Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Madagio’s office has looked the exact same since the day Fit first walked into it.

It’s cold, not enough to warrant a coat but to just bring a chill to the skin. The floors are pale and white, the walls all glass and rimmed with white liners that frame the entirety of the room. 

There’s no frosting to it, however, no opaqueness to muddy the figures inside or out– Just clear flat walls of crystalline glass.

The effect always makes Fit feel like he’s sitting in an aquarium tank. A tank filled with nothing but Madagio’s desk and drawers and titular man sitting center stage, flicking through his file with long tipped nails. 

Fit sits across from him, always out of place in his little corner of purity and snow-white modern aesthetic with his muddied boots and scuffed and warping jeans.

Madagio flicks a hand towards him, a simple raised finger to signal for a moment of silence while he pursues his papers. 

He’s heaving a file onto the desk, marked with a number and several copies of something that Fit can’t decipher. 

Fit thinks, were Madagio to die, all that’d remain of him are his files. Certifications and records and bills and receipts, that’s all that’d be left of him. 

There’s an amusement to thinking of him popping like a party balloon, showering all of his past-due’s to the dirt. 

Though, at least he’d have something to scatter. Money , perhaps. All Fit has left is his son and a debt. 

His apartment is barely his, and even if it was, it’d be nothing to write home about with the floor space being as wide as a couple arm spans. 

His car lies almost dormant on the street, used only when Fit needs to run to the store or to these exact meetings– And considering how often he’s traveling with Madagio across the country for jobs, that time is almost never. 

Though, none of that holds weight to him. What does, however, sits on two ends of a balancing scale; Ramón on one end as his point of pride and his debt his greatest shame. One moment he’s borrowing enough cash to pay off his rent for a month, the next he’s in too deep to pull out without crashing his world down around him. 

A flat white envelope stops at Fit’s front. The desk is the same shade, a near perfect match were it not for the overheads betraying it’s edges with shadow. Fit gives it, then it’s sender, a glance. 

Madagio raises a brow, “Open it. Or don’t, I suppose.” And his indifference betrays the contents immediately. 

Madagio rarely has any flippant opinions on anything but Fit’s payment. 

He digs his finger between the paper seal, ripping it open, pinning it in place by his prosthetic claw. Low and behold, a paystub and his check are nestled together inside. 

A wash of relief runs over him– Fit had just returned from a long trip in the Flordia Keys, running interference and protection for some rich governor-elect that made his teeth grind– 

The same one that landed him in the E.R. for a couple days nursing a concussion and a near-death experience with some pissed off political gunmen. Someone got a lucky shot off on his body armor and sent him face first into the pavement. 

Security detail work was hard, often violent, and Fit hated it with a burning passion. 

Since returning to Quesadilla, he’s been mostly stagnant, trying to stave out the time till Madagio felt ready to pay him for his work. As he usually does. 

Thank fuck that the time is now. Rent is coming up and Fit knows he doesn’t have the funds for it. He turns over the paystub, running his eyes over the numbers–

His brows knit, a slow sinking sensation burrowing into his stomach. A highlighter is run through a number and percentage, a stipend taken out of his gross income. Fit’s not the best with numbers, but he knows for a fact that the simple 300 has now morphed into 700. 

 “Did the interest–?” He asks, voice strangling out into silence. 

Madagio waves a hand, “I have to collect it somehow. It’s easier if it comes out of your paycheck.” 

Fit tries not to make it too obvious that he’s grinding his jaw into dust. 

How stupid does he think Fit is? Madagio offers him harder jobs with higher rewards, then in the same breath increases the interest on his growing debt so he’s being paid the same anyway. 

The money is slim as well, just enough to wager groceries or rent and send a fistful of cash through the mail to his son. Never enough to live comfortably. Never enough to feel stable. He used to think he was crazy for feeling like it’d been on purpose, but now he’s certain it is. 

It’d occurred to him several times to try and turn down the jobs. He had, once, put his foot down on a job that’d take him out of the country for months, where he wouldn’t be able to return to Ramón if he needed it. 

And, much like Madagio does, he complied with stipulations. Fit spent the next three months in the dark about his job, not a single message coming in about alternative jobs he could do, even something small. Any chance he got to get in contact gave him the same reply; There’s nothing else right now. I’m a busy man. I have other clients. 

It was the first time Fit’s account had dipped into the red, with credit debt building fast, and he’d all but broken down in the man’s voicemail inbox, begging for any sort of job and a promise that he’d be grateful for whatever came. His next assignment came less than a week later. Lucky him.

The message had been clear; Don’t say no to Madagio. His work here ends when he says so and not a moment sooner. 

Which leaves him with the frightening question that's keeping him up at night; Why make his life harder if he’s paying him the same anyway? 

His words feel acidic on his tongue; “Thank you.” Thanks for the fucking pennies. 

Madagio sits back in his chair, clearly pleased, “You’re welcome. You did good work in Key Largo, and I’m thrilled to hear our friend the governor elect is back to making speeches without fear.” He gestures flippantly towards the computer screen, “Though, of course, the hospital made quite a fuss about the payments. Thankfully, they’re no longer a problem either, I paid the accumulated sum.”

His eyes slide over Fit.

He forces out another, “Thank you.” It’s gruffer than the first.

Fit finds it curiously difficult to be sympathetic when he knows those funds are going straight back into his debt. He should’ve just walked it off. 

“And, you’ll be pleased with this–” Madagio begins, leading with a grin, “You’ll be back on the field within the week. We’ve already patched you through to a new job along the coast near Jersey.” 

Fit’s brows pinch into thin lines of concern, “The hell is happenin’ in Jersey?” 

“Security transport,” Madagio explains, “Our friends need some help transporting precious cargo from Atlantic City to Philadelphia.” 

Friends. Fit can smell the trouble from a mile away. “What friends?” He pushes, uneasily sat with Madagio’s vague description of the job. 

This isn’t a debrief and personal security lends him to very sketchy and potholed information about his clients, but friends is not a way Madagio has ever described their precious clientele. 

He sighs, “I wish you wouldn’t ask.” And before Fit can spout angrily that he has to , Madagio continues, “Friends in high places with lots of money. Does that settle your curiosity? I’m sure you’re smart enough to connect the dots.” 

And, unfortunately, Fit is. “I said I wasn’t gonna do any more criminal shit.”

Madagio pinches the bridge of his nose, rubbing at the space between his brows, “Fit, we cannot keep having the same conversation. I’m tired of the tantrums. I’ve tried to accommodate your suggestions and I’m telling you, now, again, that it’s not going to happen.” He settles a glare towards him, “There’s no work in this world that doesn’t come with a moral stipulation. I’m doing what we need to in order to get by.” 

Fit really fucking doubts that considering how goddamn plush this whole room, the whole building, is.

“If you keep asking, you get nothing. And we both know how that ends up.” 

Fit’s face burns. His jaw clicks shut.

“It’s an hour drive. Maybe more considering traffic. You sit with them at the pick up, stay with them till drop off. Firearms provided. It’s a sticky situation, they’ve had a lot of issues with interceptions from cops and internal insurrection. You’re going in as an unbiased third party.” 

“To be a target. ” Fit hisses back. Because these guys will expect the same folks they’ve seen since their scuffle started and Fit will be a new face that draws fire. 

Madagio shoots him a look, “I’m providing body armor again. You’re welcome, by the way.” 

“The body armor did shit for me last time!” He barks out, fingers curling around the arms of the chair. 

“Don’t forget your place, Fit.” Madagio reminds him coolly.

“Reasonable danger is one thing. There’s no fucking reason why we need to be working for these guys, you know I’m not gonna make it out unscathed, man–” 

“That’s neither my problem nor my burden. What happens on a job remains your fault alone, and I won’t hold myself responsible for your slip ups.” His eyes burn through Fit’s skull, like glaring through to his mind itself, “I’d figured you had a stronger sense of survival than that.”

A cold sweat starts to bake on his skin, “I do, but–”

Madagio waves his hand, flippant, “Then sink or swim. It doesn’t matter to me. You’re the one with the debt, Fit, and if you die, I’ll simply find someone else to carry it. I’d hate to lose a good worker, though.” He’s already focused back on his screen, scrolling through a spreadsheet and Fit boils. 

“I get it.” Fit grits out, hands in white-knuckled fists, “ Alright ? I fucking get it.” His paystub crumples in his grip. 

It shouldn’t surprise him anymore. Madagio already sits in a comfortably gray legal area and holding Fit’s payments over his head isn’t a problem for him– He’s made it clear Fit’s inability to work is only important insofar as how much extra paperwork he needs to get done. 

Faced with it though, Fit knows it’s a whole other beast. That his superficial care is real and blatant and he should’ve known it from the beginning. He should’ve known. 

Madagio withdraws from his desk with a sweeping motion, stuffing his file away, “Good. I’ll see you tomorrow. We’ll debrief and I’ll set up your tickets. And, Fit–” He puts his palm flat on the tabletop, stopping Fit as he moves to stand, “We won’t have this conversation again.” 

Not a question, but a statement.

He swallows with an audible click. “We won’t.” Fit echoes.

“I’ll see you back here tomorrow. 3 o’clock, sharp.” 

Fit’s head buzzes as he steps out of the office, practically drifting down the front steps and back out into the street. The shifting sky has dipped the temperature considerably, a cold breeze cutting right through Fit’s flimsy shirt and jeans. Florida hardly dips so low in temperature and he misses the warm drowsy nights he spent watching fireflies spinning through the summer air. 

Cars whizz by him, headlights flicking on as the setting sun casts long shadows across the streets. 

I can’t do this anymore. 

The thought comes to him, bubbling up under the tumultuous storm of anxieties. 

It’s a rare admission. Often, he’s too stuck in his old ways of bludgeoning through all his problems like the soldier he used to be. Saying he can’t means he’s giving up– And giving up means you’re not surviving. 

But he can’t. Fit can’t keep doing this. Each month his debt grows higher, his pay feels lower, and the checks he sends to his son are dipping into his savings– He’s already done the mental math. He’ll be in the red sooner than he’d be free of Madagio, it’s just a matter of how long that is. 

The jobs are exhausting. The hours are brutal. His work has him hurting others most of the time and the rest of it is him being hurt. How much longer till he goes somewhere he won’t return, either mentally or physically? 

Fit runs a palm over his head, twisting down the sidewalk towards his beat-up truck. He has to get home. There’s no chance of thinking clearly when he’s sat outside Madagio’s office– the place has a fuckin’ aura.

He slides into the front seat, jamming his key into the ignition. The engine rumbles to life and Fit paws over the passenger compartment to stuff away his crumpled paystub. He’ll cash the check later, when he’s not seconds from a spiral. 

His fingers tug the compartment open and a pile of papers spill across the seat. 

“ Y’gotta be–” Fit scowls, shoving bank statements and instruction manuals he hasn’t seen in years back into the opened slot. He’s about to call it a day and slam the thing shut with all the anger he can muster when he notices a smaller card still strewn on the carpet. 

He strains his back, leaning over to pick it up– 

Tazercraft Inc, written in typeface with neat, clean, letters on one side. A logo of intersecting letters plastered on top is raised with flat blue and green colors. 

The plastic glimmers in the low glow of streetlight, nearly blotting out the image of machines and prosthetics being cast molded. 

It takes a minute of squinting, but Fit remembers the company as one he’d done a job for through Madagio ages ago. His stomach twists, remembering it’d been the beginning of his jobs growing more dangerous as opposed to the easy, legal, security positions he’d been given before. 

He flips it over. Over the blurb of text describing the company is a scrawled number, done over several times with blue ink. 

The startle has him nearly dropping the card– Fit remembers this number. 

He remembers crimson blood spilling down his client’s cheek. Remembers that his eyes were bright and focused as if he didn’t even feel the pain. 

It could’ve been the shock, but he seemed as clear-headed as he had been before the shots popped off into the gala, his brows knitting as he shoved the card into Fit’s hands– 

“ If you need anything– anything– you call me.” He’d tried to hand it back, but the man had been insistent, “ If I lost Richas tonight, I don’t know… I don’t know what I would’ve done.” He’d croaked, “ Please, take it.” 

And Fit had. He’d shoved the card into his pocket and ferried the man into the ambulance before the nurse glared any more daggers his way. 

That was… years ago. He’d simply forgotten it, never thinking to cash in lest the man change his mind or, even worse, complain to Madagio about his lack of professionalism by taking advantage of his near-grieving state. Somehow it’d ended back up in his car and in the far back of Fit’s priorities. 

The card sits heavy in his palm. His words echo in Fit’s mind. 

Anything? 

There’s no way this man could pay off his debt. He knows that– It’s too high now for even Fit to imagine saving– But he does remember him having a son. 

If there’s any sympathy left in his heart for kids, there has to be some kind of exception he can make for Ramón. If Fit can assure his safety, at least this, then he could continue. He can keep going if he knows the kid’ll be okay– 

A startled laugh spills from his lips and he throw the card onto his dashboard. 

Christ. He’s lost it. He used to bunk with soldiers who talked about signs from above, and Fit knows those all fell through the minute shit got tough. He’s not about to be another sucker. 

Fit shuts the compartment and shifts gears, reversing out of the parking lot. 

His eyes flick to the card over and over again. He gets to his apartment and, against his better judgment, brings the card in with him. He’s forgotten. Fit chides himself, tossing it on his bedside table, Let it go. 

His nightly routine starts early. Fit makes dinner, he eats in front of the TV, scrolling through different channels to see what pops up this early in the evening (and it’s nothing good). 

He washes up, cleans up the apartment and takes the extra time in the shower to enjoy the hot water before it runs out. His shoulder doesn’t hurt as much anymore and the bruise has long since faded to a yellow stain, which is good news. 

None of it stops him from googling the company on his phone the minute his head hits the pillow. 

Tazercraft Inc. From the brilliant minds of Pac T.W and Mike Link. Front runners in international prosthetic design and marketing. 

They look different now. Mike’s hair is pink– Fit almost hadn’t recognized him– And Pac looks a lot more calm, his hair longer and the bags under his eyes having vanished. 

Memories come back to him in blurry waves. Fit remembers meeting them briefly, along with their son. He spies very few images of the kid though, when he scrolls through the results. Probably because of the incident that’d happened that night. 

The company made some very bold decisions that month, sacrificing a lot of their workforce after a scandal involving embezzlement and cut corners. Nothing malicious, as far as Fit understood, but simply a mistake that cost the company and many people thousands of dollars. 

Fit’s thumb passes over an article talking about recalled prosthetics and broken, burning, products. Bad year for the company. 

Madagio’s debrief had made him wince, and his own prosthetic felt wonky for a week afterwards, like he was waiting for his completely mechanical design to pop a lithium battery like a primed grenade. 

In response, a huge section of their staff had to be fired and cut off. Anyone a part of it, who even knew of it without informing superiors, had to be removed. It led to a lot of angry ex-employees. Which led to a lot of threats. 

Their first foray out into the world again after the scandal had been the fundraiser gala. A huge, rather fancy, outdoor event where mingling bourgeoisie and their ilk chatted about their chosen charities and auctioning off items. Fit had been personal security for the family, Mike, Pac, and– 

“ Richarlyson. ” Fit says under his breath, the name slowly fading into his memory once more. The kid had been sweet, a creative mind with tons of energy and absolutely no fear. He’d been hanging off Fit’s arm for a lot of the night, since he’d been a glorified babysitter while Pac and Mike did their rounds within view.

Fit was a silent man, he didn’t talk to the actual CEO’s beyond polite nods. But he does remember rather fond laughs when they saw him trying to wrangle Richas off the buffet table. 

At some point in the night, Fit could barely remember when beyond knowing it’d been after the festivities started to die down, someone started taking shots into the room from an outdoor balcony exit. 

Whether it’d been intentionally aimed at his targets or not, Fit had shuffled Richarlyson out of harm’s way and gotten him to other security before running to find others. 

Looking back, Fit grimaces at the thought. He’d been younger, stupid, and trustful. 

Fit had gotten Pac and Mike out of the main entrance when he saw the people he’d entrusted with the kid’s safety running out behind him. Without Richarlyson.

Fit forces his grip on his phone to ease up, peeling his fingers off the corners. He doesn’t know what he’d do if someone had even tried that with Ramón. Maybe it’s why he dove back into the building. 

He’d made it back in time before the kid got badly hurt, thankfully. Whatever gunman had been there, his potshots into the air only managed to break windows. Richas was smart enough to crawl under a table, and despite the cut up fingers from shards on the carpet, he was fine. 

He was coiling the kid up in his arms when the gunman made it to them, and Fit had stood his ground, put himself between the two. 

It was Pac– of course– who’d run after him and caught a single bullet graze before officers managed to take the man down. 

Fit hadn’t considered his part in it all as heroic by a long shot. Pac did more than him, in his opinion, and had taken the actual wound between them that was meant for Fit– but Pac insisted that everyone else would have and did leave Richas behind. He put himself at risk, spurred him into action, and of course– 

“Take it.” Pac murmured, still weeping blood. His voice is barely audible over the pouring rain and blaring sirens, “If you need anything– anything– you call me.” 

