Work Text:
It’s not as if there’s a part of Los Santos that couldn’t be best described by some synonym of ‘seedy’, but this shithole of an apartment would definitely rank as one of the top five seediest places in the city. Maybe even top three; Jon’s not feeling particularly charitable towards this dump.
But the rent is appropriately cheap, and that’s all that matters to what his latest ex-potential employer called “dime-a-dozen trained monkeys with Photoshop”. The relief at not having to work at whatever magazine that guy runs almost makes up for the sting of not having a job.
Jon grumbles something under his breath, propping the door open with a shoulder as he regains his breath. This is the second box of his belongings that he’s carried up six flights of stairs because of course the elevator just had to be undergoing renovations today, and he’s really not looking forward to hauling the last of them up here. Not that he’s particularly optimistic that it’ll still be there when he makes his way back down to the front; some opportunistic thief might have pilfered it while he was gone.
“Need some help there?” comes a voice from behind him.
Jon very distinctly does not jump.
“Oh, sorry. Didn’t mean to surprise you.”
There’s a nice looking man with short, kind of wavy hair that straddles the line between blond and brown. He’s got a sort of homey rural farm boy look about him, and Jon’s already imagining which camera angles and background would best capture the sharp blue of his eyes. And it’s kind of a shame that the man’s wearing such baggy jeans because dang a tighter fit would work miracles on him and whoa Jon is wondering where this train of thought is going.
And then Jon realizes that he’s staring.
“Uh, no, that’s fine. Uh.” Jon adjusts his grip on the box.
Way to make a first impression, Risinger.
“Just moved in?” At Jon’s affirmative nod, the man continues, “I’m Ryan Haywood. I live three doors down. 302.” Ryan indicates the door with a nod in its direction. “Nice to meet you, neighbor.”
“Nice to meet you. Jon Risinger. I’d shake your hand, but.” Jon shrugs and glances down at his box again. “Hands are a little occupied right now.”
“Ah, that’s okay.” Ryan chuckles. “Do you need any help? That box looks heavy.”
“Nah, not really. I’m already here.” And then Jon pauses. Would it be considered taking advantage if he asked Ryan to haul up his last box? He really didn’t feel like making the trek down and then back up again with the last box–who knew clothes were so heavy? And the other man did offer, after all… Wait. Is this just a ploy? Is Ryan trying to steal his stuff? Is that what this is all about?
“I’ve got it,” Jon says. “It’s fine.”
“Sure, okay.” Ryan nods. “Well, it was nice t-“
He pauses, frowning a little. “Uhh. Jon? Smells like you got a dead rat in there somewhere.” Ryan indicates inside the room beyond.
“Shit. Really?”
Ryan gives him a weird look. “It’s starting to stink pretty bad, yeah.”
“I uh. I’ve got anosmia. No sense of smell.” Jon’s arms are starting to feel tired. “Thanks for the heads up. I’ll just take care of that later.”
“Better do that. It’ll start attracting other rats sooner or later.” Ryan wrinkles his nose. “Trust me, I’m speaking from personal experience.”
He also doesn’t mention the anosmia. Huh. That’s pretty new.
“Having a rat or two around would liven up the place, at least. But yeah, I’ll get to that.” Jon shrugs one shoulder to get a better grip on the underside of the cardboard. “And uh, it was nice talking to you Ryan, but I should finish moving everything in. And getting rid of that rat.”
“Oh yeah, certainly. You’re sure you don’t need any help?”
“I’ll be fine.”
“All right then. See you around, neighbor.”
“Same to you.”
Then with a nod, Ryan disappears down the hallway to the stairs. Jon waits until he’s out of sight before finally crossing the threshold to his apparently rat corpse-infested accommodations. He dumps the box on top of the first one, and then sighs. Two boxes down, one more to go.
-
-
So it turns out that there actually was a dead rat. It thankfully wasn’t so long dead that it had begun to rot, but if Ryan hadn’t alerted him it would definitely have taken at least another four or five months before Jon noticed it.
