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It was exactly 4:57 am when a loud thump echoed like a siren in the spacious bedroom, jolting Pete violently awake. He sits bolt upright, feeling the world tilt dizzyingly as the blood rushes from his head and his hand reaches automatically for the Glock 45, hidden in the first drawer of the nightstand.
Left corner, clear. Balcony, clear. En-suite bathroom, probably clear. Right corner, clear.
It's quiet, minus the annoying hands of the clock trapped in their never-ending cycle. Pete groans deeply when he realizes there’s no threat in his line of vision.
Was it his imagination? Could it be Macau’s keyboard smashing against the wall again? Seriously, how bad is that kid at gaming? He should have been an expert by now with how much time he spends in front of the screen.
Taking a brief moment to stretch his stinging muscles and yawn widely, Pete places the gun back in its place. He'd fallen asleep where he'd collapsed one hour earlier, sprawled inelegantly on the cotton sheets. Pete's nights have been quite restless lately as Venice was crying on and off. Low appetite, constant finger-sucking, and heartbreaking sobs were the main indications that his poor boy’s teething days were going to be a painful process to get through. Heck, Pete can still feel an angry red mark embedded on his finger from Venice’s earlier attempt to cannibalize it. Crap! Maybe he was the one that woke Pete up.
He blinks a few times to adjust his eyes even further before taking a quick look at the baby monitor. No movement. The little guy is still sleeping. Peacefully, for now, splayed out on his tummy. One hand under one of the gazillion stuffed creatures Khoon Noo Tankhun had bought him, and the other loosely curled into the soft blanket Venice enjoyed sleeping with.
What the hell woke Pete up then?
Oh, never mind. He wants to use the loo anyway.
Swinging his bare feet to rest against the cold, wooden floor, toes curling and uncurling, he pauses and looks at the nearby couch and what’s on it. Moonlight illuminates a small plastic basin with discarded clothes that Pete specifically told Vegas to place in the laundry room. That bastard! One minute he is a perfectionist who cannot stand seeing things piled higgledy-piggledy on the floor and the other he’s a diva that can’t even lift a finger. That bastard! Eh, fuck it, Pete will clear it up in the morni— wait a minute. Where is that bastard?
Pete turns around sharply to look at the bed. It’s empty. Never a good sign. Shit! Where the hell is he?
There’s an expanding rock of panic that makes its way up his throat and Pete's mind is already imagining all kinds of macabre scenarios when suddenly he hears a muffled groan come from the floor on the other side of the bed. Without further ado, he crawls across the bed and looks down spotting a rumpled mess of twisted sheets, dark red satin pajamas, and parts of pale skin that is his lunatic boyfriend. Or husband? Or maybe a life companion? They haven’t put a name to our relationship yet. They just acknowledge that they belong to each other.
After finally finding out what was the source of the noise he heard earlier, Pete murmurs in a tone that's something between affectionate and mocking.
“Hey, bastard Vegas, still feeling like crap, huh?”
The bundle shudders slightly at his voice and Pete huff heavily. Vegas has been sick for the past few excruciatingly long days.
Allow Pete to emphasize to you just how apocalyptic such a situation is. Take the psychopath that is a healthy Vegas Theerapanyakun and add a high fever, uncomfortable dizziness, increased impulsive aggression towards everyone and everything, yes, even his beloved books weren’t spared from his wrath and thrown across the room several times, a heavy dose of misery whenever he had to take his medication, and snot. A lot of snot. What do you get adding all that? Morgoth incarnate that's what. Huh? You don’t know who Morgoth is? Read the Silmarillion you dumb fucks.
Anyway, when Pete tried to take Vegas' temperature yesterday he grabbed the digital device, the third one, mind you, and sank it in a nearby glass of water. That overgrown baby! Vegas swings between being completely limp and lobotomized to lashing out like Jack Torrance from The Shining. Pete has never expected that dealing with a bedridden Vegas would be so… intriguing in relation to handling Khun Noo. Though Pete should probably keep that to himself.