Fit twists the card back and forth. He looks to his phone, where he’s paused over a more recent image taken of the two company owners, strolling around in nice suits with a thriving business. 

Pac has a new scar on his cheek, right under his eye. 

Before he even realizes it, he’s tapping on the link and suddenly he’s on the guy’s Instagram and there’s like two rows of images of just him going to the gym and Fit closes the app faster than he’s ever done anything before. He slams his phone into the mattress, face down. 

Fit wipes a hand down his face, eyes darting to the alarm clock . The numbers blink back 1:00 AM. He hadn’t realized he’d been searching for that long. 

He eyes the card on his bedside table. He definitely can’t call now, even if he was going to. Which– Admittedly, he still doesn’t know if he will.

 If he calls and Pac simply doesn’t remember him, then he’s fucked. There’s a chance he doesn’t even pick up– Who answers calls from unknown numbers these days? 

Fit hadn’t even given Pac his number. It might not even go through. It’s a comfort, in a way. He shouldn’t risk it. He forgot. They all did. 

He turns over in bed– The room goes dark with a simple click of his lamp. There’s work to be done and he’s spent way too long indulging in some fantasy. Fit’s responsible for his own lot in life, no one’s coming to save him. He might as well throw the card away. 

Even then, with his phone resolutely put away, his mind whirls with memories of that night. 

He thinks of Pac and Mike and Richas until he falls into blissful sleep. 

Chapter Text

New Jersey went bad. 

Fuck it– bad is an understatement.

It went to shit. Hell in a handbasket. He might be fostering a grudge against the entire state after this.

 Fit spent a whole month there, spending achingly long days and nights either traveling or getting shot at or meeting the worst fuckin’ people Fit’s ever had the misfortune of talking to. 

Madagio had followed through on his promise of a bullet-proof vest and thank god he did– He didn’t get shot but halfway through his first week he nearly got gutted by an angry drugged-up driver with a baseball bat. 

That shit went straight into his stomach, then to his chest– Mostly buffered by the padding under his shirt.

Still fuckin’ hurt though. Still left a lot of bruises. 

The guy was convinced Fit was taking off the top of his supply and there was no bargaining with him until hours later, when his demeanor went from violent to diffused and pissy.

Likely because whatever cocktail of hallucinogens he’d been on faded (y’know, the ones he’d been taking off the top of his own supply in the first place.)

This is one more month he has to hide from Ramón. Fit just adds it to the proverbial pile.

Drop-off, however, was successful. No one got Fit’s face on any cameras. and as long as he lays low and stays out of the coast for a while, he’ll have no long term repercussions. At least not legally. 

No amount of distance is enough to make his chest stop hurting when he breathes. 

Again, he goes in for his paystub. Again, his debt is raised. He’s paying Madagio more than he’s getting paid at this point– Fuck, what is he doing? Why’s he relieved? He’s circling the drain and all that’s at the bottom is ruin. 

“If you’re ready for it,” Madagio says, sliding another assignment to him, “I’ve got a job for you in Texas. North of Huston is trying to pass over into Oklahoma without drawing attention, but they’ve been getting heat from state patrol. Could have you in and out by the end of the month.”

Fit grimaces, his side aching. “State patrol?” 

Madagio huffs, “Yeah. You can bring a balaclava again if you want, I don’t know how much it’ll help though. Stick to the plan and you should be fine.” 

“I can’t wind up in jail.” Fit hisses out. 

Madagio shuffles his file to the back of his cabinet, looking bored, “You won’t. Worst case scenario, I’ll pay your bail and add it to your debt.” 

“That shit’ll end up on my record.” The words weasel out of his lips before he can stop them. 

The cabinet door slams shut, and Fit jumps, “My apologies, didn’t know you were setting up for future exploits” Madagio drawls, acidic, “Did you think you were going to skip out on your payments? Jump ship? Find a new job?” 

“No–”

“Didn’t think so. Therefore, the only employer who’ll care about your record is me.” Madagio sneers, thumb jabbed at his chest, “I thought you’d find that comforting.” 

His ribs seize, tight and angry as they bloom with pain from old and new bruises, “After this– I mean after it.” 

The balking expression Maddagio gives him in return is downright frightening. He sputters, like Fit had said something funny, and steeples his fingers together with a deep breath. 

“Fit, my friend,” He croons, sickening and saccharine, “Listen well; There is no after. This is it.” He pats his file, imploring, “You’re a good worker, Fit. You shoot well, you fight better, and you listen to orders. Those skills, your best abilities, they work best in two jobs outside of war– Law and crime. You can’t transfer those skills to becoming an attorney or– or god forbid anything else–” 

He snickers, running a hand down his face as his laughter echoes around the enclosed space. Fit’s heart pounds in his ears, face heated with shame.

Madagio continues unimpeded, “And I doubt you’re going to try to be a police officer. I don’t think it’d go well.”

He gestures lazily to Fit’s prosthetic, which inches off the table and hangs by Fit’s side when he spotlights it’s presence, “Face it, Fit; This is all you’ll be. Get comfortable for all our sakes.” 

When Fit doesn’t reply, Madagio lovingly pats his paycheck still tucked into it’s envelope, “Don’t forget this on your way out. Come back tomorrow and I’ll debrief you for transport on Friday.” 

His throat feels tight. 

Fit doesn’t have the energy to argue. He’s in the lobby before he can fight himself on it, staring out at the empty secretary desk and pale white walls and floors. 

He tries, in vain, to imagine coming into this office for the rest of his life, however short it may be. 

Encountering the same walls and rugs and glass walls, the same plastic and modern-looking designs. 

Fit thinks of a life where he could come here and go back home and see his son, but he’s gone so often it wouldn’t be any different from now. 

Leave, get beat up, come home, leave again. Get paid shit, live like shit, die alone. 

Is this it? Fit looks down at his scuffed work boots, trailing dirt over the polished floors. Is this really it? This is everything he has to offer? 

His hand goes to his pocket, where the card with Pac’s number on it has been sitting every day since he got it. It’s more consistent than his cellphone. 

Fit thumbs the numbers, feeling their impression with his fingertip.

He jogs out to his car, slamming the door shut behind him.

Before he can psyche himself out of it, he starts jabbing the numbers into his keypad and hits call.

Fit holds the phone up to his ear, listening to the baleful tone dial. One ring…. two rings… three— 

“Alo?” 

Fit balks, tongue thick in his mouth. His words spill and mix in his head like gasoline and water; “I need a favor.” 

Silence, then a scoff. Fit can feel that he’s seconds from a static click and he takes the leap, “Wait, wait, wait— You gave me a card—”

Regret is sinking in and he bites the inside of his cheek as he fumbles with the little cardboard piece. 

A voice responds; “Who is this? How do you have this number? This is my personal cell.”

Fit’s palms are sweaty, slick as he grabs at the phone and holds it tight to his ear, abandoning the card.

 “Fit. My name is Fit. A few years ago I was put on duty as a-a bodyguard? For your company— and your son. And someone shot at him.” 

Puzzling silence continues, “O-oh. Wow, yeah, I do remember you.” His assumptive aggression vanishes, “It’s been a long time. Fit, with…” He trails off for a beat, “Madagio. Security and protection agency.” 

“You gave me a card afterwards,” Fit barrels on, lips numb. If he stops now, he might be too afraid to speak again, “And said if I ever needed anything, I could call in a favor. This is— This is the favor.” 

He can almost picture the man on the other end of the line in some fancy office stocked with knick knacks and awards—

Google had provided a scattering of paparazzi-style images to feed his imagination with but nothing compares to hearing his voice. 

It’s him. It’s distinct cadence can’t be matched to anyone else. 

”Okay. Okay.” The man— Pac, he’s sure of it— says, the tell-tale sound of creaking office chair filling the silence between, “I understand now. But there’s some problems, right? You can’t ask for anything.” He sounds anxious, and Fit’s too nervous to laugh at the incredulousness of it. 

“I- I don’t know if this counts.” Then, after a gulping breath, “I’m not tryin’ to steal your business or anything, I’m just– I’m at a tipping point, you know?” 

“Tell me, then.”

“I can’t explain much, but I— I need you to pay off a debt I owe to my benefactor. Madagio, the one who rented me out to you those years ago.”

He can feel the shifting air, the slight grimace that’d grow on Pac’s face, pulling at the cheek graze, “He’s been doubling my original price through interest for months now because he knows I need the job— Please, I—” 

”Hang on, c-calma what do you—?” 

“If I die—“ Fit says, rushed, his fingers prickling, “I think all my debt, all of it, will fall on my son’s shoulders and I can’t— I can’t let that happen. I save your son, you save mine.”

The idea of Ramón having to bear the burden of his mistakes makes him sick. If it doesn’t fall on him, then it’d fall to Spreen and either way, his kid carries the cost, “It doesn’t even have to be the debt, if you can just—“ 

”Relax.” Pac says down the line, loud and ringing in his ear. He must be speaking right into the microphone. Fit’s trembling comes to a standstill. Then, after a beat, “How much is it?” 

Fit swallows, the number has been branded on the back of his eyes since Madagio handed him the statement a couple weeks ago. 

“Half a million.” He croaks, “Five hundred thousand, however you wanna say it.” 

Pac is quiet for a moment. “Oh!” Then, he says, a bit too cheery for Fit’s liking, “Is that it?” 

The statement makes Fit’s eyes bulge. He’s never had that much in his life, much less 100k or even 50k.

Is that it? Half a million is just… nothing? Fit is buoyed between manic despair and joy and hope and— 

“Yeah.” He chokes out, sweat beading on his brow. 

Pac hums, reclining back in his chair with a squeak, “I can do that, I think. No— No, I know I can do that.” He lets out a puff of nervous laughter, “You said your son— Is there anything on him? Like— now?” 

Fit feels dizzy. “I don’t know. I think it’s just me.“

Another hum, contemplative, “I’ll check. Madagio, this benefactor– He’s the one I hired, right? For Tazercraft?” 

“Yeah.” Fit says, “Federation branch.” He’s seen those words printed around too many emblems. 

He can hear typing over the line, a couple clicks, “Ah! Yes, I see– Fit, right, right–” Pac muses, “Your file is still in our registry. I can make the donation on your behalf, that’s no problem. Especially if it’s for– Oh, who’s this again?” A click. His tone is cloying and sweet, “Ramón?” 

Goosebumps break out on Fit’s skin, “Hey— Take it easy.” 

He’s not even sure what he’s warning him for. Pac can clearly do whatever he wants–

He’s got half a million in cash to spare and Fit’s file to boot, plus apparently information on his son. The demand came out instinctually, however, and Fit can’t be fucked to regret it. 

“Calma.” Pac soothes, “I did some research after that night, you know? I kept the information for no reason other than my own curiosity.” 

And, well, Fit would argue he doesn’t need to keep information about his son for his curiosity, but he’s not about to pick a fight with the guy paying off his half a million dollar debt. 

“He doesn’t live with me.” It feels important to note, in case he gets any ideas, “I don’t even know where he is most of the time. He’s with his other dad.” 

The nerves are giving him loose lips– The money, the situation, the fact he knows about his son– It’s a bit much. He bites down on the inside of his cheek. 

“Oh, sorry to hear that.” Pac murmurs. He doesn’t have the energy to explain everything, he’s sure Pac can figure out his homelife on his own time. He grunts something nonecommital.

“I don’t have a lot of time.” Fit leans his head against the wheel, drumming his fingers over the leather, “Just– You can do it? The– Everything?” 

“Consider it done.” Pac soothes, “Why? Are you in a rush?” 

“I just need to know. I have to— I’m heading out again tomorrow and I’ll be gone for a long time. Ages.” He pauses, “I don’t know— I think I’ll come back. I think.”

He can’t explain it. It’s a feeling, something acrid and heavy in his stomach. The way Madagio’s been smiling recently, the casualness of his words and the way his debt has been soaring– 

“Don’t agree to go.” Pac says, sounding confused, “I’ll pay off the debt, Fit, I wasn’t lying to you.” 

“No, I–” Fit almost laughs at the stupidness of it all, “I can’t say no to him. E-even if the debt’s gone, he’ll rope me into another job somehow. A bill, a tax, some bullshit about it wouldn’t even take that long–” 

He shakes his head. There’s a chance Madagio just fuckin’ shoots him on his way out. He knows too much, his loyalty to him is thin. Being out of debt means he could just book it, but they both know exactly where he’d end up. 

All the possibilities run through across his vision, and he sees each of them crashing into ruin. Does he go in tomorrow? Will plans change?

Madagio won’t let him go, he knows that, it’s simply a matter of how much it’ll hurt trying to pry off his claws. 

“I-I… I knew the minute I got into this shit, there was no way I was making it out, okay? Just get rid of the debt, I can do the rest.” 

There’s a long pause. “...Right.” 

Silence. “Promise me you’ll do it.” He pushes. 

“I promise.” Pac says, closer now, “Calma. Take a deep breath.” 

Fit laughs, “Easy for you to say.” 

“Trust me. Everything will be okay.” He reassures him, the ticking sound of his mouse clicking away in the background, “I repay my debts, Fit, in full.” 

That does, in some small way, ease Fit’s mind. “Okay… Okay, alright, thank you.” He says softly, rubbing at the space between his brows. 

“De nada, Fit.” And the line goes dead. Silence sounds almost painfully loud in his ears, the pressure pushing at his already pained skull. 

It’s all gone by so fast, Fit has no idea where to start reeling himself back in. He sits in the dark of his pick-up for what feels like hours, letting the strong chilled wind buffet his vehicle. 

Fit checks the call log to be sure it really happened. Just to check. Sure enough, the timecode sits innocently in his history. He blinks blearily at his screen. 

Fit revs the engine and starts his drive. 

There’s no small amount of times on the way home, in the kitchen, in his bed at night, that Fit thinks Pac might be lying. 

His thoughts cascade into one another as time goes on, going from, ‘He took that too easily’ to ‘He’s telling Madagio what I did’ to ‘I won’t live through the night’.

He never lands on anything conclusive for more than a moment before bouncing off to the next dreadful thought. 

Everything feels like a blur. 

He does live through the night. Fit spends half of it curled up in his bed with his gun in his hand, eyes flicking around the darkness and bargaining the idea of rest with safety. 

But night fades into day, the sunlight starts to drift through his curtains and Fit lives to keep breathing despite the odds. 

His phone buzzes around nine in the morning and Fit nearly leaps out of his skin. Thoughtless, he twists the screen to face him. 

Madagio sends him a text, brief and curt; Meet me at the office. Now. 

Time to face the thunder. His fingers dance over the keyboard, trying to figure out how to ask a million questions in one sentence; Is he fired? Is he about to die? Did Madagio get the money? Did Pac backstab him? Did— 

Fit sprints to his car after sending a simple ‘ok’. 

 His hands are sweating the whole way there. Either this or curled around the wheel or drumming over his thigh— Keeping a pattern of movement over something, somewhere. 

Blood is rushing in his ears as he pulls in to park— He’s running around the front of the building to try and sublet the adrenaline when he nearly crashes face first into the very man he’s been dreading to see—

“Sorry!” He shouts, lowering his voice when he sees Madagio’s brow twitch, “Sorry, I–” 

His eyes skate over the front doors, the key still dangling from the lock. Madagio follows his gaze and jiggles the handle once to make sure it sticks, then shoves his hand back in his pocket, keyless. 

The words stick in Fit’s throat. 

“I don’t know what you did.” Madagio starts, cadence dark, “But whatever it is won’t run it’s course without consequence.” 

Fit’s mouth is dry. He swallows, forcing out; “Madagio. I–” 

He stops him with a rise of the palm, “We’re done.” He hisses, “You’ve won, Fit. Your debt is settled. It’ll be a cold day in hell when I risk seeing your face again.” Madagio’s shoulder checks his as they pass, “I hope whatever you’ve given up for it was worth it.” 

And Fit watches him go, spellbound, until Madagio marches down the street.

He’s stuck, watching his white head bob around a corner and become one of the many busy people living their lives in Quesadilla.

Then, soon enough, he’s gone. Fit can’t pick him out of the crowd. 

“Fit!” 

He whips on his heel. Someone steps out of Madagio’s building and Fit wheels back to make room. 

A man stands at the entrance, donned in an expensive satin suit in slate blue standing stark against the all-white doorway and walls.

He sticks out like a sore thumb and Fit would almost assume he’s lost, if not for the tell-tale scar cut across his cheek.

Pac’s eyes flick to Fit, a charmed grin on his face, “It’s— It’s Fit, right?” He clicks off his phone and slips it into his pocket, an expensive wrist watch flashing from under his sleeve. 

Briefly, he notices the keys still stuck in the door handle and tugs them free. They clink and jingle together as Pac puts them in his pocket, Madagio’s small kitten keychain vanishing in a sea of expensive fabric. 

Fit’s head spins. “What just happened?” 

