Archive of Our Own

Porsche called him late in the afternoon on Thursday when Vegas was reviewing some accounts and trying to figure out where he wanted to start carving out his niche. He was eyeing the wine imports and debating whether the lackluster returns were a result of bad decision-making or meant that it just wasn’t a very lucrative market for them when his phone started buzzing. He glanced at it briefly before picking up, just in case it was someone he really didn’t want to talk to.

It wasn’t someone he particularly wanted to talk to, but he also couldn’t really ignore him.

“Porsche,” he said, running his finger down a column of numbers without really looking at them, feeling the slight texture of ink on the page. “Need something?”

There was a brief pause that brought Vegas’s finger to a halt. Followed by Porsche saying, “the most important thing here is that everything is going to be fine.”

Vegas sat up straight. “What the fuck does that mean,” he said.

“So, uh,” Porsche said. “You know how I asked Pete to come with me today for a thing and he said yes?”

Vegas got up slowly, feeling like he was about to start vibrating inside his skin. “What happened to him,” he said.

“It turned out the whole thing was a setup,” Porsche said. “And Pete sort of…but he’s fine! Everything is fine.”

“If everything is fine why are you calling me and not him,” Vegas said, tucking his phone between his ear and his shoulder so he could head to the door for his shoes. He could feel his heart beating in his stomach.

“He’s resting,” Porsche said. “But he wanted you to know–”

“Where are you,” Vegas interrupted. “At the main house?”

“I can hear you freaking out and I want to be very clear that there’s no reason for you to be freaking out,” Porsche said.

“Shut up, Porsche,” Vegas said, deadly serious, “and tell me where you put Pete.”

Pete had a nice room in the family’s medical facilities. It looked a lot like the one Vegas had been stuck in for weeks, though he was pretty sure it wasn’t actually the same one. Nobody got in his way when he was coming in, which was good, because if anyone had tried he would’ve just gone through them.

Pete himself was asleep, and was, Vegas had been repeatedly informed, stable. He’d been awake earlier, apparently, if loopy from the drugs.

Nobody had told him exactly what happened, just that Pete had been shot and now he was fine. Vegas was working on putting together the rest of the pieces, but some of those would have to wait for Pete.

He walked over and pulled the blanket down so he could study the bandage on Pete’s stomach, just under his ribs. Little goosebumps rose on Pete’s skin and he stirred; Vegas pulled the blanket back over him and pulled the chair so he was sitting when his eyes opened.

Pete blinked blearily at him. “Vegas?” he said.

“Yeah,” he said. “Hey, baby.” Pete’s face broke into a slightly giddy-looking smile.

“Vegas,” he said again, sounding both pleased and relieved. “You’re here. That’s good.”

“Porsche called,” Vegas said. “You got in some trouble, huh?”

Pete made a bit of a face. “It’s nothing,” he said. “I’m fine. Everything’s fine.” A flicker of a frown. “Right? We finished the mission.”

Vegas wasn’t actually sure how things had ultimately shaken out – there shouldn’t’ve been shooting at all if it’d really gone entirely as planned – but he wasn’t going to say that to Pete and let him get stressed about it. “I assume so. How’re you feeling?”

Pete smiled giddily. “Good,” he said. “High.”

“I see that.” Vegas shifted, trying to keep his voice calm and relaxed. “How many stitches?”

“Mm,” Pete said. “Dunno. I don’t remember.”

So he’d probably been at least partially sedated. Given the placement, not a huge surprise. Doing some math in his head and not liking what he was coming up with, Vegas asked, “when did this go down, anyway?”

“Around nine, little after?” Pete yawned, then frowned. “Are you upset?”

“Not with you,” Vegas said, his temper starting to simmer. At least, not exactly. Not mostly. Or he would be that, later, once he knew more about what exactly had happened that had led to Pete getting shot. Based on when he’d gotten the call, that left a gap of at least seven hours between Pete getting hurt and Porsche contacting him. “Any idea why nobody told me about this until a half an hour ago?”

Pete’s eyebrows furrowed and he looked perplexed, which suggested it hadn’t been his idea. That was good. For Pete.

