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You hovered in the kitchen of your small flat, trying to pretend Vinnie wasn’t there. He didn’t make it easy, though—the smell of smoke permeated the air, and you wrinkled your nose at the thought of how long you’d have to air out your place to get rid of it. That and the video he was watching of dogs being frightened of their own farts, coupled with his low, snorting laugh, made it near impossible to ignore him.
Normally you wouldn’t mind his presence, but that day you just wanted to be alone. And anyway, you’d been handling edibles for him for ages, ever since you’d pointed out there’s a significant subsection of his market that loves being high but hates smoking. You decarb and use your cannabutter in the best weed biscuits Hawley’s ever seen, and he gives you a cut that’s probably more generous than any savvy businessperson would allow. It’s a good system.
That was before McCann, though. Back when Vin was a free agent, before the antique dildo disaster. Now Vinnie has strict orders to keep an eye on you, to make sure you’re not sampling product, apparently. It’s insulting, and humiliating, and it makes the back of your neck prickle having him there, babysitting. On good days, though, you can set your indignation aside and enjoy his company; he rarely has time to kill anymore, and usually you’d shoot the shit for the several hours it takes for the decarbing to be done. But today wasn’t a good day.
“Christ, love, how long’s that gonna take? Been here for a week, seems like,” he teased, toeing his sleek new trainers off and throwing his feet up on the couch.
Your shoulders stiffened, your teeth ground together, and your eyes narrowed. You saw the grin start to slide from Vinnie’s face, and if you’d given it half a second more you know he would have apologized, but you didn’t.
“You know bleaching your hair’s just gonna bald you faster, right?” you shot back, your goal to hurt, and it worked—his fingertips flew to his hairline as the words landed. But instead of returning fire he only blinked a few times, his brow furrowed as he took you in, his head tilted.
“What’s your problem, dude?” he asked; not combative, just concerned. Typical Vinnie. “You’ve been fuckin’…titchy all day.”
When he refused to rise to your bait your shoulders fell, all the tension drained from them, and you trudged over to sink next to him on the sofa. You didn’t look at him, picking at a snag in the fabric, when you spoke. “My GP is fucking useless” you finally mumbled hollowly, and Vin straightened in his seat as quickly as though a current had run through the cushion.
“Shit dude, I forgot! Your appointment! Did you get the…the…Oh, Christ…” He subsided into mumbles as he worked to remember the word, one hand waving aimlessly in the air.
“Testosterone,” you supplied, managing a smile that faded almost immediately. “No, I didn’t.” You glared straight ahead, your jaw clenched, willing your eyes not to tear up, and Vinnie slumped back again, dog video forgotten, all his focus on you, spliff gently smoldering between his lips.
“Why not?”
“He wouldn’t diagnose me!” You hated how your voice broke; it made you want to hit something. “Went on about how being a woman’s great and I’m probably just doing it wrong and it would be a waste to ruin a pretty face like mine with a beard. So no diagnosis, no prescription, no testosterone.” In spite of your best efforts the tears spilled over, and Vinnie wrapped an arm around you, pulling you against his bony chest. His face was far away though, deep in thought, and when he came back to himself he pursed his lips, speculating.
“You go to Doctor Chris then, eh?” he asked, although it was more statement than question.
“Yeah,” you said, although you weren’t sure why it mattered. “How’d you know?”
Vinnie scoffed softly, a grin pulling at his lips. “Dunno if it helps, but the man’s bloody useless. He’s not a bigot, just a dickhead. He spends half my visits showing me his cock and goin’ on about fuckin’…net a lover.”
It does help, a bit, and Vin’s clear disgust at Dr. Chris’ online shenanigans made you giggle, even as you leaned into his shoulder gratefully and he rested his spray-tanned cheek against your hair.
“I’m sorry, Vin,” you sighed, and he pressed his lips to the top of your head—not quite a kiss; it was more reminiscent of an affectionate cat’s head bump.
“Aw, I get by well enough. We’re talking about you. What’re you gonna do now?”
You sighed heavily, tucking yourself more firmly under his arm. The fact that you’d have to go on seeing the wrong body in the mirror indefinitely had sunk in, and the prospect of now was too daunting. “I dunno. Get sloshed, I guess.” After one last squeeze you wriggled out from Vinnie’s cuddle to check the cannabutter—it was done. The rest of the process felt insurmountable, and you turned back to Vin, your face apologetic. “Listen, can I get the biscuits to you tomorrow? Please?”
That was another unwelcome change—deadlines. You both knew full well that the biscuits were meant to be done tomorrow. Done and delivered by Thursday evening at five to be sold over the weekend. Every week. Used to be you just did a batch and tossed them in the freezer until they were all spoken for, then started again. But McCann didn’t work that way, McCann wanted structure, and for the sake of Vin’s cock you could put up with that, most of the time. Today, the thought of kowtowing to McCann’s rules and restrictions and threats made you flush with anger.