The next time he sees Ryan walking down the corridor he thanks him, and they make conversation for a few minutes before Ryan leaves for his work. He’s really a pretty nice guy, with a nice, if sometimes dark, sense of humor and a tendency to give out strange yet helpful advice.
“Pretty sure the guy in 311 is a dealer of some kind,” Ryan once whispered as they passed by each other. “If anyone comes out of that room try not to look them in the eye.”
Two days ago, it was, “If you want a dog or know someone who does, Mrs. Benson in 306 has a pregnant labrador.”
“Try a meat tenderizer to remove those,” is the most recent one, after Jon complained about a sudden nosebleed in bed and the resulting stain on his mattress. “Just mix it with a bit of water until it’s a paste and smear it on there. Then use cold water to wipe it off after it’s dried.”
“You know the most random things,” Jon said, laughing.
“Eh, you learn things.” Ryan shrugged. “For fresh bloodstains just use cold saltwater. Works like a charm.”
“I’ll keep that in mind. Thanks.”
For his first few days in Los Santos, Jon figures he could have done worse. He’s set up his online photography and design portfolios, managed to avoid getting on the wrong side of a mugging, and even made a new friend. All in all, a pretty respectable couple of days.
Jon’s almost forgotten the deluge of new information that comes with making a new friend. He mentions that he’s a graphic designer in passing once and Ryan immediately reciprocates with his IT work, and they share a couple of laughs trading stories about some of the more bone-headed clients they’ve faced. When Jon talks about some of his troubles adjusting to Los Santos life, Ryan shares his own experiences just after he moved up from Georgia and gives his own little tips.
(Jon should’ve guessed Georgia. Ryan plays the part of perfect Southern gentleman to a T. It’s enough to set one’s heart aflutter- wait no. Jon didn’t just think that. Nope. No he didn’t. Shut up self stop thinking.)
So yeah, shitty apartment aside, Jon’s life is looking pretty good right now. He’s even got his first commission.
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Jon is a mere mortal man, okay, and he has his weaknesses, okay? First and foremost among them appears to be overpriced Starbucks green tea lattes, which is why he’s sitting in this strange Frankenstein’s Starbucks cafe/bar/diner watching the morning news. Come to think of it, maybe the reason that this hybrid abomination even exists is because this isn’t actually a licensed Starbucks franchisee. Oh well. The lattes are good so he doesn’t care.
But anyway, Jon’s just idly watching the Monday news and wondering how many pieces he can cut his cinnamon roll into when a very familiar flash of green and black appears on the screen.
Very familiar, because he’s spent about four or five hours working on the damn thing about a week ago.
“-in an uncharacteristic display from the notorious Fake AH Crew. A large sack of the cards appear to have been dumped out of the back of their getaway van after last Saturday’s heist, but the trail ended far before LSPD were able to track them to a safehouse.” The reporter on screen holds up a black card, which the camera zooms in on.
It’s about the size of a normal business card, printed on card stock. He doesn’t recognize the white spray paint-esque name as his work, but that damn rubber duck in the segmented circle and the result of an hour’s worth of deliberation between four different paint fleck brushes most definitely is.
In the background, the TV continues to drone, “…has also gone viral on Twitter, Facebook, and various other social media sites.”
“I just designed a business card for a gang,” Jon mutters to himself, as the realization sinks in.
“-PD are urging anyone to call if they have any information that could lead to the arrest of the Fake AH Crew.”
“Holy shit,” says Jon.
Should he call the anonymous tip hotline? He definitely still has the email that he was contacted on, and the commission fee was transferred directly to his account. Apparently the LSPD is known for giving out some incentive money for tips that pan out, and lord knows he needs the money.
…But, well. It’s LSPD. Not even sweet, 64 year-old Mrs. Benson who still feeds the stray kittens despite having five new labrador puppies to care for has a nice word to say about Los Santos law enforcement.
Jon chews on his lower lip. Maybe… maybe he’ll stay quiet for now.
He’s got a couple of google searches to do on the Fake AH Crew.
-
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“Hey Jon!” exclaims Ryan.