“Don’t worry about it,” Vegas said. He could sound soothing, easy, no matter how much he wasn’t feeling it. No matter how much his thoughts were churning rapidly ahead of him. How easily he could imagine a different scenario.

Too easily.

If something happened to Porsche, they wouldn’t hold off on contacting Kinn. Or vice versa. But apparently someone had decided it was fine to keep Vegas in the dark about Pete’s status until they deigned to let him know.

He didn’t know who had made that call, but he was going to find out.

Pete was fine. That was what Vegas had to keep repeating to himself: Pete was fine. Or, not fine – he was going to be laid up for weeks, on a regular regimen of medication and restricted activity – but he would be fine. He wasn’t going to, as a voice in the back of Vegas’s mind kept yammering he might, die. He’d hurt for a while, it would suck, he would heal. He’d had worse.

(One could probably argue that Vegas had done worse.)

It was easier to remind himself of these things than it was to believe them.

Pete, unsurprisingly, dozed off early, leaving Vegas alone with his spiraling thoughts and burning frustration with nowhere to go, at least until Porsche showed up. He looked wiped out but, Vegas noted, unscathed. Another piece of information for the puzzle he was assembling.

Before he could say anything, Vegas stood up. “Pete’s sleeping,” he said, keeping his voice quiet. “Let’s talk in the hallway.”

“Sure,” Porsche said. Vegas stepped out, closing the door quietly behind him, his hand lingering on the doorknob for a moment before it fell away.

“So,” Vegas said. “Want to tell me what happened?” He didn’t bother to control his tone. He wanted Porsche to know he wasn’t happy.

“I told you,” Porsche said. “It was a set up. They came armed, it turned into a firefight. Van died. Two others injured, other than Pete.”

“Hm,” Vegas said. “Sounds messy.”

Porsche gave him a harried sort of look. “Obviously,” he said. “You’re pissed, I get that, but don’t be pissed at me.”

Vegas raised his eyebrows. “Your operation,” he said, “your fuckup. My boyfriend who caught a bullet. Don’t tell me who I get to be pissed at.”

Porsche glanced at the closed door and then back at Vegas, a little bit of guilt settling on his face. Not enough, as far as Vegas was concerned. But he’d take it for a start. “Okay, fine,” he said. “But it’s not going to help.”

Vegas considered asking directly. Was it your idea to keep me out of the loop for as long as you did? He was pretty sure he’d be able to tell if Porsche tried to lie, and he was off-balance right now. Later on he’d have more time to figure out an explanation. If he was planning on explaining anything. Maybe he didn’t think Vegas would notice.

He leaned back against the wall and tucked his hands in his pockets. “I thought you were keeping an eye out for him,” he said. “He’s your friend, isn’t he?”

The guilt settled a little heavier. “I did. I was too far away.”

The thought flashed briefly into Vegas’s mind, a vivid image of a different version of this conversation, where Pete wasn’t just sleeping. His stomach turned and he shifted, shaking it off. That did sound like Pete hadn’t gotten shot getting in the way of a bullet meant for Porsche, which at least cleared one of the reasons Vegas might’ve wanted to hurt him right now.

“Are you going to tell me whatever it is you’re chewing on or what,” Porsche said. Vegas cut a sharp look in his direction.

“Okay,” he said after a brief pause. “Sure, since you asked, I’d really like to know–”

“Khun Porsche?”

Vegas’s jaw twitched. He turned to look at the two bodyguards coming down the hall toward them. He didn’t recognize either one. The taller of the two gave Vegas a once over and put his hand close to his gun, though, so he thought maybe he’d originally been a main family guard.

“Khun Korn wants to speak to you,” he said. Vegas scoffed, his mouth twisting.

Porsche grimaced at him. “Sorry,” he said. “I have to…”

“Yeah, yeah,” Vegas said. “I know. The minor family always goes running when the boss snaps his fingers. Has he started you on the really nasty stuff yet or is he still giving you the soft touch?”

The taller bodyguard glared at him. Vegas ignored it. Porsche grimaced at him harder.

“Just…look after Pete,” he said. “Make sure he doesn’t try to start jumping around too fast.”