Pac shrugs, hands stuffed in his pockets, “You called in a favor. I promised to deliver. I was— okay, I was going to just pay, right? But I figured, you know, you were worried about the consequences and I thought—“ 

Pac tuts, face twisting, “What kind of repayment is that? I gotta do something more. So!” He presses his hand together, “I bought the company too. Okay, I- I shut down the company. By paying people to take it from him. It was a legal thing, y’know?”

Pride wafts off him in waves, radiating power and status. From the fixed posture to the straight edges of his slacks—

Yet Pac’s a picture perfect portrait of every Vice or whatever article he’s ever been in; The Favela kid who worked his way to the top. Brazil’s pride and joy. 

There is, however, a pleased flush to his cheeks that shows off a crescent dimple on each side. Fit hadn’t seen any of that in the photos online. 

“Thank you.” He eventually rasps out, remembering his manners what feels like a millenia too late, “Thank you.” Fit doesn’t know if he’s telling the truth, at least not entirely, but he’s too relieved and confused to care. 

”We’re even, now.” Pac says easily, waving him off. Then, when Fit is still left in the wake of his actions, he adds on; “Are you hungry?” 

Fit can’t be anything right now, much less feel hungry.

There’s a weightlessness in the space between his ears where his skull should be. Years of agony, of work and pain, gone in a split second. His head is buzzing, a swarm of static trapped and numbing out all of his senses. 

He clears his throat. “I could eat.” His voice breaks slightly. 

”Good!” Pac chirps, “I was about to head out for lunch. Or uh… early lunch. Late breakfast.” He gestures with a jut of his chin towards the road, “Coming?” 

Truly, what choice does he have?

 “Sure.” Fit rasps, staying in Pac’s shadow as they leave the white walls and glossy windows behind them. He doesn’t look back. 

Chapter Text

It’s no surprise that Pac has a nice car– something sporty and sleek . Brand names allude him; Fit was never a car guy. 

Either way, the brand doesn’t matter. It looks new– modern – It’s some low to the ground vehicle in a shocking silver and the kind of leather seats that smell like the factory. Fit has to bend down to sit in the passenger side, attempting to avoid touching the paint job or metal. 

Fit keeps his lips locked tight, hands in his lap. God forbid he offend the guy by fucking up his nice car somehow. Christ . The thing looks like a fucking space ship. 

Pac takes his time turning on the engine. He’s fixing his hair in the reflection of the windows, pulling sunglasses out of a compartment that slides from nowhere. 

He’s in no hurry, which feels strange in comparison to how fast Fit’s world has been for months, potentially years . When was the last time he lingered in his car like this? 

“Sorry for the–” Pac waves his hand over the car, then back to himself, “Everything. I wasn’t far from here, just down the street at Valigma – see?” With his hand still on the wheel, he points with a finger at a grand, towering, building, the dark blue logo plastered across a wall.

“I didn’t pull you from anything, did I?” Fit chuckles nervously.

“You did,” Pac intones, though there’s no venom in it, “But I was looking for an excuse to call out, y’know ? Meetings are dry, Fit.” He complains, finally cutting the wheels to merge back into the street.

“Happy to help.” Fit says.

Ringing chimes out of the dashboard. Pac blinks at it a moment before bending over and jamming his thumb to accept the call. 

“ Pequi ,” Comes a clinical, yet calm, voice, “Você deu uma olhada no que lhe enviei—“ Fit’s head immediately spins to try and decode what’s clearly not English. 

“ Ah– shit , I didn’t look, Mikey, sorry.” Pac cuts off. The swear feels out of place for him, but he sells it all the same. 

A pause. “You have company.” He– Mike– says, half a statement, half an unspoken question. With the swapped language, he sounds more familiar now. An image of black framed glasses and a lopsided grin conjures itself in his mind. 

Fit wonders for a moment how Mike even knew someone else was there– Realization slaps him a second later; Pac probably doesn’t speak English with him when they’re alone.

Pac flashes him an assuring grin, “I picked up Fit . From last night, you remember?” 

Mike tuts, barely picked up by the receiver, “Yeah, I remember. Everything went okay?” 

“It went great! Over before lunch–” Pac brightens, twisting to Fit, “Fit, say hi to Mikey! You remember Mike, right?” 

Fit bites his tongue, glancing to the lit up display of Mike’s number and goofy profile picture of him with too-wide eyes staring into the camera, “Yeah– Uh… hi. I- I guess? Nice to meet you again.”

“ Nossa, esqueci essa voz…” Mike snickers. Pac slams his hand over the console with a red face. He doesn’t touch the hang up button, but by the climbing nature of Mike’s laughs, he imagines the image gets across quite well. 

“ Mikey !” He shrieks. 

Fit balks, swapping his focus between Pac and Mike with mounting confusion. 

“Sorry, sorry ,” Mike laughs, sounding none too apologetic, “Are you driving him home?”  

Pac’s fingers drum on the wheel. He sinks an inch into his seat as they roll up to a stoplight, “...We’re going to lunch.” 

“ Pequi. ” Mike drawls back after a long, tense, pause. It’s not immediately disapproving, but Pac reacts as if it is; 

“He said yes,” Pac defends, eyes fixated on the road, “Fit, you wanna go, right?” 

Fit’s mouth is dry. He stammers, “Yeah. I mean– Didn’t eat this morning. Sounds like a good idea.” Fuck, he has no idea what he wants. Everything’s happened so quickly and now he’s in some guy’s car going to get food with him. 

Pac sinks deeper into his seat, his shoulders brushing his ears. His answer is apparently not up to snuff. 

“Where are you going to?” Mike asks, “I’ll meet you there.” He leaves no room for negotiation. 

“I was thinking somewhere on the North side, like Bad’s.” Pac explains. 

Fit’s heart leaps into his throat– He can’t afford that. 

Mike tuts, “Nah, go to Starbobby. Lower key.” 

“ Starbobby ?”

“It’s not even noon. I need coffee. They can get lunch items if you need them, Pac.” Mike says, an audible roll to his eyes. Pac grumbles, eyes darting away, and– “ Pequi .”

“Starbobby’s sounds good.” Pac says, “See you there, Mike.” 

With a quick few departing words, Pac hangs up and taps something new into his GPS. He sighs, exasperated but fond, “He’s lucky that I love him, you know?” He says, sharing Fit in on this inside joke he knows nothing about. 

“Right.” Fit responds back. He’s lucky they’re not far from their destination and roll up to it before the silence starts to feel uncomfortable. 

Starbobby’s is one of those places that’s comfortably on the cusp of Fit’s monetary status. Something to be considered a treat after a few paychecks of moderate income. 

It’s not overly indulgent and if he buys something small, it won’t eat up his budget expenses. Especially because he just lost his job. 

Fit stops in the parking lot when it hits him. 

Oh. He’s lost his job. He lost his job. 

“Fit?” Pac asks, looking back at him curiously. 

He hastens to reply, “ Good . I’m good.” Fit says, jogging past. 

Later problems for later Fit. 

He cracks a thin-lipped grin,  “Sorry, sorry. Got lost in my own thoughts.” And pushes open the door in front of Pac to hold it ajar. 

Pac steps through, giving him a once over. If he intends on asking further, he must decide against it, because he b-lines to the outdoor seating with no proding. 

Outside seating is warm, mostly humid, considering last night had been that strange in-between moist weather that followed a lot of autumn Quesadilla nights. Fit has to make sure to wipe the condensation off his chair and the wire table, but the sun is rising fast and he’s sure he’ll be sweltering again in no time.

Fit takes the seat across from Pac, glancing over the menu. He’s about to strike up some conversation when a waitress sweeps in from indoors, pulling a small notepad from her apron. Fit’s oogling the cute logo of stars and eggs while she speaks. 

“A cold brew, I think– thank you.” Pac says, already handing back over his menu. The waitress takes it from him, eyes glancing to Fit.

“Latte, thanks.” He says, adding, “Hot, also.” As soon as she’s gone, Fit answers Pac’s puzzled expression; “Always been a hot coffee kind of guy.” 

“Quesadilla is a warm place, though, no?” Pac asks, “Hot coffee on a day like this?” 

“I can’t do cold coffee.” Fit says simply, “Waters it down when the ice melts.” On any other day, with any other company, Fit would gladly color his descriptions with different language like dirty sink water . 

However– Today, he’s keeping it professional. 

“At least then I’m drinking water.” Pac remarks, bemused, “ Ah, um, before I forget, do you have any questions? About…” He gestures between the two of them, “You asked me what happened, but I didn’t want to have the conversation on the sidewalk. But I’ll answer anything here!” 

Truthfully, it’d been a question borne out of his overwhelm. He didn’t want to know the nitty gritty details, that’s what stuck him with Madagio in the first place. 

In the modest shade of the porch-seating outside the cafe, however, Fit is settled more firmly into his skin.

 They’re somewhere public, but concealed in a far corner– Enough for private conversation but nothing too deep. Revealing anything too intense outside like this would be a breach in safety, so nothing sensitive, nothing that could be used against him, would be outed. 

The silence begins to draw out. He’s spiraling between wondering if Pac knows that he knows that or if it’d be worth bringing it up, when he mumbles, “How’s… Richarlyson been?” 

Pac’s lip quirks, “Good. I thought that night would’ve had… bad effects, you know? On his dreams, his sociability,” He shakes his head, “He’s been fine. He’s not with me and Mike right now, off with his other parents.” 

“And I’m assuming you’ve been doin’ alright. Considerin’ you had…. A lot of money on hand.” Fit picks his words carefully, intentionally avoiding the cost by name. 

“Our patents and designs are international– Considering the market for prosthetic and accessibility design had no room for new people before… I’m– I’m a very proud man.” He says, scratching at his jaw, looking sheepish “I still don’t know how I got here sometimes.” 

Fit raises a brow, “Nah, I went to that fundraiser, Pac. I saw the stuff that you n’ Mike do. It’s not easy, you gotta be a real genius to understand it.” Pac’s speech, holding Mike’s hand while they talked about trying to change the world from their shitty lab basement, from prison cells, designing Pac’s first prosthetic– 

He’d almost found it heartwarming. If it weren’t for the setting, the way Mike’s voice had choked and clipped would’ve been convincing enough to sway Fit. ‘Course, it couldn’t be. Fit knows better than that. 

Pac sputters, laughing, “I am– I am not a genius. Mike is the brain, you know? I-I just do all the other stuff.” 

Why lie? FIt frowns, watching him graciously accept the cold brew from the passing waitress, I already know he’s smart. He’s got a fuckin’ whole business about it. He palms his latte, deep in thought.

Something catches Pac’s attention and he beams. 

“Mikey!” 

Mike shuffles out from a small gathering; He’s taller than Fit remembered, his button-up dress-shirt struck through with stains of ink or oil, a labcoat thrown over his shoulder. His hair is stained the same bright pink from the photos.

It’s good on him. Fitting. He looks nearly opposite to how Fit had remembered him, though, besides the small detail of his tape-secured glasses with the splinter through the lens. 

“ Bom día -“ Mike murmurs with a smile, drawing his chair from an abandoned table, “Thank god. I was dying in the lab. I needed an excuse to get out and see air. Grass . Sun .” 

He leans back in his chair with a stretch and a groan, rubbing at the bridge of his nose.

“Long morning?” Fit asks, stilted. 

“Very.” Mike sighs, reaching out to steal Pac’s cold brew and taking a long sip from it. Pac squawks, swiping it back before he drains it whole. 

“Get your own!” 

“I will!” Mike defends, smacking his tongue, “That’s good.”

“I know it’s good, I bought it and you just decided to take it and—“ Pac grumbles, words pittering off into unintelligible quiet.

Mike waves a waitress down and orders in short, curt, Portuguese. Fit’s about to tell him he’s pretty sure this lady doesn’t know the language even exists, but she scrawls out his order and responds in kind. Egg on his face, he supposes. 

Mike does a once over of Fit, “So– You worked for us, right? Long time ago?” There’s a scrutinizing turn to his brow that gives Fit the feeling of being interrogated despite the friendly disposition he carries himself with .

“Yeah. Ah — Years ago I did a job for you guys. Whole situation went down, ambulance got involved and—“ Fit spares the details once he sees Mike hum, recognition flickering across his face. 

Pac reaches up and itches at the thin scar on his cheek.

“Huh. Guess I do remember. Been awhile.” Mike says, tipping his head to-and-fro, “Richas loved you.” 

Fit’s lip twitches into a fond smile, “Yeah. He’s a good kid.” He spent way too long with that kid, letting him pry open the claws of his prosthetic and shut them on, well, anything the kid brought him. 

He doesn’t know why Richarlyson found it so cool that he could pick up champagne glasses without breaking them, but it kept him entertained at least. It was an innocent interest, and Fit doesn’t often get those about his arm. 

Besides, the kid had a matching runner’s blade with his dad. Why would Fit pass up the opportunity to inspire some confidence in the younger generation? It is cool, fuck it. 

Without realizing, he’s sat his prosthetic arm across the table, watching it flex in time with his rolled shoulder. 

“Is this your prosthetic?” Pac asks, leaning forward to inspect it, “It’s the same as the last time, right? Mechanical, you shift the back and—“

Fit shifts his shoulder blades and the claw pinches inwards. He thinks, for a moment, that it’s a terrible idea to show off this kind of prosthetic to people who build them for a living— People he knows have things much more advanced than this– But they don’t seem fussed. 

Pac marvels over it, even peering over the waitress’ arm as she drops off Mike’s drink. 

“Good work.” He marvels, finger drifting over the junction of joints without touching, “These parts— They’re newer than the rest. Have you been repairing it?” 

He’s surprised he noticed. The difference in sheen is almost unknowable to anyone but the most trained eye; It’s the difference between saturation of the wrist unit versus the actual claw. Though, Fit supposes if anyone were to be trained to see it, it’d be Pac and Mike. 

He twists it over, watching it glint in the sunlight. 

“Here and there. I’ve been fixing it on my own. Mostly just the straps though, they wear out fast.” 

And they fucking suck and feel awful unless he gets in there to add cushioning. He’s been using those seatbelt pads for children recently. 

That draws them both to full attention. “Really?” Mike asks, sipping his newly acquired cold brew. 

Fit shrugs, “It’s cables and hooks. Ain’t rocket science.” Hell, Ramón could figure this shit out. The kid’s a genius, of course, a true one like he figures Einstein was, but even he needs a few days to puzzle out blueprints. 

First time his cable housing snapped along his tricep, it was Ramón who knew how to fix it before he did. 

He runs his thumb over the carving of a little mustache on the flat of the liner. It’s etched so thinly, he doubts anyone would notice it without him pointing it out. It’s there for Fit, and Fit alone. “I remade the claw once, refitted it for this wrist cuff. It’s not too hard when someone does the hard work for you.” 

Math. It’s just all the fuckin’ math. But they have patents out there and blueprints uploaded online. Fit just had to measure and cut. And borrow someone's workshop for an hour. It’d been expensive, but way less than going to get it fixed by someone who’d bill him three digits. 

Pac shakes his head, eyes wide, “You’re underselling it!” He balks, gesturing to his arm, as if Fit would’ve forgotten it’s there, “That’s— I mean— People don’t just remake their arms.“ Pac does a good job of looking blown away, though Fit hardly knows why. Can something be impressive if it’s done from desperation? Survival ? Especially when it’s Fit’s classic brand of pathetic? 

A waitress swoops in and the conversation is forgotten as Fit stares down a plate of eggs and sandwiches of pesto- something . Mike glances up from his phone, “Oh, I ordered us food. Don’t think you’re allergic to anything, are you?” 

His stomach rumbles, “I’m not, but for food as good as this? I’ll start stealin’ epi-pens.” Pac and Mike laugh in sync. Fit dares to say the atmosphere feels… pleasant. He takes a bite before he can think about it too hard. 

“Would you ever consider myoelectric?” Mike pipes up, dragging a spoon through a slurry of creamy sunny-side eggs. 

Fit tilts his head back and forth, taking his time chewing while he thinks, “Probably. Can’t afford it, but they look neat.” He points a finger towards them, “I got recommended a lot of your designs.” 

Pac beams, pride oozing off of him, “Really? Did you see what we offered at last year’s unveiling?”  He continues before Fit can say he was probably working then, “The battery charge lasts way longer now, and it’s still small enough– and waterproof– to fit in the liner without worrying about wet or dry fits.” 

“Sounds cool. Don’t think I got to see it, but, uh–” Fit’s sandwich becomes very, very, interesting, “I’ll look out for it– Whenever it next happens.” He offers. 

“Is it really too expensive?” Mike says, frowning down at his meal, “Finance said it was within our margins for profit, but just barely. Don’t know how much wiggle room we have.” 

Margins, profits, finance– Fit takes a big gulp of water. “I don’t know. I’m not a great frame of reference.” 

“You’re an amputee–” Pac cuts in, “Of course you are. You’re our target audience.” 

His stomach twists a bit uneasily at the focus the two of them lay onto him, “It’s a lot of money. I just don’t have that much cash laying around. You don’t have anything cheaper than 70 grand, but– That’s before insurance, I guess.” Fit shrugs, flicking a crumb from his jeans.