“Oh, hi.” Jon looks up from his phone, tucking it into his pocket as he waves at Ryan, who’s drying his hands on a shirt that looks half a size too small. “What’s up?”
“Look, can I ask you a favor?” Ryan rubs the back of his neck sheepishly. “Is it okay if I keep some stuff over at your room for a while? I’ve got to set up some stuff in my room for work and I need to clear out some space, but I’ll take all of it back! Just, after a day or two.”
“Sure,” Jon agrees. “I’ve got a bit of space. How much stuff?”
“Not that big. Just like, a one and a half foot long box?”
Jon frowns and tries to recall how much space he has between his desk and the wall. “Yeah, I think that should be fine. When are you going to bring it over?”
“Is sometime tonight okay?”
“That’s fine.”
And sweet God in heaven, Ryan grins at him, a buoyant, brilliant smile that lights up the world brighter than the sun. “Cool,” he says, voice lifting with happiness. “Thanks Jon, you’re a lifesaver.”
Jon can’t help but smile back. “Anytime,” he says.
When Ryan’s turned back away into his room, Jon slowly exhales, closes his eyes, and knocks his forehead against the wall. And again. And again.
“I’m so screwed,” he whispers to himself.
-
-
What Jon’s basically gotten out of three hours on Google, Wikipedia, and Youtube is that the Fake AH Crew are horrendously insane and lucky criminal morons. There are records of a string of failed heists- convenience store robberies, armored trucks, and even attempts at impersonating firemen at some point. As he scrolls through their list of exploits Jon’s disbelief only grows. Jesus, but they’ve racked up an enormous body count. No wonder the LSPD’s so determined to take them down.
There are a couple of shaky videos and recordings made of some of their heists and Jon finds himself fascinated, spending hours scouring the web for every clip he can find. The sound quality is generally horrible, but from what he can make out the audio just makes them sound as idiotic as their heist outfits and masks make them seem.
“I’m blowing it! I’m blowing it! It’s not blowing!”
“Where’s Secret Gavin?”
“Secret Michael! Michael! You got the money?”
“Cheese it!”
Jon shakes his head in disbelief as he watches grainy vertically-held phone footage of a fire truck, horns blaring and water spewing, drive straight into a gas pump and explode. And somehow the bastard got out of there alive.
Somewhere in heaven Charles Darwin is crying, Jon decides.
But that’s not even as good as the time they landed a jet in the middle of the street. In the middle. Of a goddamn street. Or couldn’t figure out how to get into a bank and suddenly switch to robbing a convenience store in the middle of a shootout with the police. Or-
-or you know what, everything. Just. Every single thing that the Fake AH Crew did.
He’s honestly impressed. They may be incredibly dumb but there’s a special persistence about their audacity and he can’t help but root for them a little as he clicks the next video, about what the media call ‘The Grand Heist’. Where they suspend a tank from a chopper. While all wearing red suits. And rubber eagle masks that cannot possibly be beneficial in any way when shooting a gun, but they wear them anyway.
Grand indeed. Holy shit.
It’s been a long time since artistic inspiration has struck him this hard, but Jon decides that he has to make something about them. A poster, maybe? Or, a t-shirt design?
-
-
So… interest is a lot greater than Jon expected.
He’s gotten a disproportionate amount of money from the infamous rubber duck commission, as he’s taken to calling it, which suddenly makes a lot of sense now that he knows who exactly commissioned it. But anyway, he has enough to find some bulk packs of thin cotton shirts and a cheap printing store. He walks away with 100 neatly printed t-shirts because okay the post has a fuckton of notes but not everyone’s willing to actually pay, and he has to worry about the cost of mailing them all out too.
So he sets up a Paypal account and and online shopfront which currently only has the Grand Heist shirt, leaves it for the night, and goes to bed.
He wakes up with his alarm at 8:30 the next morning and the shirt’s already sold out, and the store e-mail he set up is completely blown up with messages demanding that he restock the shirt, make more designs, whatever.
“Huh,” Jon says, scrolling through the messages and doing some quick number crunching on his phone’s calculator. He’s still turning a profit of about $100 currently, even accounting for the shipping and printing costs. “Huh.”