“I’m not the one who got him shot in the first place,” Vegas muttered, but Porsche was already moving off, calling, “we’ll talk later,” over his shoulder. Vegas rolled his shoulders back and took a deep breath through his nose. For a very brief moment he entertained a ridiculous fantasy where he just grabbed Pete and left the country. Never coming back.

It wouldn’t matter. They’d never be completely out of reach as long as the main family wanted Vegas on a leash, and he didn’t see that changing as long as Korn was alive. Maybe not when his uncle was dead, either; he wasn’t counting on Kinn feeling any differently. It’d occurred to him that Kinn might be less inclined to leave him alive. And as long as he was in the life, so was Pete.

If he thought about that too hard for too long it was just going to make him crazy.

He texted Macau – Pete got shot, he’s fine but if I’m not there when you get home that’s why – and almost immediately got back a series of question marks. His phone started ringing and Vegas debated briefly with himself over picking up before stepping back into Pete’s room as he answered.

“What the fuck,” Macau said loudly. “Somebody shot Pete and you texted me?”

Vegas leaned his back against the door where he could keep a solid eye on Pete while he slept. “I told you he’s fine.”

“Where are you?”

“Hospital,” Vegas said. “But you’re not coming. Stay where you are, I’ll be taking him home as soon as they’ll let me.”

There was conspicuous silence on the other end of the line.

“I promise it’s fine,” Vegas said. “I’d put Pete on the phone but he’s sleeping right now. Okay?”

“Yeah, fine,” Macau said, voice surly. “If you say so.” Vegas bit the inside of his cheek and tipped his head back, knocking it against the door a couple times. Turned out that when your little brother watched you spend a couple weeks comatose on a ventilator, it left him with some issues.

“I do say so,” he said. “You don’t want to be here anyway. You’d just be bored.”

“What if they want him to stay overnight?”

A stupid part of Vegas wanted to say I’ll fight them on it but he wouldn’t put Pete at risk, even if having him here made him itch. It wasn’t just about the hospital, either. Somewhere in his head, every time Pete was on main family territory, especially on his own, he expected them to snatch him away. How willing Pete was in his imagination depended on Vegas’s mood at the time. “I’ll probably stay. But you should still go home. It’s a school night.”

Macau made a disgusted noise.

“Chill out,” Vegas said, in English. “You know I’ll look out for him.”

“If there’s something you’re not telling me I’m going to hurt you,” Macau said. Vegas’s mouth twitched but he managed not to laugh.

“Got it,” he said. “There’s leftovers in the fridge for dinner.”

“Fuck that, I’m getting takeout,” Macau said. “And none for you, either.” He hung up.

Vegas grimaced at his phone and tucked it away. Then rolled his shoulders again and sat down to resume his thoroughly pointless watch.

The doctor wanted to keep Pete overnight to make sure there weren’t any complications, and when it was put that way Vegas didn’t feel like he could argue. He did try to argue with being kicked out entirely and told in no uncertain terms to go away and come back tomorrow, but it didn’t get him anywhere.

At least, not other than a veiled threat to have him removed by main family guards if he kept digging in his heels. If that had Vegas seething, he didn’t exactly want to start a fight with main family bodyguards.That would be too likely to end with him getting accidentally shot, and this time they probably would make sure to finish the job.

So he left, and set an alarm for every hour to make sure he woke up and checked for updates on a regular basis. And headed back to the house in an even worse mood than he’d left it in. He snapped at Macau, felt shitty about snapping at Macau, went to bed, and didn’t sleep most of the night. The little snatches of it he did get were broken up by his alarms, but there were no updates.

When he went back in the morning, Pete was conscious but still remarkably out of it. He was cleared to leave, though, at least.

“Vegas,” he said, his expression soft and hazy the way he got when he was down. Vegas found himself an uncomfortable mix of turned on and annoyed in response.

“Hey, baby,” Vegas said, wandering over to glance at Pete’s chart, but he couldn’t read anything on it that he didn’t already know. “You ready to come home with me?”

“Yeah,” Pete said, smiling foggily at him. “Now?”