It's been exactly 78 hours and 22 minutes since the nightmare began. Vegas kindly blowing grits all over their dining table should have been a sufficient presage. He insisted that he was fine, however, his condition worsened as the day passed. Pete's always worried when Vegas lies to him about his mental or physical status, but he's only been quite concerned since yesterday morning, when, instead of going to work, Vegas wordlessly wrapped himself in a blanket on one of the couches in the living room and started watching reruns of F4 Boys Over Flowers. So no, scratch that, Pete was not concerned. he was freaking out by then.
He had to reassure Macau that he would handle that big dumb lump of a man while he was in college before moving Venice’s bassinet from their bedroom to the nursery. Yes, the baby still sleeps with them, screw you! Nevertheless, there’s no way Pete would leave a teething baby and a sick psycho in the same room for the time being. He would have felt like a lost Hobbit among the aforementioned Morgoth and his infant buddy Sauron.
After a couple of episodes of that idiotic romcom, during which Vegas never moved a muscle and Pete tended to other matters around the mansion, he carried him to bed when it looked like he'd finally fallen into a fitful sleep, but, alas, Pete was wrong.
“Give me that!,” “Serve me this!,” “Why are you leaving me alone to go feed the brat?,” “Bring me my guitar. I’m gonna sing you a love song about khua kling.”
The words that came out of Vegas' mouth got more ridiculous by the minute and by the time Pete hit the sack, he had barely managed to be a proper nanny to two extremely cranky Theerapanyakun members.
That was yesterday though. Now, let’s start round two.
Pete tugs the sheet off his fallen angel’s face and freeze momentarily at the imagery. His eyes are half-open, but they're lifeless. He can't see Pete in this feverish fog he has gotten himself lost. Pete sees trails of sweat on his skin, and as he push his damp hair away from Vegas' forehead, heat scratches his palm. Vegas doesn't react. Doesn’t even lean in Pete's hand as he usually does.
That's odd.
“You seem a little out of it, hmm?” Pete says with a sympathetic smile.
Suddenly, a bloodless claw lashes out and snatches his wrist, nails digging deep into the veins even though the arm shakes weakly. Pete keeps still. “It's okay, Vegas. It’s just me.” he says carefully. “Just me.”
Vegas sluggishly raises his eyes to meet Pete's whilst painfully untangling himself out of his linen cocoon. The older man says and does nothing, waiting patiently for the younger's next move. With trembling limbs Vegas crawls his way onto their bed and into Pete's lap, his broad chest heaving, his pajamas have long lost their pleasant lavender aroma and his fingers loosening their vise grip on Pete's wrist in favor of holding it gently. He fists his free hand into the fabric of Pete's shirt and drags his heavy head forward until he's forehead to forehead with him.
One second. Two seconds. Three. Vegas' world seems to have shrunk and fallen silent until…
“Pete.” he rasps out, voice barely audible and trembling.
Pete swallows thickly.
“Holy Buddha, he speaks.” Pete's not worried. He's not. It's just a stupid flu. It'd take more than that to bring his wayward bastard down.
“Why don’t I cook my breakfast on your head? Fry me some gai yang on that forehead.” he mutters cheerfully, trying to keep his voice down so as not to startle Vegas.
No reaction.
“Come on.” he keeps this bag of bones as steady as he can and reaches for Vegas' nightstand where he keeps a spare thermometer. "It’s your favorite time of the day. We are going to take your temperature and then take some meds."
Vegas doesn't reply.
“Well, don't be so over the moon,” Pete adds sarcastically, though without any malice.
Pete envelopes him in a tight hug and shifts him so his burning forehead is resting against his shoulder. Hesitating for a moment after remembering what happened to the last three thermometers in this house, Pete prays that Vegas is too feeble to put up a fight, but just to be sure he starts rubbing a hand soothingly up and down his back.
“Open up, please,” he says tapping the end of the thermometer against his thin, pale lips.
Nothing.
“Vegas.” Still, no signal. Dammit.
“My dear egocentric maniac. Hey, look at me.” with the speed of a snail, his eyes roll upwards to gaze hazily at Pete's mouth, as if it's the most fascinating thing in the world. Pete rolls his eyes to the side.
"Hold this under your tongue, okay?"