Yeah, he doesn’t have that anymore. Fuck . 

Mike hums thoughtfully, “Guess so. I thought insurance would cover it but–” 

“Nah.” Fit says, letting bitterness chip his tone, “They don’t do shit.” 

The two share a glance. “We’ll look into it.” 

Ain’t that the shit Fit always hears? He tries to shake off the minor frustrations, remembering he’s here as a guest and these guys just practically saved his ass.

 “Thanks.” He says, silently pleased when the two of them perk back up from their solemness. 

Pac jumps in his seat, “Oh, Mikey , before I forget–” And the two of them begin to prattle back and forth, discussing meetings and designs and measurements. 

They fall into an easy flow of conversation, shooting ideas back and forth about improving their current models, half of it in English and half in Portuguese, and Fit fades it all into background noise.

Strangely, though, he doesn’t find himself feeling ignored. He’s out of the loop, for sure, but Fit finds it comforting to just sit and listen to them talk without needing to add anything. 

They do, here and there, ask for his opinion on something and Fit is almost always too bamboozled to question it. He simply answers to his best ability and sinks back into his seat. 

It’s mostly about finance, asking about how much he’d probably be likely to spend on higher end equipment. But the questions wander as well, leading to wondering how he’d found the difference in sensitivity between different models and what drove him towards certain hand and claw designs– 

They do a good job of making Fit feel smarter than he is. Like his opinion is to be coveted. After a while, he gives up the game to finish his meal. There’s a bit of bubbling embarrassment in his gut that he intends to cover with the rest of his breakfast. 

“Oh–” Pac chirps, looking up from the notebook he’s pulled from his bag, because he’d been desperate to show Mike the concepts he’d thought of concerning their issue with counter-balance something or whatever– “ Oh, I didn’t even realize we’ve been here for so long–!” He checks his phone with a wince. 

Somehow, hours have passed. All their drinks have vanished, Pac’s mostly being water by this point. Fit swats away the desire to prod him about it teasingly. It’s not his place. 

“S’all good.” Fit says, patting his stomach, “I like the atmosphere.” 

He likes the little corner Tazercraft have carved out for themselves. He likes sitting in their intuitive bubble. The weather is good and sitting with them feels like sitting with old friends, though Fit’s well aware they’re anything but . 

“Do you need a ride back?” Mike asks, “I gotta head out soon anyway.” 

He goes to decline, but remembers his poor pick-up truck still sitting in the parking lot and thinks better of it, “I wouldn’t mind.” He says. Mike stands up– 

“Wait!” Pac startles, putting his palms flat on the table, “Wait, wait– Before you go, Fit–” His expression flips, suddenly twisted with nerves, “Ah, I… I kind of got you fired today. You lost your job because of me.” 

Fit is so struck by his words, he forgets his manners, “The hell do you mean? I asked you to. You were doin’ me a favor.” 

“I feel bad,” Pac explains, face flushed, “But you explained, today, about insurance and the money… It hit me and I wanna make it up to you. It doesn’t feel right, the–the way I’ve repaid you.” 

Brows knitting, Fit tries again, “I asked. I knew what I was doing. We’re good.” He doesn’t get why Pac’s so insistent about it. 

Pac digs into his pocket and pulls out another card, “Fit– I…” He casts a quick look Mike’s way, scrutinizing his raised brows, “I want you to come work with us. It’s the least I can do.” 

The card shimmers in his hand, thrust into the middle of the table between them. Same essence as the first Pac had given him, the colors and logo a mirror to the original– But it’s cleaner, newer. Pac and Mike stand arm in arm on the front, clad in lab coats for… some reason. 

Fit balks, “ Pac, you really don’t have to.” 

“I want to.” Pac insists, shoving the card an inch closer, and Fit takes it only so he stops leaning in, “You’re a good worker, you’re loyal, I’ve already seen your work. I know you do a good job– I think we’d- we’d really need you in security.” 

His hopes wither away into dust. “Security?” 

Pac nods, eager and bright eyed, “That was what you were doing before, right? Security work?” 

“Yeah.” Fit regards the card with a look. He steps away from the table, “Y’know, all due respect but…No thanks.” 

He feels a bit silly now. Of course, he wasn’t expecting them to offer him a job in mechanics or whatever, but part of him finds the idea of security more demeaning than if they offered him a job in sanitation. At least he liked being a janitor. 

But of course, Fit is only as good as his life on the line, right? This is all he’s good for. 

He might as well have slapped the two. “What?” Pac croaks. Mike’s brows are in his hairline. 

“ Respectfully , I just–” Fit shakes his head, “I just got out of a security job. And I said–” His anger flares, remembering lines of everything he is and this is it– “ I have a son. I can’t go risking myself anymore.” 

Mike blinks, leaning forward, “Fit, the one night you worked with us was a special situation. That kind of thing doesn’t happen anymore.”

“Everyone thinks that before it does.” Fit reminds him curtly. That’s the shit he thought before he lost his arm. Everyone’s an exception until they aren’t. 

“It’s the same job.” Pac says, lip twisted, “I don’t understand. The food, the– conversations and…” He shakes his head and suddenly the chasm between them feels a millions miles wide. Because of course they don’t. They’re different people, from different worlds. 

Despair starts to mount on him like a storm cloud– Of course. Of course that’s what this was all for. The food, the buttering up, the sweet-talking– All to get him back in the same fucking position he just got out of. And if not that, then some kind of pity. 

Get comfortable for all our sakes. How stupid is he? 

“I need to live a normal life.” Fit says, palms out, “I need to work a normal job, be a normal guy, and distance myself from this. I don’t–” He shakes his head, “I don’t wanna do this anymore. The fighting, the guns– It’s not fucking fun. It’s just dangerous. I can’t keep putting my son at risk for it.” 

Pac balks, “You’d– Fit, you’re not in a warzone, it’s security–” 

“Yeah, well that’s how it always starts, doesn’t it?” He snaps. 

“ Calma .” Mike stands, holding out a hand between them and, “ Calma . We can’t force you to do anything you don’t wanna do, Fit.” Mike assures him from behind his splintered spectacles, “If you don’t want the job, you don’t have to take it.” 

“Great.” Fit grunts, “I don’t.” 

“Okay,” Mike says, pointedly ignoring Pac’s dropped jaw, “Then I’ll drive you to your car.” 

“Thanks.” Fit says under his breath, stepping away from the table and crossing Starbobby to the entrance. He can hear a heated conversation starting behind him and, honestly , he doesn’t want to be there for it. He gets to the front entrance and gets ogled by the waiting patrons until Mike shows up to pick up his keys.

They clamber into the car in silence. Pac doesn’t come with. 

Mike knows the way back without Fit needing to tell him, which is good, because Fit’s too busy trying to sort the storm clouds in his head.

Mike speaks only once during the drive back, “Pac isn’t good at letting things go. He’s persistent, it’s his best and worst trait.” It sounds as close to a warning as Fit thinks he can get, “But you can always say no. I can’t promise he won’t ask, though.” 

“He can ask as much as he wants.” Fit says in return, “I’m not interested.”

Mike hums something unconvinced. “I said that too. Now look.” His lip flicks into a grin, but Fit keeps his eyes on his lap. The joke falls flat. 

He mutters a quiet thank you to Mike as he gets out. The busy street is picking up in activity and Fit thinks it’ll be hellish trying to get home during an early rush hour. His truck is a welcomed sight. 

“I don’t know what happened with you and whatever business you had before this,” Mike calls out, leaning towards him as Fit goes to shut the door, “But Pac isn’t like that.” 

“And you?” Fit says, brow raised. 

Mike shrugs. “We balance each other out. He’s my head, I’m his heart. For better and for worse.” 

“Sounds like you don’t need me then.” 

“I’m saying– ” Mike drawls, bending forward, “That I never regretted giving him a chance. And you wouldn’t either. That’s all.” 

“I’m not you.” Fit states, palming the door, “Thanks for the ride.”

Fit walks past his car, waiting until he hears Mike drive out and away before turning back and climbing into his pick-up. He tells himself it’s because the fresh air is good for him. 

When he gets in, he realizes the card is still crumpled in his hand. 

He shoves Tazercraft into his side compartment and slams it shut.

Chapter Text

“Thank you so much for your time.” Fit says, trying to keep his smile light and friendly. The employee returns a similar facade and waves him out of the office doors with a polite goodbye. 

Fit maintains the disposition for about three steps out onto the sidewalk before it all melts away into a furrowed scowl.

 He can’t logically know if that interview bombed or not. Though, Fit swears he feels it in his gut that he’s not getting the callback. 

It’s another part of the grind of finding a job to sustain him, one he’s familiar with from his brief time spent pre -Madagio. After awhile, he’d gained a sixth sense for when employers and recruiters got a ‘bad vibe’ about him. 

This time, though, Fit can’t blame it on unconscious bias; He fumbled over his words right out the gate, forgetting which job he was even interviewing for in the slurry of applications and calls he’s been getting. 

It doesn’t help that Pac is adding to that immensity. Mike’s warning had been well founded— Pac is not good at letting go. He’s been calling every so often. Not to an overwhelming amount, maybe once a week if even that. 

He knows when seen in isolation from everything else, it’s not that invasive. And if Fit really wanted, he could pick up the phone and answer or, even better, he could block the number and tell Pac to fuck off. 

He’s not doing either, though. Which is almost more frustrating than Pac’s calls. 

That, and knowing Pac is being somewhat respectfully present and consistent in trying to reach out to him (and, by proxy, making Fit look over-aggressive when he rejects every call) just makes him more overwhelmed. On top of the calls he’s getting for jobs and interviews and potential scams. 

Instead of unpacking that, though, he gives Pac’s number an ID and contact name so he knows which calls are his and which aren’t, because interviewers aren’t exactly on speed dial and wouldn’t take kindly to him dodging their calls. 

It’s been long enough for Fit to not feel great about the way he ended things with Tazercraft. 

He’d do it again, though maybe with different words, but when he tries to find them or consider the real possibility of trying to apologize, he gets distracted by more prominent issues. 

At some point between filling out applications for another job and coming down with whatever bug he’s got– he gives up feeling bad about it. 

He’s grateful they fixed his mistakes, but he’ll let them stay in his past along with Madagio. If it’s a burnt bridge, he’s fine with it being ash and smoke. 

Fit rubs at his temples, resting against the tailgate of his truck. He smothers a cough into the crook of his elbow and groans when it feels like fire and glass in the back of his throat. 

 He’s probably sick. He’s been feeling it for a few days now, but getting a job and, thus, money, was far more important than a case of the sniffles. 

Fit bets Madagio is out there laughing his ass off at Fit’s pathetic misfortune. Barely a month off his payroll and he’s falling to pieces.

His phone pings. A cursory glance shows it’s a reminder about an online interview in the next thirty minutes. Fit strains his memory for which one this is, either window installments or roof tiling. He can’t make the same mistake again. 

He coughs again, trying to settle it into a more acceptable throat clearing sound. Fuck, he is exhausted.

Fit decides he’ll figure it out when he gets home. 

Digging around in his pocket, he pops a (likely expired) cough drop and pulls open the driver’s seat door. 

Another ring, Fit eyes the caller ID and thumbs around the screen to answer it; “Spreen.” He sighs, “Hey, man, thanks for getting back to me.” Just his luck, a caller he can’t ignore. He almost wishes it was Pac. 

“You sound like shit.” Spreen muses back.

”Not feelin’ great. Think I caught something in Jersey.” Fit responds, fumbling the keys into the ignition, “You got the check I sent right? Hadn’t been cashed and I was startin’ to worry.” It was pretty much the rest of his bank account too. He’ll be pissed if it got misplaced or lost. 

Spreen sighs, shuffling on the other end of the line, “I’ve just been busy. They cut my hours this month so I’ve been trying to beg for shifts from people and…” He trails off, tense sounding.

”It’s fine, I get it.” Fit says, “Listen, I don’t wanna risk getting you and the kid sick. Do you think we can reschedule for next month?” 

Spreen audibly groans. “Are you serious?” 

Fit pinches the bridge of his nose, feeling a pounding headache pulse behind his eyes, “Yeah. I know- I know I missed last month—“ 

“Ramón’ll be mad.” Spreen huffs, “He won’t shut up about you.” 

Maybe that’s cause you talk about him like he’s a goddamn bother instead of your kid, “ I know, I’m sorry, shit is just rough right now.” He’s in no place to critique Spreen’s parenting when he’s hardly even there to see it. 

“We had a schedule, man.” Spreen says, strained and desperate, “Month on, month off. It’s been half a year since you’ve had him for more than a week. More than a night, and it’s always at my place—“ 

Fit wants to wither away in his seat. Has it really been so long? “You know what I do.” He says in lieu of a proper response, “We’ve been over this; It’s not safe.” 

It is now, He counters mentally, but he knows that’s a can of worms he can’t open up with Spreen. 

His life is too unstable for Ramón. And while Spreen’s is hardly a pinnacle of luxury, he has an apartment, a simple job, and good skills that don’t involve hurting people. He’s better than Fit by a long shot. 

He knows the minute he brings up breaking things between him and Madagio, Spreen will drop the kid off at his doorstep. Fit just doesn’t have the money for that. He doesn’t even have the apartment, if his job searches keep going haywire. 

“I’m working on it.” Fit promises, “Next month will be different.” 

“You say that every time. ” Spreen hisses.

Fit leans his head back till it bumps the headrest, “I mean it. This is different. I’m really changing, Spreen, once I’m good, you’ll have months to yourself. Half a year or more, if you want it.” 

Spreen starts a curse down the line that gets cut off. He must put the phone down because suddenly he’s very far away, murmuring Spanish to the background noise.

“Here.” He grumbles, “Talk to your son.” 

And Fit’s about to argue that it’s their kid when Ramón’s voice chirps through the line, “Fit!” 

Fit’s heart flips and swells in his chest, “Ramón! My baby boy —“ He croons, “How are you? What are you doing home? It’s the middle of the school day—?” 

“We had a half day today!” Ramón tells him, almost smothering the speaker with how close to the receiver he is, “‘Cause Ms. Niki said we do P-SAT’s with a half-day.” 

Fuck. What the hell is a P-SAT ? Isn’t Ramón still too young for S.A.T’s? Does the ‘P’ stand for preschooler? “How’d you do?” 

“I don’t know yet.” Ramón drawls, like it’s obvious, “We’re gonna find out on Monday. I finished first though! You should’ve seen Ms. Niki, she was so surprised, she asked me if I wanted to review my answers and I said nope, can we learn about the water cycle and irrigation today?” 

Fit snickers, “As long as you’re doing your best, kid, that’s all I can ask of ‘ya. Did you end up hearing about the water cycle?” 

Ramón huffs, “No. She said I gotta go home because the test was over.” Then, after a beat, he adds hopefully, “Are you coming over soon? I did all the research myself on pipes and stuff, I even made a slideshow!” 

Selfishly, he was hoping Spreen would have to deliver the news instead. He wasn’t expecting Ramón to be home already and telling him, directly , feels like a jackknife between his ribs, “I— No, kid, I’m sorry, not today. Next month, I promise.” 

There’s a long, quiet, pause. “Oh.” Ramón says softly. 

His grip tightens on his phone, “Ramón, I promise , next month. Dad’s just sick right now and things are weird, but I know they’re getting better. No sickness is gonna keep me from seein’ you forever.” 

Then, fiercely, Ramón says; “ Pinkie promise.” 

“Pinkie promise.” Fit grits out, “I pinkie promise, Ramón. You’ll have me for a whole weekend.” And by the end of the year, hopefully for months upon months till he forgets Fit ever let him go. But he doesn’t like making promises he isn’t sure he can keep. 

“…Is it ‘cause you’re sick?” Ramón asks, “I learned about viruses in class.” 

“Yeah,” Fit sighs, “Your dad’s a bit of a fuckin’ dumbass.” 

Ramón giggles. He knows every swear in the book by now, Spreen and Fit haven’t felt compelled to hold back. 

(One time, Fit recalls, Ramón was sent home with a pink slip about his bad language. Fit had been dragged into a call about his behavior and Ramón said, very seriously, that next time he swore, he’d do it in Spanish if his language was the issue. Fit laughed so hard he nearly busted a rib.)

“Hey—“ Fit checks his watch, watching the time tick by closer to his interview, “Tell me ‘bout school. Still makin’ friends?” He leans back in the seat, putting Ramón on speaker as he types out his first apology email of the day. 

Recently got very ill, want to put my best foot forward for this company, do you think we can reschedule— Something like that. He’s more tuned into Ramón’s regal tale about him and his friend Dapper making potions out of perfume and body soap. 

He doesn’t leave the parking lot until nearly an hour later, and even then he chats with Ramón until he pulls up to his apartment building. 

“I’ll see you soon kid.” Fit reminds him, flicking off the engine, “I love you so fuckin’ much, you know that?” It sounds a bit nasally as his congestion has only worsened since this morning. 