“Soon.” Vegas glanced over his shoulder and tapped one foot, then sat down on the side of the bed. Pete’s eyes tracked him with a little bit of lag, his pupils hugely dilated. “How’re you feeling?”

“Good,” Pete said promptly. “I’m good.”

Vegas ran his fingers through Pete’s hair, only grimacing a little at the texture of grease on his fingers. “Not hurting?”

“Nope,” Pete said easily. “Everything’s good.”

Vegas bit the inside of his cheek so he didn’t snarl. Not at Pete, anyway. Not right now. “Mm,” he said. “I told you to be careful.”

Pete’s face fell a little. “I was careful.”

“Not careful enough,” Vegas said, giving Pete’s hair a little tug. “Or you wouldn’t’ve gotten shot.” Pete’s brow crinkled, and Vegas tried to iron the anger back out of his voice. “It’s not your fault.”

“It’s not,” Pete said, not quite a question. Vegas found a smile for him.

“It’s not,” he said. “Porsche said it was a set up.”

Pete’s frown deepened. “Yeah,” he said. “It felt weird but…I’m sorry.”

Vegas choked on that. “What?”

“I’m sorry,” Pete said. “It didn’t go right. I didn’t, I was supposed to–”

“Hey, no, baby, shh,” Vegas said, alarmed by Pete’s obvious and rapidly mounting distress. “It’s fine. Like I said, not your fault. Somebody fucked up but it wasn’t you.”

“Okay,” Pete said, though he didn’t really seem reassured. “Don’t be mad.”

“I’m not,” Vegas lied.

“Yeah you are,” Pete said. “I can tell when you’re mad.”

“Don’t worry about it,” Vegas said. “I’m not mad at you, I promise.” Not really, anyway. Not mostly. Maybe he would be later, but right now he was too relieved that Pete was alive to be angry at him. He could be angry at plenty of other people instead.

“Okay,” Pete said, though he still seemed dubious. Vegas pulled gently on his hair and watched his eyes float closed, tension slipping out of his expression with his quiet sigh.

“There’s my good boy,” Vegas said. “You’ll let me take care of you, right?” Pete bobbed his head in a nod and Vegas’s mouth quirked. “Glad to hear it. Come on, let’s get out of here.”

Vegas got the all-clear from the doctors for Pete to leave. Pete dozed off on Vegas’s shoulder on the way home, his breathing slow and even, and Vegas watched him sleep torn between overpowering affection and the gnawing on his heart that kept him circling around hours, they waited hours to tell you anything, what the fuck were they waiting for? How long would they’ve waited if he’d fucking died–

“Vegas?” Pete said drowsily. Vegas twisted his mouth into a smile down at him.

“Yeah?”

“Who are you mad at?”

“That’s not important right now,” Vegas said. “Don’t worry about it.”

Based on Pete’s slight frown, he was worried about it. Vegas ran his fingers through his hair, tugging lightly, just enough to make Pete’s eyes flutter closed and his mouth fall open. The actual truth was that whether Vegas was angry with Pete or not was going to depend a lot on what he learned about the details of the whole incident. Pete sometimes forgot that he wasn’t a bodyguard anymore and didn’t have to – shouldn’t – put his body in the line of fire for somebody else.

Vegas didn’t hate Porsche – Porsche made himself really hard to hate even when Vegas wanted to – but if Pete had gotten himself shot in his place Vegas might have to shoot him and damn the consequences.

But he wasn’t going to put that on Pete right now. Later, when Vegas stopped spinning through alternate scenarios that involved Pete’s body on a slab, and they all felt too possible.

For the next couple days almost all of Vegas’s attention went to Pete. He knew he was fussing and he also couldn’t help it. Pete was mostly out of it enough not to get fidgety. Macau’s teasing was half-hearted, which said more than Vegas liked about how shaken up he was.

Porsche came around to visit. Of course Porsche came around to visit. Vegas thought he was going to crack a molar when he opened the door.

“Still mad, huh,” Porsche said, sounding more rueful than anything else.

“Yes,” Vegas said. “You could say that. What do you want?”

“Just checking on my friend,” Porsche said. “See how he’s doing, say hi–”

“He’s fine,” Vegas said. “Resting. You can go.”