Vegas slowly peels open his mouth and lets the device slide inside, sharp teeth grating along it as he does so. Pete never lets go of the other end though. Who knows what Vegas would do in this condition. Pete says it’s dollars to doughnuts that Vegas would try to gouge out his partner's eye with it.
“I would appreciate it if you could refrain from biting it. You have enough injuries as it is.”
Vegas' jaw loosens a little bit and Pete sighs with relief. While they wait his hands are fisting in Pete's shirt, curling and uncurling menacingly, stretching the material into deformity. Shirt number 98 that has been ruined by Vegas or their son. Two more and Pete is definitely asking Vegas to buy him one from a popular brand. Wait. Why only one? They’ve destroyed a whole market stall of clothes and he's agreeing on an unfair compromise? No! He's sure the employees at the local Prada store will be more than happy to show him a few new designs. Or all of them.
Aw, shit. Now Vegas has found his hair. Pete's afraid that he’s also gonna spit the thermometer and put Pete's hair in his mouth like Venice often does.
"Stop tagging! Ouch!" Despite Pete's honest effort to gently pry Vegas' fingers from his hair, Vegas outright refuses to let go.
“It’s just a few more seconds. It’s okay. You don’t have to be so nervous about it.”
Pete got a grunt back in response.
The thermometer beeps and he frowns when he sees the numbers displayed. 39 degrees Celsius which is equivalent to 102 degrees Fahrenheit which is also equivalent to how fucked they are.
“That’s not good,” Pete announces, looking down at Vegas sympathetically and keeping up the reassuring touches before saying: “Your fever has gone up again so meds are on the way.”
Pete attempts to briefly lay him down on his pillows to get the pill but Vegas holds his shirt hostage. Look on the bright side, at least he’s stopped tagging on Pete's hair.
“Vegas, I’m not a sorcerer, I cannot conjure the stuff I need. Please, let me go for a sec.”
Pete knows that in his dazed condition, Vegas thinks that if he lets go Pete will get the hell out of his life once and for all. You dumbass! How many times does Pete have to tell you that he's not gonna leave you?
“I’ll be right back. I promise.” with a heavy heart, Pete pries Vegas' hands from the fabric and bolt out of the bed to head to the cupboard where he keeps all their meds.
What happens next is something he thought he would never live to experience. Vegas whined. Pete swears to all the twenty-four deities of Buddhism. Vegas whined at the loss of contact with him.
“Shh, it’s okay. I’m here.” The moment Vegas hears his voice coming closer he reaches his arms out towards Pete nearly falling face down on the mattress. An overgrown baby indeed. Pete pulls him into a warm hug that Vegas eagerly sinks into.
Okay, that’s new. Limp, yes. Angry, also yes. But clingy? “Honestly, for a guy who terrifies half the city, you’re the neediest patient I’ve ever seen.” Pete muttered, barely containing a grin as Vegas clung to him like a koala in designer pajamas.
Never mind. Pete's still on a mission to give him his damn pill.
Remember what Pete's told you earlier? How Vegas reacts when he takes his medication? Well, coaxing him into taking some right now is an odyssey and he's not going to bother you with all the details. Just know that Pete tries but no matter how much he asks, blackmails, or outright begs, Vegas never agrees to take anything.
Pete winces as his breaths rattle weakly in his chest. His Vegas is not supposed to be like this. Not weak. Not loopy. Not vulnerable. It's scaring the shit out of him. Fuck, he's had enough of this. This fever's going down. Now!
“Vegas, I love you. I really do, but if you keep this attitude I’m gonna have to be rough.” he warns him sternly. What can he do? Sometimes he has to be the bad cop.
"No." It's dazed and muffled but dripping with spite. Pete flinchs as Vegas suddenly sinks his teeth into his chest and starts gnawing at Pete's collarbone. It hurts but it’s not unbearable.
“Don't wanna. It’s poison.”
“Has the fever finally fried your psychotic brain? I’m not trying to poison you, you idiot. Quite the opposite actually.”
“No.”
“Last chance. If you don’t drink it willingly I’m gonna shove it down your throat.” he admonishes before the chaos begins.
Sure enough… Vegas goes mental. Biting, scratching, punching, the whole shebang.
Is it strange to say Pete's glad he's fighting him?