“ Yeah, Fit, I know—“ Ramón audibly rolls his eyes, “I’m not stupid .” He mumbles.

”You’re not,” Fit agrees, “You’re a damn genius. And I’m very proud of you.” 

Ramón groans. 

“Have a good day kid, text me if you need anything, alright?” 

“Bye dad!” 

Fit bites the inside of his cheek to keep from smiling too wide, “See you soon, Ramón.” 

Fit’s had a difficult month, a strenuous year, even. He’s had to hurt people, do things he’s not proud of, push himself harder than he has before— 

Still, through and through, the hardest thing he’s ever done is hang up on his son. 

He drags his keys out of his pocket and wanders with a heavy heart, up the stairs to his apartment. He haphazardly rips whatever new slip his landlord has put on his door and throws himself in bed. 

 His phone starts ringing again and he pushes it till it falls off the edge and clatters to the carpet. 

—

Fit’s head is on fire when he next wakes up. It’s a broiling soup of thoughts marinating in fever fluid. Apparently his body was just waiting for the moment he slipped unconscious to dunk him into the worst of his illness. 

There’s not many times when he’s grateful to not have a job, but right now is one of them. He feels better off laying in bed then he would be calling in to some minimum wage place. He’d probably get fired on the spot. 

Nausea bubbles in his stomach. Fuck. 

He does– he does not feel good. Fit knew he had some kind of cold, the sniffles and coughs have been plaguing him for awhile now, but he thought he’d been abating them with enough cough syrup to kill a small child. 

Clearly his body has seen that as simply putting off the problem instead of dealing with it in it’s own time, since he’s gone from ‘capable of job hunting’ to ‘ I think I might be dying’ within the span of 24 hours.

He curls up in bed, his nose drooling snot onto the sheets. Fit sniffles, slapping around the bedside till his tissue box falls onto the bed, close enough to drag Kleenex out of. 

He leans over to look at his phone, and finds himself mildly disappointed when he doesn’t see anything from Pac. Which, sure, Fit’ll add that to his list of things to shove far, far, away in the back of his head. 

Fit blows his nose, tossing the snotty tissue into a growing pile. He’s already in too rotten of a mood to be thinking of Tazercraft again. He misses his son. He misses having money. 

He misses sleeping. He needs to sleep again— 

His phone is moving. He squints, trying to figure out if it’s his imagination, but it shivers in place again. Fit picks up his phone and it vibrates in his palm. Someone’s calling him. Fuck, he’s really too tired for another rejection call, but he needs to know— 

Without thinking, he clicks to respond. His throat clicks as he swallows, “ ‘Ello ?” He croaks into the receiver. 

“Fit!” Pac chirps back, as surprised as Fit feels, “You– You picked up! Wow, I– I was starting to think I had the wrong number, you know?” He laughs nervously.

Fit blinks, slow, trying to imagine a CEO waiting on Fit to stop ghosting him like they were teenagers in high school, “What’d’you need?” Fit rumbles back, eyelids too heavy to keep them open for long. 

“Nothing! Nothing , Fit, promise, I just wanted to check in– See how everything was going. It’s not really a debt paid if I leave you without like– checking – and stuff–”

 It’s as flimsy as excuses get.

Fit can almost picture the nervous way he picks at his collar, finger digging between his throat and the fabric and his stupid fancy lapel accessories, “But you sound… you sound different.” Pac continues. 

Fit shifts, turning onto his back, “Sorry. Tired.” He shouldn’t apologize. He’s too tired to care. 

“Are you in bed still?” 

He frowns, a prickle of guilt trickling into his tone, “No. Maybe .” Then, compelled to defend himself, he adds, “I’m not feeling well.” 

“Oh–” Pac says, his chair creaking in the background. Fit imagines he has a nice desk, a fancy plush chair, the whole nine yards. He wonders if he’s sitting back in it right now. He wonders if he’s still wearing those tight-fitting suits, “I’m sorry, I didn’t want to bother you.” 

He sounds actually guilty, so Fit mumbles back, “No, it’s fine. I don’t mind. I was just sittin’ here. Bein’ sick. Not much like I had much else to do.” 

He sniffles, fumbling for another tissue. There’s a distant headache on the horizon for him, but it’s far enough away thanks to handfuls of fever suppressors and pain relievers that he thinks he’ll be fine for whatever conversation Pac’s wanting to have. 

“Did you want to go back to sleep?” Pac asks. 

“No. Not really.” Fit says. He was going to, but now that he’s on his back, the compulsion has faded into discomfort he can’t ignore. It’s too hot in here. “It’s not– It’s fine, Pac, honestly. Been meanin’ to call you back. And you got a good voice, so, it’s… fine. “ His words churn and slip away as he attempts to stop them leaving his mouth. 

Good god. Fit grimaces, despairing at his own actions. Guess he’s still trying to shake off the cobwebs of sleep and sick. He pinches his eyes shut, rubbing the bridge of his nose. 

Pac laughs, gentle and kind, “ Oh! Thank you, Fit, very nice of you to say.” 

His face burns. “Y’know me.” He says, tone leading to a punchline that doesn’t happen. 

“I do.” Pac snickers playfully, “ Wow, Fit, are you– like really really sick?” There’s concern straining his tone, even though Fit can tell it's mouthed around a smile. 

 “I dunno. Probably not. Just a shitty cold.” The fever says otherwise, but he’s still stuck trying to figure out if he wants to be mad at Pac or not.

“How are you eating? Soup always makes me feel better.” 

His mouth opens, about to cite some snippy quip about Pac’s soups being laced with gold foil, when it dawns on him that he actually doesn’t remember the last time he ate. The silence stretches on, Fit’s hum of confusion turning the white noise between them tense. 

Another creak of the chair, “Fit. You should be making sure you’re eating still. Food helps you recover faster, you know?” 

“Yeah, ‘course, I just…” His brows knit, “Guess I haven’t been hungry. I dunno, I’ll make something later. I’m tired and, y’know, we’re on a call–” 

“No! No, I’ll just order you something.” Pac hurriedly says, “That’s easy, right? Then you don’t have to get up to cook.” 

Fit mulls it over, looking to the dimmed gray light filtering through his blinds. It’s probably nearing late afternoon at this point. Christ– Last time he ate was in the morning , but it certainly wasn’t today . But– it couldn’t have been yesterday either–

Pac’s voice draws him back to focus, “I’ll get something good, I promise. I have great taste, Mikey says so.” 

“I dunno if I can pay you back for it right now.” Fit mumbles, trying to imagine the number in his bank account without all the digits shifting around. 

“It’s on me. No strings attached.” He assures, “I know a vietnamese place with great pho.”

…That does sound really good. And Fit can’t really picture himself finding anything in his cabinets appetizing. He shrugs, “Sure.” 

“Tell me your address,” Pac asks, “I’ll get it for you.” 

Fit doesn’t think he should be just… telling Pac his address, but he can’t exactly conjure up a reason why. It’s just food . There’s apps for these things nowadays and, really, he’s sure if Pac wanted he’d just get Fit’s address from one of his million paid off underground black market hackers or something. 

He mumbles out his address, waiting for Pac to hum something sweet and contented before saying, “Thanks, Pac. And… sorry for not… picking up earlier.” Now Fit just feels like a piece of shit. He’s been dodging Pac, there’s no doubt about it, but he figured it was Pac trying to drag him back into the business. 

Hell, this could still be that, but if he knew Pac was gonna butter him up with free food first, he might’ve answered quicker.

Pac’s voice is soft, “Don’t worry. It’s a weird situation, right? I don’t blame you for it. Trust takes time, and I’m very patient, Fit.” 

Fit grunts back in agreement, despite the warning flags in his head waving bright crimson red. It’s just one meal. Once meal and then they’ll go back to not talking. Surely this is enough to abate Pac’s attention. 

“I’ll go get you that food. Do you want anything else while I’m out?” Pac asks, sweet as can be. His slide back to being achingly domestic sends Fit’s heart for a loop.

“No. I don’t need anything.” He sniffs.

Pac hums thoughtfully, shuffling on the other end of the line, “But do you want anything?” 

Fuck. He’s too sick to play the mind games, “ No. ” He insists.

Pac’s sigh is long, “No, no, of course. I understand.” He says, “Do you think you can do something for me before I head out?” 

With his lack of debt assured, Fit sinks back into the mattress with ease, “What?” 

“Are you gonna be awake to open the door later? For the food?” 

He’d like to say yes, but the answer is probably no. “Why?” Fit grumbles. He kicks off the sheets, feeling all too warm now. 

Pac snorts, “ Fitchi, you have to open the door to get the food.” 

“Oh. Uh…” His brows knit together. God, his face is warm. Why’s he so warm ? Fitchi. That’s cute. He likes the way Pac says that. 

He pushes it aside, turning instead to chug through his thoughts, trying to find some solution that didn’t add up to keeping his door unlocked, “There’s… a key?” The words strangle themselves out of his throat. He shouldn’t be saying this. He should not be saying this. 

“A key? Outside of your door?” Pac says, interest piqued. “Can you tell me where?” Christ, Fit’s so fucking tired. It’s gonna suck if Pac gets him food and he can’t even open the door to get it. It’s fine if it sits in his hallway, right? Why does Pac need the key again? 

Something’s sticking out at him like a sore thumb and he can’t even decipher it. 

“ Uh .” Fit pinches his eyes shut, exhaustion thick on his chest and heavy in his head. He rubs a thumb over his brow. 

“I can keep a secret.” Pac says softly, “I won’t tell anyone, Fit, I promise.”

That headache he thought was far away seems to be rumbling closer by the minute, “S’just on top of the doorframe.” The words feel like acid on his tongue. 

“ Thank you, Fit,” Pac croons, speaking over the sound of doors opening and shutting, the jingling of keys, shuffling shoes– “Thank you, really. I’ll be careful, okay? I won’t tell anyone.” 

Fit makes an uneasy noise. 

“Fitchi, you sound tired,” Pac’s voice is a salve, and Fit bends to the speaker to hear it more clearly, “Go sleep, okay? You’ll eat when you wake up.” 

Sleep sounds good. Fit curls his fingers around his phone, “Yeah. Okay.” He coughs into his arm, hearing Pac coo back in sympathy. 

“See you soon, okay?” 

“Mm.” Fit’s thumb slides to the disconnect button and shuts off his phone. 

Fuck. He should probably stay awake for when the food comes by. He’s still not sure what Pac’s plan is, but if it involves giving someone his key– But he said he wouldn’t tell anyone? Fit never uses those food delivery apps, he’s not sure how they work. 

His head spins. Fit feels freezing cold now, and he drags the blankets back up to his shoulders and still feels it sinking into his skin. He tucks his head under the covers, shoving his face into the pillow. Hopefully he’ll just die here and not have to worry about it. 

Fit has just enough energy to think of how utterly exhausted he is from just talking to Pac, before he’s slipped into unconsciousness. 

—

Someone’s in his kitchen. 

Fit startles awake, his nerves fried and on edge as his consciousness slowly bleeds back into him– 

He heard his door open. 

He heard someone do the shuffle around the bar that splits the kitchen apart from the living room because the space is too small and someone didn’t measure twice before they cut. 

Someone’s in his apartment. 

Alarm tries to crawl up to the surface, attempts to push past the sticky opaque layer of sickness in vain. He sits up, his head a leaded weight on his shoulders. Fit’s hand rests on the bedside, already discounting the time needed to put on his prosthetic– Not worth it. He’s good enough with his one hand. 

He fumbles through the drawer, fingers coiling around the handle of a gun. God, he’s so fucking glad Madagio didn’t ask for this thing back. 

Yeah . He only needs the one fuckin’ hand. 

There’s the sound of plastic bags rustling beyond his wall. Whoever it is, they aren’t trying to be quiet. In fact, they’re making a lot of noise, an almost purposeful amount. Almost enough to– 

There’s a soft knock at his door, “ Hello?”

Fit’s lucky he has the safety on, because his fingers nearly squeeze around the trigger from surprise alone. 

His head spits out the name belonging to that voice; “ Pac?” He rasps, his choked words sounding dreadful to his own ears. 

“Fit!” Pac cheers back, oblivious to his astoundment. The handle is notoriously loose on it’s own, and it twitches as Pac’s hand seemingly brushes it, then goes still– “Ah– no, sorry, I’m not gonna come in. But I got the food!” 

And, well , he appreciates the thought, but what the fuck? Fit drops the gun back in the drawer, stumbling drowsily over his feet to the door. 

Pac stands on the other side, eyes wide behind wild strands of black hair, most of it pulled back into a simple pony that befits his undercut.  He’s dressed casually, simple shirt and shorts, but the silver chain and branded sneakers scream money. 

He’s kind of surprised Pac didn’t get robbed on the way in. 

In his hands is a styrofoam bowl with a plastic top, smelling awfully delicious and steaming at the seams. 

“You’re in my apartment.” Fit croaks, wavering in place.

“You told me where the key was.” Pac points out. He hoists the take out box up, “I got food for you.” 

Fit rests a hand on the doorframe, world swirling around him, “I thought you were g’nna drop it off.” 

Pac presses his lips into a thin line, face flushing and ducking, “I was worried. You sounded really sick, you know? I wanted to see if you were okay.” Then, he adds, “Sorry. I thought you knew I was coming in. I said I would bring it.” 

“I didn’t clean.” Fit says, eyes flitting around his meager apartment. Pac looks too rich to imagine his apartment, much less be in it. 

He shrugs, “I don’t care. You’re sick , no ? Makes sense.” Pac takes a half-step back, gesturing towards the living room, “I got pho! And I also have some tea I like, and ah– also I got some ice cream, I hope that’s okay. I didn’t know what kind of medicine you had so I asked the lady at the store and she was super nice and helped me get whatever.” 

Fit follows him, aimless, looking despairingly at the plastic bags lined up along his wall. Sure enough, ice cream, boxes of tea and canned soup, and a whole two bags dedicated to every long-titled medication Fit’s ever seen on the shelf at a pharmacy. 

“I think you were scammed.” Fit mumbles, trying to read out Fish Oil Preservative through the half-transparent plastic. What does that even mean? Doesn’t this guy run a multi-million dollar company?

Pac shrugs. 

Right. Rich people. 

He’s settling onto his ratty couch as Fit wobbles over to the kitchen. He tugs open the fridge, grabbing a water bottle more as an excuse than any actual thirst. 

As soon as Pac busies himself with opening the foam box, Fit clambers over to a counter  and slides the stack of pink slips and eviction notices into the first drawer he gets his hands on. God, he hopes Pac didn’t see that. 

“Listen, Fit…” Pac says from the couch, “I don’t feel good about how we left things, you know? I’m sorry.” He’s cracking open a plastic top, staring at the swirling pale noodles and chicken swamped in broth.

Fit blinks tiredly and uncaps his waterbottle. He saunters over, feeling as if he needs to be sitting for this conversation, “It’s okay.” He tries, “It happened, that’s all.” 

Pac’s worries don’t abate at his words, “I want to…” He trails off, sighing into his bowl, “I want to make things right, you know? Mikey explained it a– a little and I get it. I get really– um…” He flushes, scratching at his nape, “I like to fix things. And I get overwhelming– But I do want to help you out.” 

“You don’t have to.” Fit amends. 

”I want to.” Pac repeats, eyes flicking to him.

And because the question’s been befuddling him for weeks, Fit asks; “ Why ?” 

Pac passes him a bowl with plastic fork and spoon. He sits, quiet, for a moment, tucking his feet up onto the cushions; “You’re interesting. When I gave you a favor for anything , I mean– anything, Fit– you focused almost solely on saving your son,” Pac says, simple and easy, “I think that’s worth trying to…I-I guess encourage in people because I don’t see it often, you know? Do I– Do I need any other reason?” 

No , Fit thinks, but I know you have one. He can feel it, like an itch under the skin. It doesn’t feel like it’s enough. Pac seems sure of himself though, so Fit bites his tongue. 

Pac tips his head to the bowl, “ Ah — You’re probably hungry, right? Eat , eat.” He insists. 

And Fit wasn’t waiting for his permission, but his words unlock his muscles anyway. The first waves of steam make his mouth water. His stomach grumbles in agreement, and Fit cracks open the fork to start digging in. 

He makes a not-so deliberate moan as he starts drinking mouthfuls of broth. Christ, he was really hungry. 

Pac snickers, still dragging his fork through his noodles. Fit notices after a bit that he’s not eating, and awkwardly asks, “Not hungry?”

”Not really.” He huffs, “But I can leave it here, right? You can have it later.” 

Fit can’t shake the feeling that Pac knew he wouldn’t be eating when he bought it. He looks at their two bowls, noting they’re the same order. He hums with a furrowed brow, ”I can cook something up for you if you want.” 

“No, I’m okay.” Pac says, “Thank you though.” Fit’s mouth is full of pho when Pac pipes up again, “You cook?” 

He quickly swallows, his feverish drowsiness slinking away as he eats, “I had sole custody of my son for a while. Kid got tired of chicken nuggets faster than I thought,” Fit recounts, spinning fork through the broth and noodles, “I cooked, I cleaned. I had a job as a janitor for a bit too, but it wasn’t paying enough.” 