Porsche didn’t quite look annoyed but he did give Vegas a reproachful frown that just raised Vegas’s hackles further. “Can I come inside and hang out until he’s up?” he asked, in a way that suggested he didn’t believe Vegas about him not being up to begin with. Vegas gave Porsche his best back off or else stare, waiting for Porsche to give up, but Porsche looked evenly back at him, apparently unperturbed. Either he was losing his touch or Porsche was immune.

“Fine,” Vegas said. “But don’t blame me if you get bored waiting.”

He stepped back and held the door open for Porsche to come in. He resisted the urge to close the door on Porsche’s bodyguard shadow, giving him a sharp smile instead. The way he twitched was a little bit reassuring.

Pete was sleeping; he hadn’t been lying about that. He probably would’ve wanted to wake up for Porsche, if he knew Porsche was here. As far as Vegas was concerned he didn’t have to. “Make yourself at home,” Vegas said coolly, gesturing at the living room. He twitched his head in the direction of the guard and added, “new meat?”

“Don’t be a dick,” Porsche said, scraping against Vegas’s already frayed nerves. He almost said if you think this is me being a dick you’ve really forgotten what I’m capable of but it would just sound like – would just be – stupid posturing. Knowing that didn’t improve things any.

“It’s my house, I’ll be a dick if I want to,” Vegas said instead. He was tempted to just grab his book and leave Porsche to entertain himself but the idea of leaving Porsche entirely unsupervised in his house right now made him decidedly twitchy. He might just go wake up Pete himself. “Do you want anything?”

“I’m good,” Porsche said, which was maybe trying to be an easygoing guest or maybe slighting Vegas’s hospitality. He thought probably the former but he wouldn’t put the latter completely out of the realm of possibility. Porsche was a quick learner.

“Suit yourself,” Vegas said, but he went and got himself a seltzer. The bubbles on the inside of his mouth weren’t exactly soothing but at least they were distracting. “How’s your boyfriend?”

“You’re asking about Kinn?” Porsche said, sounding a little startled.

“Do you have some other boyfriend?” Vegas said, though he knew perfectly well why Porsche was so surprised. In general Vegas preferred not to talk about Kinn, especially to Porsche. He would’ve preferred not to think about him either but so far he couldn’t pull that one off. He could feel the fresh bodyguard watching him now and read him as a mix of wary and nervous. Vegas wondered what stories they were telling about him around the main family house these days.

Maybe none, now that he was effectively irrelevant. Staying home benched while Pete took a bullet. Maybe if he’d been there Pete would’ve been fine, even though he had no actual way of knowing that. It felt true.

“No,” Porsche said slowly. “I don’t. He’s, uh – he’s fine. Good. Busy, you know, but things are good.”

“Mm,” Vegas said. “Nice how it’s all worked out for you guys, huh.” He kept the bitterness out of his voice pretty well, but Porsche still gave him a suspicious, wary look.

“I guess,” he said. “Why’d you ask?”

Vegas smiled at Porsche. “Just wondering what my cousin’s up to these days.”

“Uh huh,” Porsche said, even more suspicious. Vegas blinked slowly at him, waiting for either an answer or an accusation, but Porsche just sighed.

“You started to say something,” he said. “At the hospital, I mean, when I asked what was bothering you.”

“Before you got called away to more important duties,” Vegas said silkily. Porsche gave him a pained grimace.

“Come on, Vegas,” he said. “I already know you’re pissed and I don’t think it’s just about Pete getting hurt while he was with me.”

“Just that,” Vegas said.

“You know what I meant,” Porsche said, now starting to sound a little exasperated. Vegas clenched his back teeth together, taking a slow breath through his nose. He glanced toward the stairs, the urge floating in to go upstairs and check on Pete again. He knew he was fine. Just sleeping.

He still wanted to confirm.

“So?” Porsche said. “Spit it out.”

Vegas ground his molars and then said, “you waited.”

Porsche looked confused. Vegas leaned forward, eyes fixed on his face, minding his expression very closely.

“Waited for what,” Porsche said, though he sounded wary more than like he really had no idea what Vegas was talking about.