“Stop that!” Pete raises his voice while he grabs the younger's shoulders and shake him once, quite hard. “Hey!”
Vegas eyes are wild, flitting about, flinching at shadows in the corners of the room.
“Vegas, enough.” he's breathing too fast, hyperventilating.
“Kornwit!”
He goes still. Blinks a few times. Nobody in the world calls him Kornwit. Nobody but Pete.
The former bodyguard takes a deep, steadying breath. He's exhausted, Vegas is exhausted, and they're definitely both sick of fighting a faceless germ that Pete can't even shoot in its fucking ugly core.
Stroking Vegas' hair again, Pete notices the way that he tenses a little at the light touch. "I want to take care of you, Vegas,” he says desperately. “If you are willing to let me.”
Vegas slowly peers up at him, face twisted up with rage, pain, and fear. There's no venom in his voice. Vegas knows it. Deep down.
His barely noticeable nod says it all.
Pete sighs with relief while he crushes the pill and dissolves it in a bottle of water that he holds for Vegas to drink.
“Thank you for listening to me,” he smiles, pulling Vegas again into a tight hug. “And I’m sorry for shouting at you.”
He doesn't say anything, but Pete can tell there's something on his mind.
He placate him with warm soothing hands and Vegas slowly calms down, allowing himself to cozy up to Pete's chest. They stayed like that on the bed for several minutes with Pete pressing kisses into the top of Vegas' head whenever he shook from the fever. He looks so brittle and though it’s obvious that he would rather stay cuddled like this until Venice enters college or something, Pete refuses to leave him in this sweaty state any longer.
“How about I give you a bath?" he suggests with a smile.
“No,” Vegas responds. He isn’t grumpy. Just tired.
That earned him a snort from Pete. "You must be really out of it to turn down a proposition like that.”
Before he has a chance to protest, Pete places him carefully on his pillow and jump to his feet.
“Don't le—”
“What pajamas do you want to wear after?” Pete asks distractedly, rustling in one of the drawers and fishing out two pairs. A dark blue and a black one.
He holds out the first one for Vegas to see. “You wore this one when you fucked me senseless on the kitchen counter,” Then he presents the second option. “And this one when you spanked me on the balcony last Tuesday night.”
The Lord of Tissues doesn't budge.
"The black one it is," Pete mutters to himself and throws the pajamas on the couch.
He gathers Vegas in his arms and heads towards their en suite bathroom. It's so fucking awkward, holding Vegas bridal style with his arms dangling limply. Usually, he is the one who carries Pete like this after their sexual activities.
He lets out a moan as Pete pushes the door slowly open and closes it behind them.
“Does moving around makes your head hurt more?”
“Mmm…” Vegas answers eloquently.
Pete raised an eyebrow while he manages to turn on the lights. "You’ll survive.”
He kneels by the edge of the tub, place Vegas there, and turns his attention to the faucet. The water is quickly filling the tub as he starts adding a little bit of bath soap along with a few drops of eucalyptus essential oil.
In the meantime, Vegas keeps up his Oscar-worthy impression of a corpse. He looks a little apprehensive and would rather be anywhere else, but he's going to make it through tonight's bath without freaking out again. At least Pete hopes so.
He quickly check the temperature of the running water. It is a bit cooler than Pete would have liked it, but to cool Vegas down from a fever it was perfect.
“It's ready,” Pete announces, switching the faucet off when the tub is nearly full.
At the sight of the bubbles, Vegas gripped Pete's shirt tighter.
“Vegas,” he says softly wincing as the other tugs harder, if possible. “You're gonna have to let go, I need to undress you.”
“Together.”
Pete blinked, then snorted. “Oh, so now you’re romantic? This is a just a bath, not our honeymoon, Mr. Clingy. Let go before I have to charge you for extra services.”
Vegas is about to protest when suddenly he goes blank and stares behind Pete's back.
It took Pete a split second to turn around and look into the emptiness of the bathroom before he heard a familiar phrase.
“Intruder alert.” Vegas murmurs, like an accusation.