Upscaling may be a… worthwhile venture.
-
-
It was bound to happen eventually. Laws of probability, or something like that.
Jon wakes up, checks the date, and decides that he needs to go to the bank and pay his rent. So he suits up (jeans and polo shirt, because it’s too hot for anything else) and goes to the closest bank he can find, which happens to be about a twenty minute walk away, kind of a smallish building tucked in between a deli and a bakery.
…Whiiiich, through complete coincidence, is also what the Fake AH Crew has decided to rob that same day.
“Everyone freeze! Down on the floor. Hands behind your heads, now!”
The voice rings much clearer in person than on video, Jon thinks. And then he processes what exactly the voice has told him to do.
Shit.
Jon looks behind him and sure enough, that’s three of the Crew standing right at the bank entrance, shooting out the security cameras and pointing assault rifles at people’s heads. There’s enough talking and yelling going on that Jon can figure out that those three are the most public of the Crew, the ones whose names are actually known to the police. God knows they yell them out often enough on jobs.
“Hey, you!” This one’s Geoff Ramsey. Jon’s pretty sure, even though it looks like all of the Crew are wearing… duct tape masks? Is that what it is? Huh. Not the first choice of mask Jon would’ve considered, considering Geoff’s infamously impressive mustache. “You, with the floppy douchebag hair! Down on the ground!”
With the threat of the wrong end of a gun pointed right at him, Jon slowly complies. The ones behind Geoff, Michael and Gavin, take a momentary pause in shooting around the witnesses to discuss something very quickly. One of them elbows Geoff and mutters something, and Jon can almost see the wheels of Geoff’s mind turn. Except not, because his nose is pressed onto the ground.
He’s thankful for his anosmia, because he cannot imagine the carpet smells all that good. He hears a footstep sprinting away from the main bank lobby, some more yelling and threatening tellers.
“‘Ey,” comes a British accent from above him. Something thin and still quite hot nudges the back of his head briefly. “You’re that designer dude, aren’t you?”
“Uhhh,” Jon says, muffled by the carpet. “Is my answer gonna decide whether you shoot me or not?”
“So you are,” Gavin Free says delightedly. “Big fan of your shirts! All of us are, you know. Micoo’s even wearing one of them right now, look.”
There’s an insistent tapping on his head so Jon swallows, hopes he isn’t going to die for it, and lifts his head. Some distance away, Michael Jones is yelling at a man who was going for his phone, and beneath his trademark leather jacket Jon definitely sees his ‘Mogar is Ready’ shirt.
Well, Jon’s not sure whether to be mortified, terrified, or in awe. Some combination of all three is running through his veins.
Actually, that might just be adrenalin.
Once Michael’s done scaring the shit out of the man, he looks up and happens to notice him. And Michael grins, gives him a jaunty wave, and goes right back to patrolling the array of hapless bank patrons laid out before him. From outside come the sounds of vague explosions and screaming, which Jon hazily pinpoints as the work of Brownman and Vagabond, two of the more elusive members. They always wear masks out and go by their respective codenamed at all times.
There’s wild sprinting from the back, and then Geoff is back with a comically large brown bag stuffed with cash yelling, “Go to Jack, go, go! I got the money, let’s go!”
“Hold on,” says Gavin, picking up one of the loose bills drifting to the ground. “Anyone got a pen? Pen, Micoo?”
“Do I look like I’m carrying a goddamn pen, Gavin?”
“Ehh, guess not. Hold on a moment.” Gavin leaves Jon for a bit, ambling up to a terrified teller while still keeping his gun right on her face. “Sorry luv, could I bother you for a pen? Thanks.”
And then he goes back to Jon, handing him the pen and $100 bill. “Autograph? For a friend.”
Jon blinks. “You’re asking me to sign some of your stolen cash?” Even as he asks, he takes it and slaps a messy signature across the diagonal of the bill because shock apparently makes him compliant.
“Thanks! See you around, don’t be a stranger!”