“Pete said the shootout happened around ten,” Vegas said. “By the time you told me, it’d been hours.”

Porsche wasn’t very good at hiding his emotions, so his discomfort was obvious. “Well,” he said, “there was a lot going on, and–”

“Don’t bullshit me, Porsche,” Vegas growled, interrupting. “You held off telling me what happened on purpose. Was that your idea or somebody else’s?”

The fact that Porsche didn’t look happy just made Vegas angrier right now. If he at least had the grace to be smug and shitty about it then that would be something Vegas knew how to take, and how to deal with.

“It wasn’t my idea,” Porsche hedged, “but I did…agree to it. It really was going to be sooner, everything just took a little longer than I expected, and some other things came up, and…but at least you didn’t have to spend that whole time worrying.”

“Didn’t have to–” Vegas stared at Porsche, furious and incredulous. “So if something happened to Kinn you’d rather not know about it because it’d upset you, is that what you’re saying?” Porsche said nothing, but that wasn’t even really the point. “And if things had gone – differently,” he made himself say, even if it made his stomach clench up. “What was your plan there?”

Porsche hesitated.

“Would you’ve told me then?”

“Obviously, yeah,” Porsche said immediately, though with a little cut of his eyes that looked like guilt. “What do you think I’d do?”

“I don’t know,” Vegas said. “I wouldn’t’ve thought you’d stall telling me my boyfriend got shot but apparently I was wrong.”

Porsche didn’t apologize, but at least he wasn’t defending himself anymore, either.

“If it wasn’t your idea then whose,” Vegas asked. Porsche shook his head.

“Then you’ll just be mad at him, and it’s not his fault. I made the call.”

“Why,” Vegas said. He had a feeling he knew, but he wanted to hear Porsche say it. Wanted to hear if he would, or if he’d try to lie. Porsche made a face like he’d bitten into something sour.

“It’s not–”

“Why,” Vegas insisted. Porsche’s sour lemon face got more pronounced.

“No offense, but you’re not exactly somebody who reacts to stuff calmly and rationally,” Porsche said. “You can get sort of…it just seemed like a bad idea to say anything until we had all the information.”

“You wanted to be ready in case I flew off the handle,” Vegas said flatly, something simmering in his stomach.

“I just figured it’d be better if I could give you good news along with the bad news,” Porsche hedged.

“And so you’d be ready to handle me if there wasn’t any good news,” Vegas said, voice twisting toward a snarl, the simmering in his stomach a downright boil. “Right? So if Pete died, you could stop me from showing up and – what, going on a shooting rampage?”

Porsche’s hesitation indicated he hadn’t thought it was out of the question. Vegas’s temper was building more and more and he was also acutely aware that anything he did to release it would only prove Porsche’s point. Still, the idea that he was being treated like some kind of wild animal, something to be carefully managed and controlled…

It rankled. More than rankled, it made him furious. And that fury was exactly why they were treating him like this.

Vegas pressed himself back into the couch. “Get out,” he said. Porsche didn’t move.

“I was thinking of you, too,” he said. “So you wouldn’t do anything stupid.”

“That’s bullshit,” Vegas said. “And I said, get out of my house.” Porsche opened his mouth like he was going to keep arguing. “Now, before I do something stupid,” Vegas snarled, and finally Porsche got up, making a face.

“I mean it,” he said. “Yeah, okay, I’m leaving for now but it’s true. And tell Pete I was here and I want to talk to him.”

“I’ll think about it,” Vegas said nastily, and slammed the door on Porsche’s heels. Then he stood leaning against it, focusing on slowing down his breathing and calming himself. Fury pounded in his stomach like a second heartbeat.

It was fine. He was fine. Pete was fine.

You’re not a person they need to deal with, just an animal for them to handle. The thought had always been there, now and again, with the way the main family treated him, but he’d had some kind of power then. Now…

Now he was really nothing but a wild animal, allowed to run free as long as he didn’t mess up anything important, easy to put down if something went wrong.

Well. It was good to know, maybe.