Not this bullshit again. Not now. Well, what did Pete expect when Vegas was running a fever? Oh, well…
“Defensive position 4!" Pete shouts and for a brief second he detects a spark of life in Vegas' eyes. He sets his mouth into a grim line and dives into Pete's lap, curling up. Pete wraps his arms around him like a cage, covering as much as he can from the non-existent threat. "Check perimeter, Vegas."
You'll probably want an explanation by now, right? Well, after Pete became part of the minor family he had to make some major adjustments. You know him. His security standards are high. He took the role of the PPO, an abbreviation of Personal Protection Operative, of Vegas as well as TL, or Team Leader, of their bodyguards. Of course, he couldn’t do that alone and offered that idiot Nop the position of his 2IC, aka Second In Command, which he gladly accepted. Over the next few months, their security quality improved so much that the guys over at Fort Knox would have been jealous.
In the meantime, Pete also got the chance to teach Vegas and Macau several different defensive positions, one for every common scenario. So why are they doing all this crap right now, in a bathroom, alone?
Well, when Vegas has random delusions or even just nightmares, he'll generally start to see figures in the shadows. His all-time favorite is his own father. His psychiatrist thinks they're the product of the stress and paranoia of being constantly at risk of being assassinated by absolutely everyone. Anyway, instead of trying to talk him out of these delusions, which doesn't work, believe him, Pete's tried, they all decided to go along with them and resolve them.
“Where’s the intruder?” Pete mutters in Vegas' ear, holding his hand up with his thumb and index finger outstretched as if it’s a gun. Hey! Vegas is burning up and barely understands what’s going on around him. If Pete says right now that his hand is a gun, it fucking is. He even put on a show of loading it with imaginary bullets in front of Vegas.
He points up at a malicious-looking wall tile.
"Just one?" he asks and the patient nods. "Cover your ears."
Would Pete pretend to kill an innocent tile just so Vegas will feel safe? Fuck yeah, he would!
“Bang!” he shouts. Again, don’t you dare judge Pete. He has a baby sleeping next door and a flock of bodyguards around the mansion. There’s no way he's firing a real gun without an adequate reason.
"Got him." he pretends to holster his gun before he lowers his head to whisper in Vegas' ear. “We’re safe.”
He knows Vegas trusts him, even if that 'bang' sounded like a pop gun at a kid's birthday party, for after that he becomes completely obedient and blessedly quiet.
"Come on. Into the bathtub now."
Together they tug his pajama top up over his head and then Pete help him strip the rest of the way, bundling the pajamas up and throwing them in the corner. Once Vegas was completely naked he slowly sank in the water with a sigh. Aches he hadn't even noticed were disappearing.
As Pete methodically starts to wash him down, the strokes of the sponge never linger too long, keeping the whole process reassuringly efficient.
Reclining him back, Pete takes the shampoo from the nearby wooden stand, squeezes a few drops into his palm and carefully rub it in Vegas' hair. It smells heavenly in here thanks to the oil and Vegas seems to enjoy Pete's ministrations. His shoulders slump a little as Pete kneads his scalp while his eyes have long slipped closed. It looks like he's getting a bit of color back. Yes! Ten points for Slytherin! He's already freaking pale as it is.
Pete grabs the showerhead and soaks the shampoo suds out delicately with one hand, keeping the stinging substance from getting in Vegas' eyes. Slowly but steadily, Vegas was coming into alertness. Good. Maybe the bath hadn't been such a bad idea after all. Finally finished, Pete help him out and start toweling him down, careful not to rub too hard or too sensual. He's glad he closed the bathroom door. The air in here is quite warm now. Goosebumps won't do Vegas' recovery any favors.
"When we first got into the bathroom he was bleeding on the floor."
Pete pauses, surprised. "Who?"
"Dad."
His blood runs cold. Not really thinking about it, Pete spins him around slowly, then pull him gently to his chest. His hair’s wet and the dampness is slowly seeping into Pete's shirt, but he doesn't care. He doesn't relax, but he doesn't push Pete away either.
"It’s alright, Vegas," Pete says, gruffly, a little pathetically. “He’s not going to hurt you anymore. I’m your bodyguard remember? I’m gonna protect you. It’s okay.”
Of course, it's not okay. It never was. It probably never will be. But that's what you do when you love someone. You look them square in the eye and lie until your heart bleeds dry in order to shield them from their nightmares.