“And Madagio was.” Pac finishes for him, cheek propped up on the heel of his palm and food entirely forgotten. 

Fit leans back into the cushions, “Yeah. He was.” He sighs, the weight of anxiety starting to crush through his ribs, “As much as I’m glad to be rid of Madagio– A-and very fuckin’ grateful–” He rushes to add in before continuing, “I’m not making nearly enough cash to send back as I was before.” 

Pac tips his head curiously, “I was curious about that. Child support?” 

“Nah, just shit in my own name.” Fit shakes his head, “We weren’t married or anything. Me and his other dad. But Ramon needs things his dad can’t get him. Clothes, school supplies, tuition–” 

He doesn’t really blame Spreen for struggling. He knows he works too, but supporting a whole other human being is difficult and both of them agreed that they’re gonna try to make sure Ramon wants for nothing, that he grows up happy and fulfilled. 

“I send what I can every couple of weeks. It ain’t much, but it’s keeping the kid in school and paying for his clubs and hobbies, so it’s worth it.” He finishes, fishing out some bits of beef to chew on. 

Pac watches him thoughtfully. Fit tries to push the silence out of his mind, focusing on eating. Then, quiet; “You’re a good dad, Fit.” He says, as confident as he would be stating a fact about the world. 

Fit’s face warms. He scratches at his jaw, chuckling softly, “Uh… Thanks , I– I try. I can’t be there for the kid, least I can do is send cash.” 

“Do you see him often?” 

“When I can.” Fit explains, “Driving up there is gas money, and Spreen isn’t keen on letting me crash on the couch.” 

There’s a twitch in Pac’s lip, “How come?” Lot of fuckin’ questions, this guy– 

Fit snorts, tipping the bowl back to drink a mouthful of broth. It soothes his aching throat, settling evenly in his stomach. He wipes his mouth, “We didn’t end on good terms. He walked out, and I came back begging him to take the kid.” He fuckin’ hates remembering that day. Fit spent hours arguing with Spreen, banging on his door and demanding the world of him. 

All Spreen wanted was an escape. He didn’t want the kid, he didn’t want a domestic life– Spreen is barely through his 20s. Fit couldn’t blame him for trying to distance himself from settling too early with a one night stand. 

He was just all Fit had left. And Fit would’ve done anything to keep Ramon from getting tangled up in his mess, even if it meant ruining Spreen’s life to balance the scales. And he did, ultimately, considering Spreen is driving his kid to school and shit instead of finishing college like he should’ve been. 

Fit’s stomach lurches. He puts the bowl of pho back on the table, feeling suddenly very ill. 

“Are you ok?” Pac asks, brows knitting. 

“Yeah. Fine. Think I’m just hittin’ my limit for energy.” He explains, uncapping his water bottle to swish the acidic taste out of his mouth. 

“I didn’t want to pry,” Pac says, “I just like hearing you talk, you know? Like I said, you– You’re an interesting guy, Fit.” 

Fit gives him a rueful grin, “Interesting is a word for it, yeah.” It’s soaked with enough self-loathing to make Pac pause. 

His mouth opens and shuts his mouth last minute, head gently bobbing with a shake, “If you say so, right?” 

Hm. Fit covers up his pho before it gets any colder. 

“If you’re tired, I can head out,” Pac checks his watch, “It’s time I get home anyway. Oh! Mike says hi, by the way.” 

“Hi back,” Fit rumbles, rubbing at his face. He picks a tissue out of a nearby box and blows his nose, “Send that to him too. Snot and everything.” 

Pac snickers, picking up his things and slinging his cross-body bag over his shoulder. He drops his left-overs in the fridge, noting, “You can have this later if you want, I didn’t touch it.” 

Fit waves at him, standing and wobbling to the front door, “Thanks… Pac. For everything.” He says, stilted. 

Pac brightens, shoving his hands in his pockets, “Happy to help.” He says, “I’ll call you later. Hope you feel better soon. And– Fit,” He stares more intently now, dark eyes glimmering, “If you need anything, yeah? You call me.” 

His stomach twists uneasily. Fit nods, “You got it boss.” 

He doesn’t miss the way Pac’s expression dims at that. 

Fit holds the door open for him and Pac gets a few steps out before the staircase door shudders open with a creak. 

From the darkness lurches his landlord, papers stuffed under his arm. Awesome. Fit hisses internally. Pac’s eyes dance between the two before he scoots past the man. 

His landlord gives Pac a polite, tight, smile. Pac waves back to Fit as he descends down the stairs, smile encouraging and light. Fit waves back, resting his stump against the doorway. 

“Is that where your money is going?” His landlord scoffs. 

“ Watch it .” Fit snips back, lip curled, “The hell do you want?” The last thing he wants right now is to listen to his landlord bitch about his expenses. 

The man’s brow is stormy, “Clearly you aren’t reading the letters I’m sending, because your eviction date is coming up, Fit.” He pulls another pink slip from his pocket, “I’m adding another, since you keep pulling them down.” 

“Fucking–” Fit scowls, running a hand down his face, “Yeah, I know, I’ve just– I’ve been sick.” And broke. And unable to pay his rent. And spending long hours of the night looking for new apartments that for some reason don’t open until next year. It’s low on the list. 

“Not sick enough to keep my notices up.” His landlord gives him a long, sneering, look. 

Fit’s nostrils flare, anger bubbling alongside his nausea, “Just do it. I’ll be out, don’t worry.” He snarls, slamming his door shut behind him. Fit rests with his back to the wood, hearing the snip of tape and movement as his landlord reapplies his eviction notice to the entryway. 

His footsteps retreat not long after, undercut with grumbles that Fit can’t decipher. 

Once Fit’s certain the man’s gone, he slides to a sit at the foot of the entrance. The still-steaming pho and bags of medicine stare back at him mockingly.

Chapter Text

Most of the medicine ends up in the trash. 

Fit keeps a few things– Labels he recognizes and understands and knows he can pay back if Pac kept a receipt. He knows he didn’t, because Pac seems hellbent on getting him anything without ever expecting anything back, but old habits die hard. 

Besides, he doesn’t know what most of the stuff Pac got was anyway. He doesn’t need Vitamin B-13 or whatever, he just needs to pop more fever reducers. Which do work, now that he’s consuming half his weight in soup. 

True to his word, Pac does call him later on to check up on him. It’s supposed to be maybe a five minute call, but Pac asks him how he’s doing and Fit’s either too stupid or sick to realize in the moment that he probably should just say fine and move on. 

The conversation lasts nearly two hours, with most of it being Pac asking questions here and there, encouraging to Fit ramble till he grows too tired to continue. 

At which point, Pac gently chides him about going to sleep and following his word, Fit goes. 

The first coherent question he asks himself the next morning is; What am I doing? 

The second is; What is Pac doing? And no amount of staring up at the ceiling gives him an answer he likes. 

Over breakfast, he tells himself it’s because he was, and still sort of is, sick. There’s nothing else to it. Simply a bad fever that warped his head. Pac leaves him be, Fit eyes his phone waiting for his call, and they all continue with their lives. 

Days slip through his fingers like water. He gets a contracted roof tiling job north of Quesadilla and spends the next week smelling tar and plastic and taking the brunt of the shifting weather’s winds. 

He stashes the money immediately and spends most of his time outside of his job looking for places to rent within the next couple weeks. 

He’s grateful for, if nothing else, that his landlord has given him a lot of notice in advance. His eviction is mostly because of the unpaid rent– Fit was a good tenant otherwise. 

He set down his situation nice and clear to the guy after what felt like hundreds of emails sent back and forth about his apartment. They came to an uneasy agreement for a couple weeks of buffer time, off the table, and Fit would let him take his security deposit without a fuss.

So while he needs to let people tour the place and, legally, put up the flyers to show he’s being evicted, Fit is given time. 

And he’s just fine with that, considering time and money are the two major things Fit lacks. There’s never enough of each to hop himself off the tightrope he’s balancing on. 

Which is why halfway through his morning coffee, on a stray Saturday morning, Fit finds himself pausing and straining his eyes at his tiny phone screen. 

Fit scrolls through his calendar. Stops. Scrolls again. He taps on each day and scours the empty space for a sign of an interview hiding out of sight through a banal drop down. 

Nothing. Fit has nothing to do this Saturday. Stunned, he drops his phone back down on his desk and wonders what went wrong to make that happen. 

For once, Fit has time. The newfound freedom leads him to sitting in front of his TV, clicking through channels and news reports. 

Fit’s leg bounces till the screen of his television starts wobbling. 

All the recent activity has made him realize that having nowhere to go, nothing in particular to do, makes him incredibly antsy. He has nothing to do though, nothing but a day of waiting until tomorrow for his next interview. 

No leasing places are open, no job opportunities today– 

Waiting used to be easy. 

Madagio had him scheduled to work so often that a break was seen as a gulping breath of air between drowning– But this feels more like he should be doing something instead of simply waiting for another assignment. 

His time, and the responsibility thereof, rests in his hands. 

He taps away at the arm of his couch. Wind howls outside his apartment window, rattling the glass panes. If Fit stares long enough, he can see flakes of snow drifting down from the sky. He’ll be in that soon, or might be if his apartment plans fall through. 

The tension snaps and Fit stands up, going to throw a load of laundry in the washing machine before he exploded into flimsy Fit-shaped-pieces. 

An easy solution sits just in his peripheral vision, waiting patiently for him to cave. There’s nothing he can do today, so he needs a distraction instead of time to go crazy in his own head. 

He cleans his dishes. Fit beats his rug out on the front steps. He vacuums his carpet. He cleans off his counters, scrubbing at the tabletop until it shines and Fit proudly wipes his finger over the surface to see it’s pale reflection echo the mirrored image.

The phone tells him it’s been less than an hour. Fuck his stupid janitor job, he gets this shit done in record time with hours and hours to spare. 

Fit slumps back down on his couch and his leg, predictably, starts bouncing again. He sighs, running his tongue along the back of his teeth. 

It’s not the problem of knowing whether Pac would want to hang out today– Fit knows for certain Pac would be elated– The issue is that Fit shouldn’t want to. Right now, Fit should be angry. 

He should be upset that Pac came to his house and upset that they tried to give him a job they should’ve known he wouldn’t want considering his history. 

Fit should be mad. Key word; Should. 

Instead, Fit had woken up from a sickened stupor feeling better than he has in weeks– potentially months– and had enough food to last him awhile without a grocery trip. 

He’d practically consumed the ice cream whole– vanilla with chocolate swirls, because Pac has good taste– since he couldn’t recall the last time he’d even had ice cream. 

Simply put; It was nice. Fit felt good– No, he felt normal, like he was living life taking easy, tempered, breaths instead of panicked ones. 

He was walking through existence instead of sprinting to a finish line. And to know it was no burden on Pac’s wallet relieved him of any guilt of enjoying it. 

It’s not like Pac had done anything either. He’d simply shown up, talked, and left. 

Fit had expected the amount of phone calls to skyrocket but after checking in on him the day after he arrived, it’s been radio silence. Yet there’s no doubt in Fit’s mind that he’s waiting for his call back. 

Unease roils in his stomach. He wishes Pac and Mike weren’t so confusing. 

He knows there has to be an angle they’re playing at, one that’s difficult to see past the dollar signs– But what is it? His perspective? His looks? Fit can’t even look in mirrors for too long without feeling some level of distastefulness, and what personality he has is as jagged and burnt as he is. 

Pac had said he was interesting. He wonders how true it is. 

Does it matter? He rubs a hand up and down his face. Would it really, truly, matter? 

For the second time that day, Fit comes up with empty palms when it comes to the issue of Pac and Mike. Right now, Fit has too many physical issues to start conjuring his own. 

 He scrolls to his contacts and jams the call button. 

The line rings twice before– “Fitch!” Pac greets brightly. 

His heart flutters in his chest, “Pac, hey—uh” Fit says, embarrassment creeping up his cheeks as he stammers out a quiet, “Bom día.” 

Between lunch breaks and tiling jobs, he’d done bare bones googling of Portuguese. He figured it was the least he could do in return. There’d been a pronunciation guide, but there’s no knocking away the edge of embarrassment of trying to say something as simple as good morning. 

“Bom día!” Pac laughs back, not an inch of judgment or mocking in his voice, “Bom día, Fitch! How are you? Tudo bem?” 

Fuck. Curveball, he didn’t google that one—“Good, good–” Fit bites the inside of his cheek, “Are you… busy?” 

After a short hum of thought, Pac chirps back, “I can not be, if I want to.” 

Fit can only imagine what kind of freedom Pac has with control on his workload like that, “I don’t wanna mess with your schedule–” His earlier gumption is dissipating with every passing second. Crawling insecurity chokes out his sentences to a mere rasp. 

“No, no, please, Fitch,” Pac soothes, “I have so much time. What is it?” 

He picks at a stray thread on his jeans, face warm, “I– Well, I realized I had a lot of free time today. I had nothin’ goin’ on. Thought I’d stay home, but…” Fit trails off with a shrug, realizing too late that Pac couldn’t see that from over the phone. 

“Hm? That’s good, time off is good, Fit– Everyone needs a break sometimes, right?” There’s an obvious smile he can hear through the receiver. 

Fit huffs, “C’mon man.” 

“What, Fit?” Pac snickers, playful and teasing. Fit almost vocalizes the little spitted phrase; That’s my name, don’t wear it out. There’s a warmth to hearing it from Pac’s lips, though, spoken without bitterness or spite. 

“You’re a wholeass braniac,” Fit deadpans, “I don’t need to spell shit out for you.” 

“Well, I– I don’t know, Fit!” Pac tuts, cloying, “You could be calling me for a lot of reasons! Maybe you wanna talk on the phone, or see how the company’s doing, or–” 

He’s starting to understand Mike’s fond irritation, “Pac. You’re killing me.”

“Am I, Fitchi?” 

“Do you want to hang out today? We can just– talk or go somewhere–” Fit stumbles to add on, “If you can, I don’t wanna put you out for money or time.”

Pac tsks, cutting him off, “I think I might be busy… let me check–” 

For a beat, Fit shrinks into himself, biting the inside of his cheek, “Right, yeah. I didn’t mean to—“ 

“Oh, Fit, would you look at that?” Pac cuts in, clicking sounds of a busy mouse in the background coming into focus, “My schedule just cleared! Thats– That’s crazy, right? I just got a ton of time.” 

Fit lets out a breath he didn’t know he was holding, “Fuck- Jesus, man–” 

“Sorry, sorry,” Pac giggles, “A little joke, I couldn’t resist, Fit.” 

He snorts, “I got a few ideas of where you can stick your jokes.” A beat too late, a flush washes his skin and he goes to apologize.

Pac, however, is still laughing. No clear offense taken, he snickers, “Oh yeah? Where should I? Hm?”

Fit’s face warms, “Hey, take it easy, Pac.” He drawls back.

“Where did you wanna go?” Pac asks him, “I have to go rescue Mike first, but anywhere, Fit, you name it.” 

“Didn’t think that far ahead.” Fit mumbles, scratching at his nape. 

“I’ll pick one then. How about… Oh! How about an arcade? Have you been to the coastal arcade? Coelhinho?” Pac chirps, shuffling about with what sounds like bags and shoes. 

Coelhinho’s arcade, and attached mall, is one of those tourist attractions in Quesadilla, set inside a giant mall of marble and gaudy gold lining. Fit had always meant to stop by there when he had the time but it never happened. Besides, going in there alone without his kid or any friends felt awkward. 

“No, but– I-I like that. Sounds nice.” Fit says, “I’m shit at most arcade games though.” 

“That’s fine! It’s just to have fun, right? To hang out and stuff.” 

Fit flushes, “Yeah. ‘Course. I can meet you there.” He starts to pull away, but it drawn back last second by Pac’s chirp;

“Did you move?” 

Fit bends back to listen, “No?” He replies, confused. 

“Oh! Then I’ll come pick you up, Fit, no worries!” 

Fit does, internally, consider arguing for a minute. It’s still a mildly raw nerve for Pac to have his address. Gas money. He reminds himself, You have to save up. 

There’s some battles not worth fighting. He’s not beholden to his truck by any means, and Pac does already know his address. 

“Alright, sounds good.” 

Pac makes a pleased sound, “Great! I’ll pick you up soon, then. Give me… mm, twenty minutes.” 

Before Fit knows it, he’s outside of his apartment building, trying to press his arms into his sides to keep the cold from creeping in. He’d forgone his usual coat, but deeply regrets it now that he’s out in the weather. 

Someone lays on the horn of their car and Fit jumps. Peeking out of the front window is Pac, waving at him from across the street. A smile wills itself onto his face; “Oi!” He calls, watching Pac laugh and call back, “Oi, Fitch!” through a smattering of giggles. 

Fit jogs to the backseat, dropping himself onto heated padded leather.

“Close the door before I freeze my ass off.” Mike grumbles, shooting him a grin, “Oi.” He teases.