Vegas spent a while trying, with minimal success, to cool off before going to seek out Pete. He was asleep when he poked his head in, but despite how quietly Vegas tried to walk, he came drowsily awake with the creak for a floorboard.

“Hhnnah?” he said, head coming up a little, then relaxed back down with a smile that eased the knot in Vegas’s chest. “Oh. Vegas.”

“Just me,” Vegas said, sitting down on the bed and returning the smile. “How’re you feeling?”

“Fine. Good,” Pete said, which unfortunately Pete would probably say if he was actively bleeding. Besides, he was still on some good drugs. Vegas pulled down the cover to look at the bandages for any spotting, just in case, and got a frown. “You don’t believe me.”

“Just checking,” Vegas said. He brushed his fingers across Pete’s stomach. “Or maybe I’m just making an excuse to touch you.”

“Don’t need an excuse,” Pete mumbled, his eyes half closed. The swell of warmth in Vegas’s chest hurt.

“You’re perfect,” Vegas said. Pete squirmed.

“No I’m not.”

“Don’t argue with me,” Vegas said. “Don’t you think I know what I’m talking about?”

“No,” Pete said. Vegas had to laugh, though the amusement faded away before he was completely ready for it to.

“Porsche was here,” he said. “He wanted to see you.”

“Porsche?” Pete brightened, and Vegas clenched his jaw so he didn’t scowl. Bitter jealousy twisted his stomach.

“I told him you were sleeping and he went away,” Vegas said, forcing out a “sorry,” in the face of Pete’s obvious disappointment. Pete sighed.

“You can wake me up to talk to Porsche.”

“I didn’t want to,” Vegas said bluntly. Pete’s expression flickered and fell.

“You’re pissed,” he said.

This again. Vegas wondered if Pete remembered having this conversation before. “Not at you,” he said again. Which was still true. Mostly.

“Why are you pissed,” Pete said, distress growing. “What’d I do?”

Fine. He might as well just fucking ask. “Did you tell Porsche to wait to get in touch with me?”

Pete’s eyebrows furrowed. “What?” He sounded genuinely confused, but Vegas pressed just in case.

“When you were hurt. Did you tell Porsche that he should wait to talk to me?” Pete shook his head.

“No?”

“Then that’s one thing I’m not pissed at you about,” Vegas said. He realized he was starting to squeeze Pete’s hand too hard and forced his grip to relax. “I’m a little pissed about you getting shot. Especially when I don’t know if it’s a thing where you could’ve avoided it and didn’t, because you still think of yourself as a bodyguard.”

“I just do what I have to,” Pete said, clearing up absolutely nothing. Vegas exhaled hard through his nose.

“When you got shot. Were they aiming at somebody else?”

“I didn’t screw up,” Pete said. “I didn’t. Everything turned out okay.”

“You got shot,” Vegas said, his voice rising. “That doesn’t count as ‘okay’!”

Pete blinked at him, wide-eyed. “The mission,” he said.

“Fuck the mission,” Vegas said. “Fuck everything, you matter more.”

Pete shook his head. “It’s important,” he said.

“Not as important as you are,” Vegas said, trying not to snarl. “What’s not clear about that, Pete?”

Pete had a look on his face of simultaneous distress and obstinacy. A familiar expression that meant he didn’t like how this conversation was going but also wasn’t going to budge. Then he said, “it’s for you,” and Vegas’s heart plunged.

“What’s that mean,” Vegas asked, his voice rough.

“You need to…your position’s not good right now. If I do good work for Porsche then that looks good for you. I should’ve…it’d be better if I’d caught the ambush but since I didn’t set it up that’s not on me this time.”

Vegas’s heart sank further. “You’re not a tool I’m using to advance my position,” he said.

“You can,” Pete said amiably. “I’m okay with it. I want to help.”

“If that’s what helping means I’d rather you didn’t do it,” Vegas said, his voice sharpening. He tried to think. Had he said something that made Pete think – or acted like he expected–

The expression on Pete’s face turned toward one of increasing distress. “Vegas?” he said anxiously.

“Pete,” Vegas said urgently. “Listen. That’s not what you are, not to me. I’m not okay with it and you shouldn’t be. You’re not a bodyguard anymore.”