And with that half of the Fake AH Crew is sprinting out the doorway, spraying bullets and, true to form, yelling at each other.
Everyone waits until the police sirens fade into the distance, before the tension in the bank seems to burst. Some people start crying. Some people just collapse into puddles of flesh on the floor. Others immediately have their phones out, calling and texting and shouting hysterically.
As for Jon? He gets up, pays his rent, and goes home.
-
-
He commiserates at Ryan because there’s honestly not much else to do and he likes spending time with Ryan. It’s only 3:30 pm, but he feels a beer is justified in this case. Ryan doesn’t drink but he does offer vaguely sympathetic noises.
“One of them asked me to sign some of the cash he stole,” Jon says.
“Looks like you’re getting famous,” Ryan comments. Jon had had to spill the beans one day when Ryan caught him carrying up an armful of shirts a couple of weeks ago. The other man had been surprisingly supportive and enthusiastic about it, and it was hard for Jon to hide how happy he’d been that Ryan seemed to think he was talented and was doing something cool.
“What kind of idiot does that in the middle of a bank robbery?” he asks.
“Probably a really huge idiot,” Ryan says. “An immense moron. They probably build national monuments to scales smaller than that of his stupidity.”
“Sounds about right,” Jon mutters into the lip of the bottle. “They were using duct tape masks. And, you know Geoff Ramsey, right? Really giant mustache. Huge, hairy caterpillar thing. How’d he take it off?”
Ryan snorts. “Very painfully,” he says, and then adds, “I’d imagine.” He rubs at his cheek.
“I’m going to make a shirt,” Jon declares. “I’m going to commemorate my near death experience with a shirt. Because that’s how I deal with emotions. With shirts.”
“Atta boy,” says Ryan, patting Jon on the shoulder. “You’ll recover from your emotional trauma in no time. Also can I have the first one? Or, can I buy the first one, if you still need the cash?”
Putting clothes on Ryan is exactly the opposite of what Jon wants to do. But he’s not yet so drunk that he’d admit it–it’s only been half a beer–so he bites his tongue and says, “Okay.”
-
-
After the bank robbery Jon’s not sure what happened. Twice or thrice, he can suppose it’s coincidence. But lately he’s been running into the Fake AH Crew far too often for it to be mere chance.
The first time after the bank robbery he can still buy it as a coincidence. He’s about to get in a taxi because he needs to find his way to a new part of town and he doesn’t want to chance a frantic bus chase and be late. But as luck would have it, right at the exact moment that he’s about to get in, someone comes tearing down the corner, yanking open the door and practically leaping into the other seat.
“You, get in!” the other man snaps at Jon. “You, drive!"
“What-“ is all that Jon gets out before the other man gets impatient and yanks him in by the wrist. “I don’t care where, I’ll pay you whatever you want, just drive!” the stranger yells at the cabbie.
“Got it, boss.” The driver seems entirely too calm considering the fact that there’s a swarm of flashing sirens descending upon them. So the cabbie floors it, and Jon is sent slamming into the back of the seat, and holy shit he’s part of a car chase.
The other man sighs in relief but quickly rolls down the window and pulls out a gun. “I’d cover my ears if I were you,” the man says, before sticking his arm out the window and shooting.
“Why is this happening,” says Jon, hands clapped over his ears. He’s curled up in his seat as far as possible from the other man. After a moment it seems like he’s too preoccupied with trying to shoot out the police cars’ tires, so Jon figures that he probably won’t lose his hand and buckles up.
The chase lasts almost an hour, which is almost an hour too long to be healthy for Jon’s heart. When it’s done the other man directs the taxi into a back alley at the extreme south end of Los Santos, tipping the cabbie an extra $200 on top of the already ridiculous fare.
“Sorry about your ride,” the man says, unlocking the side door and slipping out. “I hope you can make your way back. I’ll just be on my way now.”
“Oh no, it’s no problem,” says Jon, because he’s got enough common sense to not inconvenience the one holding a gun.
Then the other man stops, looking closely at Jon before chuckling. “By the way, Vagabond gives his thanks for the autograph,” the bearded man tosses over his shoulder as he walks away.