"Pete."
"Hmm?"
"Cold."
"Y-Yeah, sorry. Let’s go."
Vegas' right arm creeps up and wraps around Pete's neck for support. A clear indication that he won’t tolerate any more free rides in his arms.
Extremely carefully, Pete hold him around his waist as they walk to the couch and he helps him slip into his clean pajamas.
“Would you like me to blow dry your hair?” Pete questions, receiving a shake of the head as an answer.
“Too loud,” he admits, probably feeling uncomfortable even with the prospect of having that device near him.
“Fair enough. Stay put then.”
He silently nods and Pete rushes to change the bed sheets and the covers. He watches Pete intently as he does so, still dazed and out of it, but the shadows underneath his eyelids are a little brighter.
Okay, all done. It’s not perfect as Vegas usually likes, but it will do for now. Pete's not going for the Housekeeper of the Year award. Half a minute later he has Vegas cozily tucked into bed.
When he goes to straighten up, Vegas grabs a clump of his hair and yanks him down until Pete's leaning over him. The temporary night nurse raises an eyebrow, but Vegas stares at him intensely, clutching at his bangs like a lifeline.
Pete just looks amused. "You know, I think that if you could be baked out of your head all the time, you'd be much easier to deal with."
"Fuck you." he mutters, vaguely and releases his grip.
That’s proof, ladies and gents. He feels better and he shows it.
“Close your eyes and rest,” Pete says patting Vegas gently on the shoulder before walking back to the bathroom. And don’t think even for a second that he hasn't noticed Vegas' forehead crease into a frown the moment he turns his back on him.
“Where are yo—”
“I’ll be back in a jiffy.”
After having the chance to use the loo at last, Pete takes care of the bathwater and some other stuff for the sake of keeping the place at least superficially clean before the maids take over later.
He switches off the light and returns to his sleeping beau— Oh fuck! He nearly had a heart attack. Vegas' sharp eyes are on him again. Do you think that’s funny? He’s like an owl in a dark room.
Circling the bed, Pete lays down on his side. “I’m gonna start charging you every time I have to bathe you,” he says closing his eyes.
“It can’t be that hard.” Vegas chuckles.
Pete turns around and glares at him, though Vegas knows that there’s not a trace of malice or resentment in his glare.
“Next time I’m sick as a dog you’ll look after both me and Venice while handling our day to day operations without any help from Macau and then you’ll tell me whether it’s hard or not.”
He just gives Pete a quick peck on his lips as the other huffs in annoyance.
"I can't sleep," Vegas confesses out of the blue.
“Count sheep or your sex toys. They are equally infinite.”
“Pete.”
“And I’m not doing any funny business with you either. I’m honestly too tired and there’s no doubt you’ll faint before reaching climax.”
“Pete.”
“What? What do you expect me to do about it?” he whines miserably.
Don’t mind his tone. Though Pete's a remarkably patient person, especially with Vegas, he demands from… ehh, what was that Greek God’s name? You know, the one associated with dreams. Ah, Morpheus! Well, he demands Morpheus to do his fucking job and take them both to Slumberland right this instant.
Vegas’ lips curl cruelly at the invitation, but man is Pete relieved to see his crazy self steadily reveal himself again.
"Sing." he demands, poking a vicious finger into Pete's cheek.
In an instant, Pete's eyebrows launch into the stratosphere. "You have got to be fucking kidding me," he exclaims, dumbfounded.
"Do it."
“No way.”
“You do it all the time for Venice.” Vegas insists, nearly pouting.
Pete rolls his eyes at the weak argument against his answer. “Vegas be reasonable. You’re not a 6-month-old to be put to sleep by lullabies.”
His eyes shine with annoyance and, what’s that? Jealousy? Oh, please, not this idiotic rivalry again.
