Chapter Text
He almost didn’t need to see the reflection anymore.
Fuse sipped his beer, watching the symbols flash clear as day in Bloodhound’s goggles as the hunter surveyed their cards. Bloodhound was many things, Fuse thought to himself, setting aside his bottle and studying his own hand. Strong, aye, determined too. A mighty tracker, a mighty foe, a mighty friend.
But not quite a mighty gambler. They were far too used to their mask hiding their face; the tells of their body were clear as day.
Fuse had been gambling long enough to pay for the suit tattoos on his knuckles many times over, and he knew defeat when he saw it: the confession of shoulders hanging low, the defensiveness of a head bent almost protectively over cards... Gone was the restless, eager tension they’d worn in the earlier parts of the night. Instead, a quiet, weary resignation had settled over them like a weighted blanket.
The spades and hearts left Bloodhound’s goggles as they glanced at him. Fuse smiled back, unable to help himself, and winked. “Got a winning hand, have you, mate?” he said, knowing full well that they didn’t. “Maybe I ought to play it safe for once, but…” he shrugged, making a show of setting down his cards and pushing his stack of chips to the center of the table. “Maybe I’m feeling reckless.”
“Reckless and full of wrecks!” Octane chimed in on Fuse’s left. “I’m in too! I’ll be in the lead after this hand, muchachos.” He set his wager in the center as well - the last of the gold coins he’d won off Bloodhound and a dose of Stim for luck - and settled back with a chuckle, his vivid greens all but glowing in the atmospheric lights of the Paradise Lounge.
“Hmph.” Bloodhound looked at their cards again. A pair of aces, a seven and a ten reflected perfectly in those goggles. If Fuse had anything but a royal flush, he might have been worried.
But he did have it, and his smile didn’t fade an inch as Bloodhound set their cards down and pushed their last few coins into the pile. “I am in as well.”
“I knew you were good for it, mate.” Fuse said with a chuckle, flipping his hand over to reveal the haughty stares of king, queen, jack. “Can always count on you no matter the game.”
Octane groaned at Fuse’s row of royalty and tossed his own cards onto the table. “You’re the worst!”
But Bloodhound just looked at the cards, sighed, and set their hand face down, folding their arms and shaking their head in silence.
Fuse felt a little bit of guilt at that. He hadn’t technically been cheating, but even so...it occurred to him that it had been hard to convince the hunter to play at all. “Don’t look so glum mate,” he said, scooping up his winnings and dumping them all in a pouch. “Just takes some practice, aye? Then you’ll be able to whoop my backside in no time.”
“I can do that any time I want to in the ring,” Bloodhound said, a surly edge to their voice that made Fuse feel even guiltier. Now, he couldn't leave it like this, could he…
“Tell you what mate, I’ll make it up to you-”
“You two can make it up together, but I’m done!” Octane was already on his feet, stretching one leg and then the other on his chair. “I’m out of here, amigos!”
“G'night Silva,” Fuse said, standing and offering him a hand to shake. “Don’t let it get you down, aye? You did great-”
“Yeah yeah, thanks a lot.” Octane begrudgingly shook his hand anyway. “See if I play with you again.”
“Nobody can resist old Fusey’s charm!” Fuse laughed. “You’ll be back before you know it.”
“Feh!” Octane waved his words away and sprinted for the door. Always in a hurry, that guy.
Fuse shook his head, watching as the speedster disappeared into the neon-lit darkness of Solace.
The grinding of chair legs against the floor brought his attention back to Bloodhound, though, as the hunter stood from the table. “It is late,” they said. “I have appreciated your company, but now-”
“But now I make it up to you!” Fuse said, slapping his good hand on their shoulder and giving them a little shake. They were very sturdy, it wasn’t easy.
“I am not so upset by losing that I need to be comforted, Walter Fitzroy-” Hound brushed his hand away, the stiffness in their voice showing the lie in their words. “Every hunter knows that the hunt does not always end in slatra-”
“Is that all you think about mate? The hunt? The blood?” Fuse shook his head. “You need to relax a little, and Fusey knows just what will help with that!”
Bloodhound regarded him, and it was easy to read their curiosity waging war against their wariness. “...what is that, then?”
“A good strong drink!” Fuse said, grinning broadly. And then, just to add extra temptation to the offer, he added, “But not here, aye? Somewhere quieter?”
Bloodhound considered him a moment, their gaze an almost physical pressure. Fuse didn’t know how someone wearing goggles and a mask could make him feel so thoroughly perceived, but Bloodhound managed it. If they ever learned to read tells, they’d make an excellent gambler. “As you wish,” they said at last. “Lead the way, Walter Fitzroy.”
“Come on, Houndie,” Fuse said, beaming at them but turning to stride out the door, into the cool, welcoming darkness. “You’ve saved my behind how many times now? Call me Wally.”
“...perhaps Walter,” they amended, with some reluctance.