“I know I’m not,” Pete said.

“Do you?”

“Yeah,” Pete said. “I know. I’m yours.” There was a tug behind Vegas’s navel, a mixture of hunger and unease. The fuzziness of Pete’s smile was a good reminder to Vegas that he probably wasn’t completely with it.

Vegas closed his eyes and exhaled slowly. There was probably no point in trying to have a real conversation about this right now. He stretched out next to Pete and took him in a careful embrace, burying his face in his neck.

“You are that,” he said. “I just hope you don’t think that’s all.”

Pete healed, though more slowly than he wanted to. Vegas could sympathize, but he wasn’t about to let Pete push himself.

Vegas waited a long time before bringing up the subject again. It gnawed at him, but he kept putting it off. There was always a good reason to wait.

Man up, asshole, he thought, and asked Pete to go on a walk, as casually as he could manage. Based on the brief frown and sideways look he got, it wasn’t casual enough, but Pete agreed, and Vegas kept conversation light until Pete gradually relaxed.

Then he sprung it on him.

“Hey, Pete,” Vegas said. “You know if you ever wanted to do something else, it’d be cool with me.”

Pete gave him a startled, confused sort of look. “What?”

“I’m just saying,” Vegas said. “If you wanted to do something else, other than work for the family or whatever, it’d be fine. I’d help you, if you wanted.”

Pete started to look uncertain, and a little uneasy. “Okay,” he said slowly.

“Is there anything else you’d ever want to do?” Vegas asked.

“I don’t know,” Pete said, then, “not really. Why?”

“Just…” Okay. This was the harder part of this conversation. “Something you said I’ve been thinking about.” Now Pete was all the way to wary. Fuck it, Vegas thought, and plunged ahead. “You know I don’t think about you as someone I can use, right?”

“Oh,” Pete said, his expression clearing. “Yeah, I know.” He smiled. Vegas eyed it, trying to decide if he could trust it.

“I don’t want you to get hurt,” he tried. “No matter what. No matter why. That’s what’s most important to me.”

“Yeah,” Pete said. “Yeah, I get that.”

It was too easy. Something’s wrong, something’s off bells were ringing in Vegas’s brain, not that he really needed their help. He’d expected, he realized, an argument, or protest, or something. “Do you remember what you said when I talked to you after Porsche visited?”

Pete made a face. “Not really,” he said. He smiled again. “I was pretty high, I guess.”

Vegas knew Pete’s smiles. He recognized this one, too. Open and friendly and what Vegas thought of as his bodyguard smile, or maybe his everything is fine, don’t look too closely at me smile.

“Pete,” he said, and then stopped. “You were acting like it was fine you got shot. You said – you said I could use you like a tool. That you’d be okay with it.”

“Huh,” Pete said. “Really?” He sounded genuine. Like he really didn’t remember saying it. Maybe he didn’t mean it, a relieved voice murmured in Vegas’s head. Maybe he was just saying shit because he was out of his head on drugs, but he couldn’t quite convince himself it was true.

“Really,” Vegas said. “Which – I don’t want you to think that’s what I expect from you.”

“I know it’s not,” Pete said.

How was he supposed to have this conversation when Pete wouldn’t even admit that anything was wrong in the first place? “Really?”

“Yeah,” Pete said. “Of course I know that.”

“But…” Vegas turned toward Pete and something clicked in his head all at once.

“Seriously, Vegas,” Pete said. “It’s okay.” Pete, who had maneuvered Vegas to his left, between him and the road. Whose eyes kept moving, scanning for threats. Who angled himself between Vegas and passersby so gracefully it wouldn’t be noticeable, unless you were used to the flanking presence of a bodyguard.

Vegas hadn’t even noticed. It’d just read to him as natural.

Vegas’s heart sank, and he stopped walking. “Pete,” he said. “I mean it. That’s not what I want. That’s not what I want you to be.”

“I believe you,” Pete said.

Vegas honestly wasn’t sure what would be worse: if Pete didn’t even realize what he was doing, or if he was aware but just didn’t know how to be anything else.

But he did know what was worst: that he himself hadn’t noticed at all.