In the past he had Kinn to compete with and now it’s Venice. Pete's giving you enough attention as it is, you big buffoon. What else do you want? The other day he was pretending to read something on his phone when in fact he was looking menacingly at Venice as Pete was feeding him his snack. They were minding their own business giggling wholeheartedly, when he decided that it would be a great idea to sit right beside the highchair and demand that Pete spoon-feed him too. Let’s focus on this image for a second, shall we? The savage Vegas Theerapanyakun wanted Pete to…. spoon-feed him… avocado puree. Ridiculous! He should have slapped Vegas with a bib. Absolutely ridic— Hey! What’s with his pleading look? He was annoyed just a second ago. Did the pill have any weird side effects Pete hasn't read about? He should check as soon as Vegas falls asleep. Ugh… Screw it.
"Fine." I'll take this petty challenge of his. "If humiliating myself will buy us both some damned sleep, so be it."
Pete desperately racks his brain for the right music track. Damn it. Does he even remember any normal songs by heart? All those months with Venice meant that he was constantly listening to infantile music that although pleased the baby immensely, simultaneously annoyed the rest of the household. It’s not like Pete can sing You’ll Be in My Heart by Phil Collins to Vegas. He will slap him on his cheek and he’ll even turn to him the other also.
Hmm, let him think. What about, no, too sodding sissy. Pete guesses there's always, no, too mainstream. Maybe something that’s not exactly a lullaby. Oh, fuck it. It'll have to do. And when Vegas mocks him he'll just take it like the proud Southern man he is.
Vegas grins expectantly at him, settling back smugly on the pillows.
"Well, go on. I’m waiting," he says choking back a coughing fit.
Pete glares reproachfully at the impatient sadist. "You had better not remember this in the morning, you bastard.” Farewell, the remaining shreds of Pete's dignity. You shall be mourned. “Though mark my words," he informs with a smirk. “You should have been the one to sing that song to me. It suits you better.”
Vegas looks at him questioningly as Pete clears his throat, takes a hesitant breath, fixes his gaze on the currently very fascinating basin of clothes on the couch, and starts to sing slowly as best as he can.
"Yeah, I was lost, I was tryna find the answer, in the world around me, yeah, I was going crazy,
all day, all night. You're the only one who understood me, and all that I was going through, yeah, I just gotta tell you, oh baby, I…"
To his surprise, Vegas’ smirk has dropped off his face, and he's staring at him with an unreadable expression. Well, fuck him if he hasn't surprised Vegas with his incredible hidden talent and knowledge of K-pop songs. Thanks Khun Noo! All those years beside you haven’t been in vain. Encouraged, Pete begins the refrain with a little more gusto.
"I could make it better, I could hold you tighter, 'cause through the morning, Oh, you're the light,
And I almost lost ya, But I can't forget ya, 'Cause you were the reason that I survived…"
Guess he's not half bad at singing, after all. Out of the corner of his eyes, he can see his tormentor immersed in the lyrics.
Beyond the window pane the sun is slowly rising, dousing warm, tiny beams of orange light on the walls and the floor. It's the break of the day, and they're just going to bed. Well, that's the way things are with them. It’s abnormal, but it's comfortable. Not to mention that Pete's cute little Venice is going to wake up soon and remind him once again how exhausting and fulfilling fatherhood can be.
"You were there for me through all the times I cried, I was there for you but then I lost my mind, I know that I messed up but I promise, I, oh-oh, I can make it right…"
Vegas’ eyes were drooping. He forces them open a couple of times as he fights to stay awake. Come to think of it, he’s probably never had someone sing for him before bed, and even if he did it, he doesn’t remember. He never experienced a normal childhood, deprived of some of the simplest things like a mother’s kind touch and a father’s supportive care.
"All right, all right, oh-oh, I can make it right, all right, all right, oh-oh, I can make it right."
Being raised in this cruel mafia world was no fun. Kinda privileged, but no fun at all. Vegas never stood a chance. He was always gonna be screwed up. Still, he has his brothers, and Pete. The reluctant singer guesses they'll have to be enough to make up for all the past terrors. And hey, don’t forget that being weird is just a side effect of being awesome. Where has he heard that before?
"Your singin'… sucks ass." Vegas forces out a yawn. “No wonde’… Ven… falls asleep so… quickly.”
A tiny smile forms on Pete's lips as he tugs the covers up and snuggle closer to him.
“Goodnight, Vegas.” he leans in enough to brush a kiss on his temple.
Vegas barely hums in response.
“Get well soon.”