“Alright, alright, a compromise. I like it.” He smiled at them over his shoulder, keeping his steps loose and lazy, trying to infect the uptight hunter with a little of his own good cheer. “Still gonna call you Houndie though.”
They sighed, and said once again, “As you wish.”
Fuse led the way through the city. It was late, but they still had to take some back alleys and quieter streets to avoid being seen. Fuse didn’t mind the attention - in fact, he’d been reveling in public adulation for years before coming to the Apex Games, but he knew Bloodhound was normally far away from the populace by now, with quiet and flames their only companion.
Well, aside from the raven. Hound hadn’t brought Artur into the city, though.
“You’ll like this place, mate,” Fuse said as they moved through the night. “Bit old fashioned, but then again, so are you.”
“Among my people, I am the most advanced in technological skill and understanding.” They gave him a look that could have been either offended or amused.
Still, Fuse didn’t let it deter him. “I don’t doubt you for a second.” He turned down a small lane. Between two bars was an older, sturdier looking building, with no neon or fluorescence to illuminate the simple, hand-painted sign reading “The Boar’s Den.” Fuse pulled open the heavy oaken door, and held it for Bloodhound. “You also wear fur and carry an axe. Rustic ain’t exactly a stretch for you.”
Bloodhound shook their head as they stepped through the door, but once inside, they stopped, staring around in wonder.
Fuse grinned proudly as they took in the tavern - for it was a proper tavern, not a bar - with long, oak tables, a great open ceiling bearing heavy wooden rafters, and a bright fire burning cheerfully in a stone fireplace to their left. The flames cast a warm light over the polished wood, and the handful of patrons only spared the newcomers a few seconds of interest before returning to their own drinks and conversations.
When Bloodhound spoke at last, their words were soft. “I did not know this place was here."
“Well, you don’t spend much time in the city, do you mate?” Fuse stepped towards the bar and beckoned his friend to follow. “There’s probably a lot more secrets than one little tavern that you haven’t found yet.”
The Hound followed him, looking around even as they sat, running a gloved hand over the worn but well-cared for surface of the bar. “Probably.” They paused a moment, then added with some reluctance, “I am not most people’s first choice, when it comes to a drinking companion.”
“That’s their bloody mistake, mate, no doubt about it.” Fuse settled next to them, resting one arm on the bar and watching the tracker for a moment. After spending so much time as their opponent in the games of cards, his mind was still trying to read their posture, unpacking the meaning behind each movement. There was certainly a wistfulness to them, now…
“What are you drinking, Houndie?” Fuse rattled the pouch with his winnings in it. “My treat.”
Bloodhound hesitated. “Mead, if they have it. If not, beer is fine.”
“Oh they have it,” Fuse said. “But are you sure you don’t want something stronger?” He grinned at them, letting the mischief slip into his voice. “Or, nah...I was forgetting. You don’t drink much, do you? Best to stick to the soft stuff.”
He couldn’t hide his smile as Bloodhound stiffened with indignation. “I am not-”
Before they could finish their sentence, however, Fuse was ordering from the barman. “One mead and one house special, mate-”
“I will also have the special,” Hound interjected, and their glare was hotter than the firelight on the back of Fuse’s neck.
Fuse turned to face them, raising his eyebrows in carefully painted concern. “Oy, are you sure about that mate? The special is not for the faint of heart-”
“What have I ever done in your presence that made you judge me faint of heart, Walter Fitzroy?” Bloodhound demanded, folding their arms. Fuse considered himself fortunate that they did not draw their gun for emphasis.
“Alright mate, alright, you’ve got a point,” he said, raising both hands in surrender. “If you’re half as mighty a drinker as you are a fighter, I’m sure I’ll be under the table in no time.”
That seemed to mollify the tracker. They didn’t unfold their arms, but some of the tension went out of their shoulders and they nodded. “So...what is...the house special?”
Fuse’s grin came back full force as the barman slid two full tankards and two shot glasses onto the table in front of them. “You ever heard of a boilermaker, Houndie?”
Bloodhound shook their head, looking from Fuse to the glasses and back.
Fuse took his shotglass, upended it into the tankard, and raised his mug to Bloodhound. “You’re about to get a first class education, mate,” he said. “A toast! To new friends and old!”
Bloodhound eyed their own shotglass, but dumped it into their tankard and raised the glass to clink against Fuse’s. “To new friends and old,” they repeated in solemn agreement. Fuse didn’t think he imagined the note of sadness lurking behind the words.
He also didn’t imagine the sudden memory that flashed as he tilted his head back to guzzle down his tankard; the memory of - last time they’d shared a drink together - how much smaller Bloodhound’s glass had been than his own. Tonight they were evenly matched....
Fuse set his empty tankard on the table before Bloodhound was even half done, and, grinning like the devil himself, said to the bartender, “Another round, my good man, and keep em coming till I say uncle.”