Fit closes the door behind him, “You’re one to talk, I was out there for a minute or two waiting for you guys to show up.” 

“I thought you’d wait inside!” Pac whines, “Or have a coat at least.” 

“It’s not cold enough yet.” Fit explains, though the excuse falls flat to his own ears, “I just haven’t needed to.” 

Mike turns a dial and the seat beneath him starts to warm even further, “If you say so. We won’t be out for long anyway– We have an arcade to conquer.” He says. 

“Damn right.” Fit calls back, eyes cutting to Pac as he twists the wheel. He keeps quiet, though, a furrow to his brow that doesn’t quite smooth out until they’re passing roads and signs towards the Coelhinho. 

They jog inside, dodging the icy winds as best they can. Mike is glued to his side, his expensive puffer coat blocking the brunt. 

Inside, the glass doors open up to sleek polished blackstone and white linoleum. 

Blaring lights and a cacophony of sound bleeds out across the mall’s walls and floors, the digitized sound of coins falling, childish yells and incoherent screams of joy. Fit didn’t think people still went to arcades. He’s evidently very wrong about that. 

The arcade sat within the Coelhinho mall is anything but dead; It flashes a multitude of colors, spiralling song and sound that’s near overwhelming. 

Pac calls to him and Fit notices that his hand is inches from Fit’s, “Hey, Mike has an old account card, we can use that.” He says, pointing to Mike’s simple plastic card with rabbits and confetti printed across the front. 

Fit closes the gap, letting Pac tuck his sleeve between his fingers, “Lead the way.” Pac beams. 

The arcade is booming with energy. Fit recognizes absolutely none of the games, however, and looking for a familiar sight is like trying to find a needle in a haystack. 

“I feel so old–” Fit bemoans, trailing his hands over a game of ‘Stack ‘em!’ that’s entirely digital. Mike’s zeroed in with focus, making each block progressively stack on top of the other. 

Pac snickers, “You don’t know these?” 

“I know…” Fit twists his lip, glancing about, “I know air hockey.” He points out, watching a family of four dip away from the flat tabletop. Mike perks up, backlit by a victory screen showering LEDs of confetti.

“Oh, Fit, I will destroy you in air hockey.” Mike grins, all teeth and confidence on display. 

Pac shoves past Fit, sprinting towards the table, “I called it, I called it first–” And Mike is quick to follow. 

Fit is quickly forgotten as the cause for them to play air hockey in the first place, but he hardly minds. 

It was easy for Fit to forget these guys were still in their 20s. Late, twenties, he reminds himself, but still 20s. They have energy and spite and charm like Fit did at that age. It’s fun enough to watch them pass nonsense insults and meaningless threats between each other. 

Of course, once the scores have tied, Pac offers Fit a turn.

Mike predictably crushes him. 

He slides the paddle at a sharp angle and the puck goes right into the goal over and over and Fit has no idea how he does that–? He thought air hockey was about luck before skill. 

His claim to fame is that he gets one goal back before the game ends and Pac cheers so loud that his ears ring. 

Mike laughs, stripping off the length of tickets growing at their feet.

Panting slightly, Fit narrows his eyes, “One more round?” He can practically taste a distant victory. Mike’s shoulders set like he’s ready for a chase. 

Pac slides his weight onto his shoulder, “Another round, Mikey!” He cheers, hand resting over Fit’s to clutch the paddle, “2 v. 1!” He’s draped his fingers over Fit’s, leant in so the black lacquer of his nails sits checkered between Fit’s bare ones.   

“Unfair.” Mike tuts, “...For you!” He jams the card into the reader and starts up another round, the lights above the table blinking and chirping out music. 

Fit’s pretty sure the sound of the puck hitting the walls is going to still be ringing in his ears at night for the next couple weeks. 

His fingers brush the dry flush of air that spits up from the table, Pac shifting his paddle to save him more than once from a quick and dirty goal on Mike’s end.

He even manages to get a goal or two in, though at some point it feels more like Pac’s playing than Fit is. “You’re good at this.” Fit says, eyeing him from his peripheral. Mike is thumping his fist against the machine, complaining over Pac’s cheating. The counter ticks up on their side. 

Pac’s smile is meek, “I have too much free time. Besides,” He says, rolling his shoulder, “You make it easy.” 

It occurs to him, late, that Pac doesn’t have to be this close to direct him. Fit shifts his weight between his feet, but Pac stays tucked next to his shoulder with that same winning grin. 

The machine announces another round and Fit listens to every little warning Pac gives; Watch the hands! It’s like pool, it bounces off at an angle. Move— Move!

Before he knows it, the puck tumbles into Mike’s goal with a rattle. 

“Qué mierda– No!” Mike yelps. He groans, bending till his forehead bumps against the rim, “Cheating! Two versus one is cheating!” 

Pac lets go of his hand, laughing. 

“I barely did anything, man,” Fit chuckles, shy, “Pac did all the work. You were makin’ a fool out of me before.” 

He registers a bump, and Fit turns to see Pac softly punching his arm, “Ah! No, no, it was a team effort, Fit,” He assures him. He smiles, warm, “Good job.” 

Fit’s cheeks grow warm. “Uh– Yeah.” He mutters back, straining, “Team effort.” 

Pac doesn’t relent, however, lips pressed together, “No, you did good, Fit! Trust me!” 

“Mm.” Fit half-grunts, turning away, scrutinizing the gum tacked underneath a stool, feeling Pac’s gaze start to burn through his cheek. With a huff, he relents; “Uh… Christ, alright… Thanks.” 

Pac snickers, patting his bicep in consolation.

Mike bustles over, folding accordions of tickets between his fingers, “I think we’ve hogged the table enough. Wanna find another game?” 

Fit clears his throat, waving at the machines, “You pick. Still don’t know what half of these are.” He should try, or maybe strain his memory to check, but it’s easier to have Tazercraft pick for him. 

Turns out Fit doesn’t need to know them; He learns fast. Some of them are easy, like trying to land a marble right next to a light, or claw machines or– Bless, there’s still racing games tucked away in the back. Fit wins a couple of those. 

Game after game, their tickets begin to pile up. Eventually, it spills over after they spend too long trying to play Wack-A-Mole with lights. 

Mike shoves the tickets in his hand, glowing with sweat, “Go cash in the tickets, there’s a machine by the prize corner. We’re gonna look for food.” Fit’s stomach grumbles in similar thought. 

His hand wavers near his pocket, “Do you need me to—?” 

Mike gives him a gentle shove, “Go, go!” 

It’s all the instruction Fit needs, and he waves the two off as he goes to count their tickets. 

He finds the ticket counter. He thought it was the ATM. Fit feeds the tickets in, watching the number bounce and jump from 10 to 35 to 100 to more–

His receipt prints out 749. Fit almost considers playing another game just to bump it to 750. 

He drifts over to the prize counter, eyeing the rows under the glass. There’s a woman waiting behind it, dressed in plain work clothes and a visor, not focusing on much of anything but the distant sound of rattling coins. 

“I think I give this to you?” Fit says, handing out the receipt. The person behind the counter perks up, taking it from him with a friendly smile.

“You do! Thanks. If you need help with the pricing let me know.” She says, glancing down at the ticket, “You have about 700 total.” 

Fit knows. He can read. “Right, thanks.” He says, scooting an inch down the glass cabinet and eyeing the rows of plastic spider rings that glow in the dark. He’s scanning over dinosaurs that grow (200% the packaging boasts) in water when the cashier pipes up again;

“Are you new here?” 

He glances up, “Huh? Yeah. Well– You mean the arcade, right?” 

She laughs, tucking hair behind her ear, “Yeah, of course. I– I work here most nights, so–” 

“Cool.” Fit says with a nod, drumming his fingers on the counter. He gets the feeling there’s more she wants to say, so he tries, “Yeah, never been. Came here with some… friends.” 

The word comes stilted and awkward out of his mouth. He never really considered what to call them and the guys who bailed me out of indebted servitude till my early death doesn’t really sound good out of context. 

Friends seems too… simple. 

“For a special occasion, or…?” She questions, head tilted. 

“Does a day off from work count?” He jokes dryly.

She laughs, cheeks pink, “To me? Sure. I’d count that as a holiday.” Then, after a sigh, she rests an elbow on the counter, “I’m here five of the seven days of the week, it’s crazy. I don’t even get holidays off, I’m too busy shoveling snow or mowing the stupid grass outside.” A beat passes and her face flushes a deeper crimson, “Sorry, I probably shouldn’t be saying this.” 

“No, no, trust me, I get it.” Fit muses, shrugging, “Just got out of a bad job like that. Makes you feel like shit.” 

“For real.” She snorts, eyeing him carefully. Fit goes back to squinting at the price of some mundane plastic toy, focused in before she chirps, “I can– um– I can pull some things out… if you want. Might be easier.” 

Fit sighs, “Yeah, think I need to get glasses or something. You mind?” He says, gesturing to a row of gummy bears. 

She almost trips to grab the box, pulling it out and placing it on the counter. The sharpied number on the box is much clearer this close up and Fit starts tallying up what he’s planning to purchase, “If you want some other options, I can grab them– 

“Thanks.” He says with a nod, “You’re too kind.” 

An arm slides around his waist and Pac buoys into his side, “Are you done yet?” He whines, scanning the lines of gummy bears in front of him, “Oh!” Fit can see the allure of sugary sweets prioritizing itself in his head. 

His breath hitches, a deep warmth blooming where Pac’s arm presses against his too-thin shirt. He can feel the heat flush through his skin, a sparkling sensation of pins and needles where Pac touches. 

Shoulder to shoulder is one thing, but Pac is wrapped into him, he can feel his fingers drifting over his waist. He’s slotted into his side like a puzzle piece. 

There’s a shifting air behind the counter, and Fit glances up to see the same woman from before now shuffling awkwardly, her eyes dancing between Pac and Fit. 

He’s about to call it out when Pac leans his weight into him, like a cat dropping all of it’s mass onto his ribs. He’s flicking his fingers through the box of candies, uninterested in the world beyond.

He’d be more confused about the touch if he didn’t see Pac hanging off of Mike all the time. He’s just a touchy guy.

It’s strange, granted, and Fit can see the brightness of the sensation becoming overwhelming, but it, and Fit, stay anchored. 

Fit lets out a breathy snort, “You want ‘em?” 

Pac plucks the first baggie and grins, “You’re paying?” 

“You mean with my hard won Dance Dance Revolution tickets? Damn right.” Fit drawls with a raised brow. 

Pac tsks, “I think that was mostly Mike.” 

He’s joking, Fit can see it in the quirk of his lip, but a self-conscious beat passes and Fit feels compelled to say, “I can, if you want. I did mean that earlier, about not wanting to put you out or anything. I tried asking Mike about food—“

“Nope!” Pac pops the sound with his lips, passing the baggie of gummy bears down to the woman behind the counter, “It wouldn’t be a day out if you had to worry about money, né? So, no worries, Fitchi, we’re out to have fun. Did you want anything?” 

The arm coils an inch further around his hip. Fit bats at it until Pac slips off, “I dunno. There’s too many options– I mean, we have too many tickets.” 

Pac shrugs, “Just the gummy bears then.” He tells the cashier. 

“Isn’t that a waste?” Fit asks, brows knitting. He’s pretty sure they don’t bank those things. 

“I can buy you any of this, Fit, whenever you want.” Pac says, still basically placing his full weight into Fit’s side, waving his hand about the prize counter, “Don’t worry about waste–” 

The woman is punching in the numbers with a withering stare at her screen. She’s halfway done before Pac chirps, “Wait! Oh– Wait–” He points up at one of the hanging stuffed animals, “That too. And that’s it, I promise, thank you.” He says with a too-sweet grin.

“Didn’t take you for the stuffed animal type.” Fit comments as a small, stuffed, dog gets passed over the counter.

“I’m not,” Pac says, plucking his gummy bears and shoving them in his pocket.

 Suddenly, Fit’s vision is obscured as a plastic black nose and beady eyes are shoved in his face, “It’s for you.” 

Fit raises a brow, looking past the dog to Pac, “Seriously?” 

“Think of it like a souvenir!” Pac says, “Look, it’s got your eyes!” 

Fit scrutinizes the beady glass bulbs sewn into it’s fur.

There’s simple white and brown spotting across it’s fabric, and it’s softer than any of the other prize plushes look. There’s a simple stitched smile on it’s muzzle, the barest hint of a pink tongue poking out of it. 

It can’t be much bigger than Fit’s hand, weighted in the paws with something that sounds like rice or beads when Pac shakes it like a tantalizing treat. He’s sure he had plush something as a kid, maybe a stuffed dog like this, but the foster system makes it hard to keep track of small things like toys. 

He lost most of, if not all, childhood items to a warehouse several states over, where his things are rotting in some unknown building. Set for a processing and delivery date that Fit’s well aware isn’t coming. 

This one’s here, though. 

He glances around warily, lip twisting with a dissenting grunt. 

“If you don’t want it, I can give it to Mike–” 

Fit jolts back, plucking it out of his hands and tucking it towards his chest, “I didn’t say that.” At Pac’s victorious look, he grumbles, “Just a weird gift to give to a guy.” 

Pac’s expression slips slightly. “What do you mean?” 

“You don’t usually give guys stuffed animals.” He huffs, eyeing the plush, “I mean it’s not– it’s not bad. But I don’t really… It’s just not the kind of gift I’d expect.” His fingers coil around the soft fur. 

Pac tilts his head, dark strands swaying in front of his eyes, “But do you like it?” 

“It’s fine, I just– It’s not–” Fit scrambles to regain his verbal footing, eventually sighing when it feels like a loss, “It’s– It’s just not something guys do.” 

“Okay…” Pac trails off, uncertain, “But do you like it or not?” 

Fit’s jaw sets. This is not the stand he thought Pac would be taking. 

He gives another uneasy glance around the area.The cashier seems distracted on the other side of the prize table, chattering with some kids buying laffy taffy and red vines.

 Under his breath, he mumbles lowly, “Listen– Yeah, okay, I like it.” 

Pac brightens, “Good! It’s cute, right? I saw it’s little eyes, you know, and I couldn’t say no!” He crowds in slightly, scratching the head of the plush. 

Fit gets the oddest impulse to pull it from Pac’s touch, like he’s about to take it from him. It manifests as the slightest twitch, one that neither of them comment on. Pac brushes the toy’s cheeks and looks to Fit for a reply.

Fit flushes. “Yeah. It’s cute.” He admits, “Very cute.” 

“Still hungry?” Pac asks, searching his face for something Fit can’t quite figure out. 

“Yeah, starved.” Fit huffs, trying to tuck the toy out of sight, “Did you guys find something to eat?”

“Mike did— We found a stand with fries.” Pac gestures with a little tip of his head and the two of them go to find their third. The dog gets shuffled into his pocket, bulging out at his hip. 

Mike’s taken up residence on the outskirt of the arcade, near a standing table. His basket of fries is quickly ravished for it’s contents, Pac snapping up a handful before Mike can swipe it from him. 

“This place is too loud,” Pac announces around a fry, “Why don’t we walk around?” 

Mike hums curiously, “Sure. I thought this would be quiet enough.” He adds, pointing at his with a fry, “You didn’t seem to mind it earlier.” 

Pac makes his next bite of fry too noisy to not be on purpose, “Too many people.” He explains. 

It’s not very convincing. Fit watches him link his arm with Mike, leaning against his shoulder. At least he’s consistent. 

Mike hums, “If you say so,” He starts, passing him the basket, “I don’t mind. Are you jealous or something?” 

“Jealous? Mikey!” Pac balks, face blooming with a saturated blush, “No! Of course not.” Pac chatters out, pulling Mike out of the arcade’s wide entrance, “Why are you stalling, hm? Are you?” 

“Doesn’t even make sense.” Mike grumbles, lagging behind. 

Fit chuckles, hands tucked into his pockets. He follows Pac, noticing the way Mike lights up with laughter as they exchange sharp words. 

He takes one last critical glance to the arcade, unable to see what was possibly bothering him. 

Mike’s voice is close– much closer than Fit had last seen him. He’d doubled back, hand unlaced with Pac to lean up towards him. 

He whispers, hot breath curling over his ear, “If you ask me,” He murmurs, on his toes up by his face, “I think someone’s jealous. But shh–” His grin is sharp when he pulls away, and Fit shivers without his heady presence looming next to him. 

Pac slaps at his arm and Mike cackles, the two of them fumbling and tumbling over one another. With him fades the thick scent of flowers and detergent that had completely rewired him.

The two of them play-fight, passing the basket off to Fit when the bickering grows, and Fit follows, wondering if it’s weirder to comment that Mike smelt nice or to stay quiet about how deeply it’d struck him. 

“Fit–” Mike says, drawing his attention back, “Who’s that?” He bends his head with a nod to Fit’s pocket. 

FIt pulls out the stuffed dog, eyes quickly darting to his other half. 

Pac continues scrolling on his phone, like their conversation is the least interesting thing in the world. Clearly their faux-argument has been settled, but he has no sway over what Fit says. 