Vagabond?
“Oh.” Jon looks in the direction that the man left. “Oh no.”
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So then after that he definitely feels like he’s being stalked. When he goes to the unholy offspring of a shitty bar and a Denny’s and a Starbucks there’s Michael Jones ordering a frankly ridiculous drink that has three shots of alcohol too many to be appropriate for 9 in the morning.
He gets three more commissions requests from the email that asked about the rubber duck. Two of them involve dicks, which Jon declines on principle. The third one also involves dicks, but pays double the rubber duck amount. And that would pay for a hell of a lot of green tea lattes, so Jon takes that one because he is a weak-willed man.
“i keep paying you ridiculous amounts of money,” that email complains. “and you dont even work for me.”
“ps you still have douchebag hair. get it trimmed dude. seriously.”
On the way to the movies for the new Captain America, he somehow runs into Gavin Free and Brownman. Gavin slings an arm around his shoulders, complains that they’re too horizontal, and offers him a chocolate bar. Brownman, walking on Jon’s other side, lunges across to grab the bar and ends up tackling Jon to the ground.
Conveniently, it happens just as a bullet whizzes past them. They end up in a three-faction firefight and Jon in particular ends up missing his show, and maybe he’s still really bitter about this transgression in particular because he wanted to see Bucky remember, goddamnit.
And he keeps getting letters. Anonymous ones, of course. Envelopes filled with obscure newspaper clippings about some of the stranger things the Fake AH Crew’s done from a few years ago. Like the time they raided a lumber mill and released a giant pile of logs rolling down a street, trying to ride on top of the demented treadmill on bikes. Or the time they tried landing a plane on Mt. Chilliad. Or the time they stole a firetruck and flooded about a dozen stores all around Los Santos.
It doesn’t escape his notice that the only one of the Crew not to find him in some way is Vagabond. It also doesn’t escape his notice that every single one of the other Crew members is mentioning the man at every chance they get.
Oh god is this a threat? Jon thinks it’s a threat.
Ryan’s sympathetic, of course. “They’re not really bad guys,” he says, and then pauses. “They cause a lot of damage. And kill a lot of cops. Break a lot of laws? Steal a lot of shit.” He pauses for a lot longer. “Explode a lot of buildings.”
“I’m gonna die,” Jon says. “I’m going to wake up one day and there’s a black skull mask staring me in the face and I’m gonna have a heart attack. I swear to god if that really happens-“
“Huh,” says Ryan. His voice is different somehow, but Jon can’t quite pinpoint why.
“I- I’m gonna- if I’m gonna go, I’m gonna make a shirt of him before I do,” Jon says. “The worst shirt I can imagine. The cheesiest. What’s that Shakespeare line, the one with the skull?”
“‘Alas poor Yorick’,” Ryan offers absently, looking a bit up in to the distance.
“That’s the one. I’m gonna make it a shirt. I’m gonna dress him up in frilly pants and stripes and put it on a shirt. Hahaha, revenge. Pre-emptive revenge. Whatever. If I go I might as well deserve it.”
“There you go with your weird coping mechanisms,” says Ryan. He pats Jon on the head. “If it makes you feel better.”
-
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So Jon’s been kidnapped.
It’s decidedly not a very pleasant experience.
Jon’s pretty sure that he’s somewhere on his way to a concussion and a whole lot of bruises. A nosebleed too. And a split lip. Head wound, if the warmth running down his ear is any indication. He’s thankful that it’s not a broken bone, or anything like that. That’d suck. A lot. And hey, he’s not dead! Yet. That’s a plus. Temporary plus. Probably about to become a minus.
…Would it technically be a zero? Blehh math. This is why Jon likes the calculator on his phone.
He’s not really sure where he is. A big dark abandoned room somewhere. It’s kinda cold. There’s nobody else around; they left him alone after they tossed him in here. So, small comforts?
