, fishing a slightly crumpled and crumb-covered wax paper bag out of his hoodie pocket and tossing it onto the table.
The soldering sounds in the fume hood stops as Madeira reluctantly tears herself away from her work and turns to face him. Her visor is still down, but they can see her eyes light up seeing the bounty they’d brought with them. She doesn’t even say anything to Victor, just rolls over at a frankly unsafe speed and grabs the iced coffee like the spoils of war.
“God, I need this today…,” Madeira says after taking a hefty sip, snapping up her visor as she continues to talk, “Are you really not going to tell me where you get it? I swear”
Victor pulls their mask down while she talks, finally taking in the smell of grease and metal that perpetually hung in the air of the workshop. He lets out half a laugh at Maderia’s comment, picking up his own half-drunk cup with a smile.
“I mean, it’s not anywhere special. Just some little shop uptown.” Well, maybe a little special. But not because of the coffee.
Madeira pouts at the lack of detail, but she knows from experience that the more she complains the fewer bribes Victor brings, and so she instead leans in and pulls up his sleeves to the elbow. After looking over the prosthetics for a few moments she grimaces, her nose scrunching up as she sets her coffee down.
“Jesus, Vic, what did you even do to get them like this so quick? I did such a good job on them last week, too.”
“Nothing I don’t usually do. Like I said, I had a tough job and things got a bit out of hand,” Victor half-answers as Madeira tugs their free wrist and leads them over to the operating chair. She raises a knowing eyebrow after Victor finishes talking, as if she’s filling in Victor’s blanks in her head and coming to the correct conclusion from past experience.
“I told you not to keep pushing them - sit down, I need to use the light - they’re only built to take so much.”
Victor slides into the chair and leans back with practiced ease, resting one hand on the armrest and taking another swig of coffee from the cup in the other.
“And who’s the one who built them that way?” he replies. Madeira scoffs pseudo-offendedly as she flicks on the operating light and sits down next to Victor, pulling her tools out from a panel in the table’s side.
“I built them that way because unless you can pay me you’re a personal project, and as such I don’t get to use the good stuff on you. Hold still a second.” At the prompt, Victor looks away and feels the familiar prick of a needle and rush of cold. They don’t look back until they feel the clink of the side panel, peering at the now-open vents Madeira is poking around.
Unless you can pay me… Victor tries to keep their left arm still, but their right fidgets with the coffee cup in silence as they take finish the last few mouthfuls They can feel Madeira’s tools in their mechanics, the rhythmic sound becoming like white noise while their thoughts stretch from where they’d been lying in wait and start swirling again.
If I take the job I could actually pay Madeira for better materials. Maybe I could even have her make me other stuff, too.
Madeira makes a small noise of frustration and Victor gets dragged out of his thoughts.
“Well, you should’ve told me if you were using the aerosolizers. The vents weren’t strong enough to handle them yet, but otherwise I think it’ll mostly be tweaks and easy bodywork, so your wallet is safe.” she says with a wink.
Now it’s Victor who makes a small noncommittal noise, and Madeira’s expression is replaced with something much sharper. She leans her chin on her hand while Victor fiddles with the now-empty coffee cup until it eventually becomes too much and they sigh.
“...The thing is, I didn’t just come to you about the tune up,” Victor starts, and Madeira snorts.
“Well, that was pretty obvious,” she says, “You don’t buy me a freakishly good scone for a normal swing by the office.”
That gets a real laugh out of Victor this time, but it doesn’t last long before he continues.
“I may have gotten a very well paid job offer recently, and the thing is, I’m not sure if I want to say yes. So I, ah. Wanted to ask for your advice. Genuinely.”
Madeira looks almost touched. Almost. She also looks the type of curious Victor knows there wouldn’t be any getting out of.
“Oh my god, did you finally get booked for a high-profile murder? Do you have to kill someone super rich? God , I hope you’re at least breaking in somewhere good this time. How much is it? Do I know them? Wait, don’t answer that. Is it local?” she rattles off, each question sending Victor further back in the chair until he holds his hand out in the universal gesture for ‘ please chill out for two seconds so I can explain ’.
And he does, lining up everything that happened from the fight to the phone call to the incessant back and forth. He even sheepishly tells her how he made a pros and cons list trying to figure out what to do, which prompts a smirk from Madeira and an embarrassed ‘shut up’ from Victor.
At the end he finishes with a sigh and looks over at Madeira, who’s gone from entertained to genuinely thoughtful.
“Well,” she starts, “I think… it’s a lot of money.” Victor nods like they’re about to say something, but she holds up a hand to stop him from speaking.
“You’re not dealing with some backlot metas playing at gangs here. The guy I met from the Jackeyes meant business. He was honestly probably one of the most professional backalley dealers I’ve met from the Southside. They’re serious, and that means you’d have to be a bit more serious, too.”
“What gives you the impression I'm not serious?” Victor says with feigned innocence, and Madeira snaps his arm shut with a smirk.
“Maybe the fact that you go wander down by the piers at night and destroy my hard work.”
Victor’s grin falters and he looks guiltily down at the coffee cup now, trying not to meet Madeira’s accusatory but bemused gaze. Madeira shakes her head and rolls to the other side of the table.
“Look, if you really want my opinion… it’s not something you turn down lightly. Doesn’t seem like there’s a good reason not to take it, you know? Hold still.”
Victor looks up at the fluorescent operating light as he feels another needle prick.
“Yeah, I guess. I just don’t wanna make tracks that might get me in trouble later.”
Madeira stops fiddling with the prosthetics for a moment and looks up at them.
“You know I get that, Victor. But I also think you’ve been just floating by for a really long time. I don’t want to see you stuck, I guess. And it’s been almost three years since… well. Since everything started. I feel like you should let yourself put some roots down, you know? Let yourself find something a bit more real than crashing with me when you’re hurt and fighting to make rent.”
Three years. It’s almost been three years since… Victor can feel a wave of emotions starting to well up. He keeps looking at the light instead of meeting Madeira’s concerned gaze, hand gripping the paper cup a little tighter and trying to think about the sensation in his arms instead of the looming anniversary. The click-clack-click of metal on metal was like a metronome, easy to latch on to and use as a focus.
“...you ok?” Madeira asks, not pausing her work but clearly concerned.
“I’m… don’t worry about me. I’ll be good.”
She exhales pointedly, as if to say ‘ I’m not going to keep pushing, but seriously you need to deal with your issues ’, but keeps working. An odd silence hangs in the air now, the two of them immersed in their separate tasks.
Victor breaks the silence this time, too.
“So I used the aerosolizers.”
“Yeah, I saw,” Madeira huffs, tapping the wobbly vents pointedly before digging into something by Victor's wrist, “And I still think you needed to tell me so I could reinforce everything.”
Victor feels something snap back into place. Suddenly their fingers are a lot less stiff, and they flex them a bit appreciatively. Madeira pulls back and snaps the panel shut, but she doesn’t seem finished with him.
“Well, besides melting the vents, I do have some stats on it. Took 47 seconds to knock someone out, if you’re interested.”
“I’m always interested in stats, Vic,” Madeira says with a gleam in her eyes, “Though I think we can cut that number in half if you give me a few days.”
She taps her visor a few times and the display switches from schematics to what looks like a spreadsheet, a wall of numbers scrolling up until she reaches the bottom.
“Now, tell me everything you’ve got.”