Vinnie hesitated, and his weight shifted back and forth as his worry for you fought his fear of McCann. “Yeah. Yeah, alright, no worries,” he finally said slowly, although the corners of his mouth were tight, belying his words. You scooped the jar of butter from your rice cooker and dried it, giving the lid a quick twist to ensure it was sealed before you handed it off to Vin. Another McCann decree: all product stayed with Vinnie and no one else was to be with it unsupervised. Shrinkage control, he called it. The bellend.
“Thank you, Vin,” you muttered as you showed him to the door; at your downcast expression he hauled you into another tight hug.
“Take care of yourself, mate. It’ll sort itself out,” he said, and you wished you had his confidence. He grinned, all warmth and encouragement, and chucked your cheek when you returned it. But your smile faded as soon as he’d gone on his way, your arms crossed self-consciously over your wrong-shaped chest and your head drooping, exhausted.
~~~~
A pounding at the door roused you from a stupor, the chatter of the TV lending to your disorientation as you came back to yourself. On screen, Tan France was savagely critiquing some poor man’s closet, but you’d lost the plot, your eyelids puffy and heavy from crying and your head fuzzy from the rum. You made it to the door, though, a soft blanket wrapped around your shoulders, and peered through the peephole owlishly. It was Vinnie, dressed all in black, a balaclava shoved up over his forehead to expose his face. He was grinning widely, triumphantly, and after a moment more of waiting he pounded the door again.
“Open up, ya knobhead! Christ!”
You did, shivering against the chill night air, and Vinnie bulled his way inside. That was when you noticed the small white box, the size and shape of a cigar box, that rattled when he moved.
“Where d’you keep your drugs, love? Pills and things,” he asked, and you blinked.
“Uh…bedroom, in the top dresser drawer,” you said automatically, too tipsy to care much about why he was asking, and he disappeared down the hall.
You moved to close the door but Tommo caught it with his shoulder, a box of syringes in one hand and needles in the other. He glared at you severely, and when he spoke the cigarette between his lips bobbed, loosed ash drifting to your floor.
“Mind you change out the needle. Every time. Reusing a needle, it’s like unlubricated anal, innit?” You didn’t have time to respond, too busy cringing at the mental image, before he thumped after Vinnie, leaving you open-mouthed in his wake.
“What the fuck are you—” you began, but a great blunt force crashed into your back, sending you stumbling. Ash, you realized a moment later, his expression exasperated and his hands full of what looked like travel-sized tubes of toothpaste.
“I fuckin’ told ‘em you don’t like needles, but would t’ey listen?” he muttered, not helping your confusion at all. “Where’ve t’ey gone?” he added moodily, and you pointed mutely toward your room.
Cardi came last, struggling to keep hold of a load of crisps and Dairy Milks and Mamba sticks and honeyed almonds.
“S-s-snacks,” he explained, and you nodded; at least someone was making sense. You peeked over his shoulder and out the door, but he seemed to be the last, and once you’d closed and locked it again you shuffled to your room to find Vinnie, Tommo, and Ash arguing over the best way to organize their…whatever they’d brought.
“What are you guys doing here?” you finally blurted. And then, belatedly, “What time is it?”
“Oh, must be half one, now,” Vinnie replied. “And we picked up your meds.” This was accompanied by a rakish grin, and you barely managed to catch the tiny toothpaste tube he tossed your way with a quick snap of his wrist. But not toothpaste, you saw when you squinted down at it.
AndroGel.
Tears pricked your eyes, and you swiped them away hurriedly as you turned the tube in your hand, amazed. When you looked up again they were watching you anxiously, waiting for your reaction, and your eyes welled again as a wide smile stretched your cheeks.
“Thank you,” you managed, and Vin’s returning smile was soft. For a moment you considered asking where it had all come from—you weren’t sure if the pharmacies in Hawley even carried testosterone, never mind this volume, but you knew they wouldn’t tell you. That would make you complicit, a conspirator, and Vinnie was careful about containing his mess. Ask me no questions, and all that.
“We didn’t know if you’d want the shots or the cream,” Tommo began, and Ash scowled.
“I feckin’ tolja he hates needles! It’ll be th’ cream,” he snapped, and then squinted suspiciously at your apologetic smile.
“I think I do want to try a shot,” you said, and Ash threw his hands in the air while Tommo smirked. “Just to see if I can handle it,” you rushed to add, not wanting Ash to think his attention to detail wasn’t appreciated, and he seemed mollified.
Unsurprisingly, Tommo seemed supremely confident handling the syringes and tiny vials, though you’d never ask when he learned or why. The rest of you looked on curiously as he read and reread and then triple checked the dosage information on the box, and then you had to look away as he drew up, the tip of the needle glinting dauntingly as he flicked the syringe to rid it of air bubbles. He carefully capped the needle before switching it out for a fresh one, placing the used needle on your dresser.
“These don’t go in the trash. You’ll need a dedicated container. Yeah?” he said. You could barely bring yourself to nod—your eyes were still on the needle, your mouth gone dry at the thought of it going into you. “…You sure you’re up for this, sunshine?” Tommo asked, eyeing you speculatively, and you forced yourself to nod again.