The story of how he ended up here is an interesting one too. Or sad. Or just plain stupid. Jon would like to say that he’s well-versed in the ways of Los Santos by now, but apparently the street knowledge that he prided himself upon didn’t include inter-gang politics. Because apparently the Captain America shootout happened on Ballas territory, see? Four of the dead gang members were Ballas themselves, in fact. And the Ballas were not happy about the fact that Jon’s latest shirt was basically rubbing their loss of face, well, in their faces, so to speak.
So they want to teach Jon a lesson.
“Ow,” Jon says to himself, for no real reason in particular. Maybe it’s just to hear something other than his own wheezing.
And he was so proud of himself for not getting involved in a mugging or something. But well, technically he was already involved in a bank robbery, a shootout, and a high-speed chase. Kidnapping isn’t that much of a step up from that, right?
…
The door creaks open, and four backlit figures step into the room. As they get closer Jon can start making out their faces; the one at the lead has a very smug grin on his face. All four men are holding baseball bats. One of them looks aluminum.
“So, Mr. Graphic Designer. Let’s have a talk, you and me.”
Jesus. Jon’s really gotten himself into a mess now, hasn’t he?
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Jon doesn’t know how long he’s been here. Since the last Ballas left the room. All he knows is that everything really, really hurts. And he’s thirsty. He would be hungry too but he’s so hungry that it’s wrapped around to feeling full.
There’s a lot more blood in the room than when they started. He thinks he might have a broken bone now. It sucks exactly as much as he thought it would.
Does killing him count as teaching him a lesson? If so Jon is really not looking forward to this lesson. He left school for a reason, damn it!
…Okay so maybe the pain is making him loopy. It’s a legitimate excuse. Thinking straight is hard when his head feels like he got clocked across the jaw with an aluminum bat. Which, you know, it feels like it happened because it actually did.
Far away something sounds like it’s exploding. There’s a lot of footsteps, panicked and angry yelling. More explosions. Huh. He didn’t expect dying to sound like a Michael Bay movie. He hopes the rest of the afterlife isn’t as shitty.
There are quite a lot of explosions.
The door swings open. Through a badly swollen eye Jon can make out a blurry figure approaching, something long held in its hands. It doesn’t look like a metal bat. He hopes it isn’t.
“Jesus,” the figure says. The deep voice is familiar, somehow. Warm and soft and like the sun. “That’s a lot of blood.”
“S’okay, it’ll wash out,” Jon mutters. He coughs once. His voice is hoarser than he’s used to. “Saltwater and- and the meaty thing. Tenderizer.”
The figure shouts something over its shoulder before slowly walking over to Jon. “You’ve got a good memory,” the man says ruefully, gently running fingers through Jon’s matted hair. “Sorry,” he says, when he brushes against painful spot that makes Jon wince.
“Thanks, Ryan,” Jon says faintly.
The fingers stop moving. “What?”
“Oh good it was you. Thought I was going crazy,” Jon murmurs as another pair of footsteps approaches. There’s still the noise of some commotion outside, but it’s quieter now. Not as many explosions. “Thought you were wearing a skull mask.”
“Uhhh.”
“Out of the way, let me see,” interrupts another voice, similarly deep and familiar, but different. The warm hands are batted away, replaced by another pair that prod and skitter across his wounds. “Not life-threatening, but the head wounds need to get looked at. Vagabond, help me carry him out-“
Jon’s confused. It was Ryan, wasn’t it? Why’s the Vagabond here? But he’s abruptly weightless for a brief moment, and blood rushes everywhere–cursing in the background, drifting further away–and he’s so, so nauseous and so, so tired that he lets everything fade slowly into black.
-
-
Jon wakes up slowly, aware of everything that hurts.
He groans as he pushes himself up, eyes slowly blinking open. The ceiling is a really ugly shade of cream and there’s no cracks in the paint at the top left corner- this isn’t his room.
“What hit me?” Jon asks aloud. It’s just barely more than a croak.
He doesn’t expect a startled noise to come up from his left. He turns his neck–slowly, because that hurts too–and it’s Ryan sitting there, hair messy and skin pale, looking at Jon like he’s a miracle.
“Jon. Are you okay?”
“No,” he answers, because fuck. Ow. It really, really does hurt. But if Ryan’s here, then…
“Oh thank god. I thought I had the craziest dream ever,” Jon says. And once he starts it comes spilling out in a rush of words, “I got kidnapped and beaten up and you were there in a skull mask and- and… and it…wasn’t a dream.”
Jon trails off slowly as Ryan swallows nervously and lifts up his hand, a black rubber mask dangling from his fingertips.
Jon’s brain short circuits briefly. Reboots.
“Oh,” he says.
“Yeah,” says Ryan. “Oh.”
“So…You’re Vagabond?”
“Yes.” Ryan coughs and averts his eyes. “I’m sorry for not being honest with you. I didn’t think that you’d get caught up in all of this.” Ryan gestures at where Jon’s laid out on the bed. “I never wanted you to get hurt. I’m so sorry.”
Jon’s still a bit stuck on the ‘my neighbor is secretly part of the Fake AH Crew’ bit to even start considering the fact that he was kidnapped. Which kind of seems like he should be concerned about his sense of prioritization? Whatever. Jon’s injured. He’ll take advantage of that.
“It makes a lot of sense, actually,” Jon says. No wonder Ryan liked the shirts. Or how he always tried to defend the Fake AH Crew, and why it sounded kind of awkward. Speaking of awkward-
“Oh my god I made a shirt out of you.” Jon stares at Ryan in horror.
“Uh. Yeah. You made shirts out of all of us. That’s kind of what got you in this mess in the first place.” Ryan looks at him oddly.
Ryan really doesn’t understand the gravity of the situation. “No, you don’t get it. I made that shirt. The Shakespeare one. Oh my god I made a shirt of you in frilly tights reciting emo Shakespeare lines. It has sequins.” Neither of his arms are in a cast and he doesn’t feel any pain in his hands so he covers his face with both palms.
Ow, bad idea, there’s a lot of bruises on his face. “Ow.”
“You actually made that shirt?” Ryan asks. He almost sounds amused.
“Oh my god,” Jon moans. “It’s not printed yet but the final draft is on my laptop. Oh my god.”
“I kinda like the idea of that shirt, actually,” Ryan says. “I promise not to kill you if you print it?”
“OH MY GOD JUST BANG EACH OTHER ALREADY,” says a voice from the other side of the door. It’s immediately followed by four other voices shushing it desperately.
Jon looks to the door. Now it’s Ryan’s turn to look mortified.
He takes a deep breath, tone of voice immediately sobering. “Okay, Jon, I need to tell you something.”
“You mean besides being part of a gang?” Jon asks automatically, because the Ballas didn’t break whichever part of him produces sarcasm.
“Listen. At first when you moved in, it was a job. To examine you, see if you were part of a rival gang or on their payroll or something. But it’s different now. I like spending time with you, I think you’re funny and nice and talented and really pretty and your hair is fluffy and-“ Ryan stops himself, shooting a baleful glare at the quiet snickering from the door. Jon’s still stuck on the ‘really pretty’ part because what. Ryan thinks he’s pretty? Ryan thinks he’s pretty. What.
“Okay,” Ryan continues. “What I’m trying to say is that I like you, Jon. And I understand if you don’t want to have anything to do with me ever again after this and I’ll stay out of your life as much as possible- if you want to move to a different apartment the Crew can pay for it-“ There’s an indignant noise behind the door that Jon tentatively identifies as Geoff, and even more shushing. “-or if you want to stay then I can move out and we don’t have to see each other again-“
“Ryan,” Jon interrupts. The man immediately falls silent. “I like you too.”
Ryan blinks. “You what?”
“I like you too,” Jon says. “And I mean yeah I won’t say no to moving out because the apartment is shit but I like spending time with you too and I still want to keep spending time with you too. And I think you’re handsome. And I like you too. I said that already didn’t I.”
There’s short pause.
“So,” says Ryan, slowly. “So… is it- does this…” He clears his throat. “So, Jon, can I have your number?”
There’s a muffled wolf-whistle.
Ryan leans his head around and yells, “Shut the fuck up Ray!”
-