“I think I just need to…not watch,” you said, and sank down onto the bed beside Tommo before your wobbling legs could betray you. Vin knelt next to you, taking your clammy hand and squeezing tightly.
“Don’t look at him. Look at me. Think about fuckin’…facial hair or sommat,” he said, and you giggled nervously.
Ash clamped his hands over your shoulders, though you weren’t sure if his intention was to reassure you or hold you in place. “T’ink about a deep voice an’ men’s shirts fittin’ properly,” he advised, and you nodded, blowing out a long breath.
“We’re gonna go into your belly, it’ll hurt less than the buttocks,” Tommo began, but you shook your head quickly.
“Don’t tell me what you’re doing. Just do it,” you said, and assumed he nodded, but you kept your eyes fixed on the far wall, trying to ignore Cardi’s wide-eyed gawking at whatever Tom was getting up to.
You felt him left your shirt gently, and yelped sharply, jumping as something made contact with your skin—but it was just something wet, and cold, and Tommo sighed.
“Stay put. Christ,” he muttered, and you nodded; Ash’s grip tightened on your shoulders, and Vinnie squeezed your fingers, drawing your attention back to him.
“When you’re shaped the way you want, let’s take a trip to London. Their charity shops have all the good shit, you know. Burberry, McQueen, fuckin’…Gucci and things.” You squeaked at a tiny prick to the left of your belly button, but when you started to turn your head Vinnie caught your chin, drawing your attention back to him. “You’ll be the best dressed man in Hawley.”
“Pardon?” Now Vin let you turn your head; Tommo was looking scandalized as he placed the used needle next to the first and tossed the syringe in the trash. “Second best, thanks.”
You glanced down at your stomach, hardly daring to believe it was done, but there was the proof: a tiny drop of blood, barely larger than a period in a book, that Tommo slapped a bandaid over before rocking back on his heels.
“Easy as pie,” he said, and you all jumped at a colossal crash from the hall; Cardi’d fainted, his snacks scattering across the floor.
He came round easily enough, his pride more bruised than his body, and when the five of you piled onto the couch you found yourself in the middle, warm bodies to each side and the coffee table in front of you weighed down with food and drink. Your morose drunkenness had lightened to a lovely, giddy buzz, and you squirmed sideways, your back resting against Ash’s broad side and your legs tossed carelessly across Vinnie and Tommo’s laps.
“What do you lot want to watch?” you asked, scrolling through Netflix idly, and the responses were instantaneous.
“Bridgerton,” Tommo ordered.
“F-f-family Guy?” Cardi requested hopefully.
“Mr. Men,” Ash said, and flushed when all eyes fell on him. “I like it,” he grumbled, and you patted his thigh reassuringly.
“We’re gonna watch what Y/N wants to watch,” Vinnie said firmly, leaving no room for argument, although you thought you saw him sigh minutely when you restarted your episode of Queer Eye. When it opened with Antoni presenting a platter of baked goods to the rest of the Fab Five, Vin bounced up from his seat, nearly knocking you off the sofa with his unexpected movement.
“Christ, I nearly forgot! Hold on a tick.” He glanced at the TV screen and shook his head a bit. “Don’t pause it,” he instructed, and trotted out the door. He returned a moment later with a massive Tupperware container, stuffed full of slightly burnt, misshapen biscuits. “We thought we’d save you the work, seeing as how you were a bit down before,” he said, and you smiled, ducking your head to hide how touched you were. “Go on, try one,” he said and you plucked a biscuit from the top layer—still warm.
You worked to hide your cringe as soon as you bit into it; the biscuit was gritty somehow, with too much salt and not enough sugar, and as you chewed you encountered not a few fragments of what you thought—hoped—were egg shell. But you fought through it, finishing the whole thing and beaming at your friends the whole time. One bad batch wouldn’t ruin the business, and anyway, it was the thought that counted.
Two episodes of Queer Eye later, when the biscuits had well and truly kicked in and you felt your body melting to the couch like fat in a hot pan, Vinnie leaned in close to murmur in your ear.
“I’ve taken care of Dr. Chris for you,” he said, his voice low. “You’ll not have to worry about your test…testi…your stuff, any more.”
Worry roused you enough to raise your head, though it swayed a bit when you turned to look at him. “Oh God, Vin, you’ve not hurt him, have you? Stealing’s one thing but threatening a doctor…”
At that Vinnie frowned; insult and surprise flashed across his face as he drew back. “Hurt him?! Christ, what do you think I am? No, I offered him free ganja so long as he keeps you supplied. Hurt him. Jesus.”
“Oh.” Relief filled you as you sank to rest against Ash’s side again, and when you smiled at Vinnie, all warmth and affection, he returned it, the corners of his eyes crinkling. “Thanks,” you said, sprawling more comfortably across your mates. Ash lifted his arm absently to wrap around your chest, Tommo patted your ankle, and Vinnie squeezed your knee affectionately, while Cardi snored gently, half a melting Dairy Milk still resting in one hand.
“Any time, dude.”