His lips thin into a straight line, “Uh. A stuffed dog.” He says, trying to land somewhere between impassive and uninterested. He shoves a handful of fries into his mouth. 

“No, I mean– What’s his name?” Mike says, walking backwards to keep pace with Fit as they stroll over the linoleum tiles. There’s no obvious judgement from him, but Fit will admit that Mike is harder to read than Pac, in his limited experience. 

“I dunno.” Fit says, poking the head out of his pocket, “I don’t really name things. You name it, you’re just settin’ yourself up for misery, y’know?” 

Mike hums thoughtfully, “Why’d you buy it if you weren’t gonna name it?” 

“I didn’t.” Fit says, gesturing with a nod, “Pac did.” 

Pac sinks into his shoulders, betraying his vivid attention as Mike’s eyes slide to him. 

His nape prickles, feeling flush with a need to defend him, “I like it.” Fit asserts, taking a quick two-step to walk between them, “I mean, I didn’t think I would. But it’s— Y’know a… souvenir.” 

Fit’s confusion grows as a pleased girn spreads across Mike’s face, “Hey, hey, calma—“ He soothes, patting Fit’s arm, “I’m happy. It’s good to get gifts, no?” 

Fit’s brows knit, “…Yeah?” He says, befuddled by Mike’s reaction. He always feels one step behind them, always one breath away from understanding what they’re talking about beneath the words. 

Pac clears his throat, “Do you want me to throw the basket for you?” He asks, jaggedly changing the course of conversation by lifting the empty food plate from his hands. 

He doesn’t push the topic. 

Their walk around continues, mentioning and pointing out brand names they recognize and telling Fit about the company. They get another plate, because Fit’s stomach grumbles and Mike accuses Pac of hogging the food from him, therefore he has to buy him another. 

The chatter is mindless, all of them sharing fries as they waltz back out to the car. Fit is mostly focused on the good company and food, feeling at ease with the two of them bracketing his sides. 

It’s the ease he remembers, the intuitive, safe, bubble of Tazercraft. 

Fit doesn’t realize he’s back at his apartment building until Pac says it, the car kept running in the lot while Fit and Mike argue over who uses the electric bikes at the gym.

He curses under his breath when he realizes the streets aren’t blurring with movement, “Shit, sorry, gettin’ out—“ Fit shoves at the handle, pushing out into the brisk cold weather.

 It’s darker than it should be for late afternoon, and Fit grimaces up at the shifting skies.

“No, it’s okay!” Pac says, leaning out his window. His breath gives off pale puffs, bareky visible in the low light, “Thank you for calling today.” He says, expression softening as Fit tucks into himself slightly from the cold. He opens his mouth, contemplative— Shuts it.

….Yeah, no problem.” Fit says, when it’s clear Pac doesn’t intend on continuing, “It was nice, Pac. Mike- both of you.” He clarifies.

“If you—“ Pac cuts himself off again, and his grip on the wheel tightens, “Nothing. Sorry- Sorry, have a good night, Fit.” His smile is terse, and Fit worries over it more than he should. 

“Yeah, I will. Thanks again, guys I…. I dunno how to repay all this shit but It means a lot.”

Mike makes a huff from the passenger side.

“Nothing, Fit.” Pac assures him, waving Mike off, “Just… it’s nice. To make new friends again.”

Fit nods, stepping away from the car, “Alright, have a good night you two, see you later.” And he finds that he really means it. He hopes Pac does too. 

It’s not until he’s in his building, having unlocked and entered, that the car’s headlights reflect off the windows and disappear down the street.

Fit brushes a hand down his face, huffing with mild amusement. There’s a slight thundering to his chest, his heart pumping fast– Faster than expected for such little exertion. 

He takes a slow breath in and out. His eyes flick to his door, down one of the lengthy hallways.

There’s no way they could’ve seen. 

Fit wiggles around in his pockets, searching for his key. Now that the high of sociability has passed, his slow decline in energy is about to tank and Fit doesn’t plan on being outside long enough to chat with neighbors. 

Deciding mercy for his eviction slip, if only for this once, Fit unlocks and shoulders open his door. Far down the hall, he hears another one open and he tries to slip in before anyone can call him out on leaving his hovel– 

Seconds before his door shuts, a foot is thrust between it. Fit startles, bewildered by the sudden presence of his landlord– “Hey, what the fuck–” 

“Fit,” The man hisses, face rounded out by something more than his ingrained disgruntled wrinkles for once, “How do you know those men?” 

The question startles him more than his landlord showing up had, “What’s it to you?” He snaps, palming his door open, but holding it firmly with hopes of slamming it soon. 

Though he thought it impossible, the man’s face curdles into a deeper sneer, red watery eyes squinting up at him, “Do you not read, boy? What they say in the paper?

Fit can smell the incensed bigotry from a million miles away and rolls his eyes, “Yeah, yeah, sure. Whatever, get out of my way.” 

A pudgy finger juts into his face and Fit recoils, “I’ll be happy to see the back of you Fit, but I’m not an immoral man.” 

Fit raises a brow, “Really?” He drawls, unimpressed. He figured that came with the territory of landlord.

“Those men,” The man spits the word like bile, “Are in my gossip articles, Fit. I thought I recognized that boy- the one that came to your apartment- and I did. Look, look–” He tugs the magazine from under his arm, flipping desperately through the pages. 

Fit groans, swaying towards the inside of his apartment, “Did you fuckin’ watch me come back?” He needles, trying to wrack his memory for the sight of his nosy landlord peering out between the blinds. 

“Look!” He flips the magazine over, folded over to a page that he shoves towards Fit, “Filthy types.” 

Anger broils in his chest and Fit starts to wonder if it’s worth inciting the man’s rage when he already has an eviction notice– 

He pauses. Leans in.

There’s a slightly blurred image of Pac and Mike, boxed in next to a paragraph of text. There’s a third person between them, obscured by the lighting and other foliage that obfuscate the image. Clearly, this photo was taken without them knowing. 

“Who–?” It’s an unintentional question that slips from his lips.

The man’s finger taps the printed picture, “This man– he left their manor at all times of the day, disappears, comes back, vanishes– Someone found a data leak from their phone, showing texts between them and–” 

Fit grimaces, pulling back, “Alright, that’s enough.” 

“That person no longer shows up with them.” His landlord continues, persisting past his complaints, “But they were having relations, Fit, the dangerous kind. These are deviants. Now they show up at your door, hm? Interesting!” 

“Enough.” Fit seethes, crowding him out of his doorway, “I don’t give a shit about your stupid gossip columns.” 

The man backs up into the hall, still fisting the image in front of him, “Watch yourself, Fit.” 

He slams his door shut. Fit sets himself up to ignore his words, but finds himself rolling them over in his mind. This is the guy evicting him, he shouldn’t give his statements any weight. 

Yet he drifts to his computer, compelled by curiosity and the grainy image of Pac and Mike on his magazine. If it’s true, he needs to know. If there’s any truth to it at all, Fit needs to know. 

Fit blearily scrolls and scrolls, looking through the miles of tactless articles. He’s unsure how he missed them through his earlier searches, but he hadn’t looked very deep before.

The articles are supposed to draw his attention. He knows that. They’re meant to be scary and bold and draw his eye to gain his click. 

SUPPOSED PHILANTHROPISTS SCANDALIZED BY DATA LEAK

THIRD PARTY DENIES TO COMMENT; RUMOURS SLICE INVESTORS 

ANONYMOUS LOVER MOVES TO ANOTHER TOWN; WHO’S TO BLAME AT THE TAZERCRAFT CORP?

It all makes his stomach turn. Part of him wants to just ask Pac what the fuck all if it is– What it means– But the idea of bringing it up is… No, Fit can’t. 

He reclines in his seat, uneasily running through the events in his mind over and over. Nothing made him truly uncomfortable besides maybe Pac leaning into him, but he’d backed off the minute Fit asked. This— All of it— seems so unlike them.

Trying to allow both images of Mike and Pac in his head leaves his thoughts a mess. People can be different behind closed doors, Fit knows this very well, but trying to imagine this— this? 

 He groans, tipping his face forward till he’s pressed into the desk. It’s nothing. It has to be nothing. 

Even if his mind is solely convinced there’s credit to the claims. Something about Pac’s hands on his arms, the way he leans his weight into Fit, Mike’s wide-swept concerns and comments– 

Fit had gone looking for a reason behind their actions and found one. There’s no untolling this bell. 

There’s a shift, something that dribbles like sand falls out of his pocket. His stuffed dog sits slumped on the floor. He picks it back up and gently places it on his desk; He runs a finger over the dog’s head and pushing down the hair Pac had scratched up. 

He tries to, just for a moment, imagine a world where Pac who bought him stuffed dogs and Mike shared his french fries existed in the same one where they’d force Fit, bully him, into being some kind of… pet. 

His skin prickles, a phantom weight of Pac pressed against his side. The unique cologne scent Mike carried so thickly on his collarbones. Fit can’t imagine them in tandem, much less if they were with a united cause to flush him into some kind of submission. 

Pac’s hands shoving at his shoulders, Mike fogging his senses, all of it with the promise of money, gentleness– 

Fit swallows thickly, the click of his throat near deafening in a very, very, silent room. A wash of sweat runs over him, a heated throb between his thighs threatening to spur him into action. 

He slaps his laptop shut, wiping at his face. 

Fit leaves it on his desk, shoving off his seat and going to bed. 

Chapter Text

Fit’s not really sure what he thought would happen when the eviction came through. Part of him figured it’d be more… dramatic. Maybe the police would be called. 

Like many things, however, his life is far less glamorous. 

Most of his things end up in a storage unit. It’s not cheap, but it’s less expensive than an apartment by a long shot. His security deposit money, thankfully given back by the landlord, goes straight to it.

(He was sort of anticipating more of a struggle about that, but hey! Good for Fit. Finally, a win in the tallys for good things going on in his life.) 

(This is a very small section with very little tallys.)

All in all, it’s a painless affair. He gets anything he needs into a single luggage bag and a backpack– pain meds, the stuffed dog, wet wipes, toothbrush– And leaves without seeing a single person. 

Thankfully, the landlord from a week or so ago doesn’t peek back out of his apartment either. It’s like he was never there. 

Maybe he’d thought the whole homelessness thing would be like dying. His life would just end, boom, end credits. 

Well, bad news for everyone– He’s still fuckin’ here. And he’s still truckin’ somehow. 

He gets a motel room. It’s nothing fancy. The sheets look like they’re patterned intentionally to hide the stains and the walls have cigarette smoke baked into them despite the faded no smoking sign in the bathroom. 

It’s enough, though. It’s warm and it’s a bed and it’s not permanent. Monthly disability payments will keep him afloat for what he calculates is a good month . 

That’s still with the regular budgeting for food and groceries, accommodating the tiny fridge as well to hold the barest amount of items possible because who the fuck can put anything but tiny ass water bottles in there– 

Maybe he should just suck up his pride and take whatever job Mike and Pac were gonna throw at him. He’s talked to them, they’re not… awful or anything. If they’re the kind of folks like the papers say they are, it’s certainly not obvious to Fit.

That could be the point, though. Or maybe he’s paranoid. Maybe, maybe, maybe .

He’s dealing too much with uncertainties these days. There’s too many unknowns. Back in security work– and even before that, in the small amount of ground-level front line work he did for the military– It was all about eliminating the unknowns. 

Good or bad, you find out what’s waiting for you in the dark. Maybe that’s the approach he should be taking with Pac and Mike. If he really pushed, he’s sure they’d fess up, but whether it was the truth or not would be… 

No. It’s too cold and Fit doesn’t have time for this. 

Mike calls and Pac calls and sometimes he even picks up the phone to talk back; That should be enough. He even had another lunch with Pac before he got kicked out. Admittedly though it was more brief than the rest.

Pac had been busy moving money around recently and swapping things up in his house. Rearranging furniture. Too many guest bedrooms with too many wardrobes.

It’d started to sound like rich people problems and while Fit has gained a tolerance for those, it’s not a resistance. 

Eventually, he tried to awkwardly steer the conversation away from his boasts about the new indoor gym he was putting in. Fit hardly needed to hear about the good things going on for him while he was a couple days out from losing the last semi-permanent housing he had for a while. 

He gets busy soon enough. He’s grateful to have actual excuses for when they call to ask if he wants to talk now. Interviews are falling through and Fit’s still having too many nightmares to do morning shifts regularly, so jobs are few and far between. 

A month passes. Hanging out with Ramón comes and goes. He actually makes it, though, and gets to see every drawing he’s made since he last saw him and then some. He hears about his school friends and classes and once again, Fit finds himself in awe at how much of a genius his son is. 

It’s almost enough to ignore the sting of talking to Spreen in the hall afterwards; 

“ What happened?” The door is shut, but he keeps his voice lowered. Ramón is asleep after Fit had tucked him in, snoozing peacefully. Apparently it’s about as rare as Fit’s good night rests and Spreen is not about to compromise that. 

Fit palms his head, sighing, “Shit hit the fan. That’s all. I’ve… I’m getting it handled.” 

Spreen’s brows pinch, “Handled?” 

“The Madagio thing… it didn’t work out. He went out of business.” Kind of true. Fit doesn’t want to get into the nitty gritty of it.  

“You’re out of a job?” Spreen hisses, and Fit can see the tension winding up on his shoulders, “Fuck… fuck. ” 

“I’m working on it.” Repeating it doesn’t make it any better, but Fit doesn’t have another platitude to spit. At least not one that’s honest enough. 

He’s trying. That’s as much as he can swear to him. 

Spreen coils his fingers in the curls of his hair, bumping around his sunglasses, “Okay.” He says finally, voice tight, “Okay. You’re working on it.” 

Fit’s apologized so many times, he’s not quite sure it’d do much to say it again. They’re not dating by any stretch of the imagination, nor are they even fans of the other, but Fit still gives a shit about him at the end of the day. 

“Are you… Are you eatin’ okay? Stuff with Roier… that’s all good?” He knows the bare bones of that conversation to understand he’s prying at a can of worms– But the more locked up about him Spreen gets the more he worries Fit was only the first in a line of bad mistakes he’ll make. 

“It’s fine.” Spreen spits, throwing his hands back down to his sides, “Don’t start doing this shit now.” He sounds exhausted. 

Fit holds out his palms and takes a step back. “Alright. You got it.” 

“I need to go sleep. I have to work in the morning.” His eyes, what little slivers of them Fit can see, are cast away from his face and stay studying the interlocking designs on the floor. 

And… That’s it. That’s Fit’s cue to go. God forbid they have a conversation that lasts longer than a couple minutes or ends with a proper goodbye. 

Fuck . He can’t be mad. He really doesn’t deserve to be, but– 

He sighs. “Okay. I’ll text you when the next check comes in.” 

Spreen gives him a single nod before opening back up the door and squeezing through the inches of space he allows between it and the threshold. Like he’s sneaking away. 

The door shuts with a little jingle. Fit sighs and presses his fingers to his temples until the piercing migraine behind his eyes fades enough to be safely drivable with. 

He’s exhausted the next day. 

Less from getting home around midnight though and more because everything with Spreen and his son turns his insides into acid. 

So much so that he doesn’t check the weather forecast before stepping outside his motel room and goes sandal first into a dusting of snow. 

Oh. Fantastic. 

The entire parking lot is riddled with it and one glance at his app shows that it’s been coming for a while now with dropping temperatures. He’d just been so busy, driving from place to place, that he hadn’t noticed the shift in weather. 

Well, now he knows what he’s doing today. Fit does a glance over of his things and knows, definitely now that he’s checked, that he absolutely does not have a winter coat. 

Usually he’s flown from place to place, given whatever he needs from a locker or uniform that’s handed to him on site from Madagio. It was one of the small benefits of working for him; A real heavy duty-coat. The kind of dungarees that mailpeople wear in freezing temps. 

Fit counts his cash for the week. It’ll be close, but he can make it with a cheap thrifted coat. 

Pain in the ass? Yeah. 

But not undoable, which is a new relief. 

He layers up in a long sleeve and flannel with his most dense jeans and boots. He’ll feel the cold, but he tries to remind himself it’s temporary. 

(He’s saying that a lot these days.)

Fit bustles out into the cold, shoving his hands into his pockets as he mulls over the previous nights events. His son, Spreen– That stupid magazine and their stupid gossip section. When everything tides over and Fit feels more stable, maybe he’ll ask. 

He does want to know. Or at least hear the version of the truth from them.

That requires confidence, though, and he doesn’t have that yet. Not with this. 

Partly because he doesn’t know where that’ll land with Pac and Mike and partly because he’s afraid he already knows the end of this story. 

They make an offer he can’t refuse this time, Fit does whatever they want, and he ends up like that same person in the photos online, in the same cycle. 

All of it seems too dramatic to be true, but Fit’s life has been like that since day one. He’s not putting anything above this shitty world anymore. 

He’s starting to wish he’d never heard about the stupid thing. 

Fit ends up making it maybe a few blocks before a horn rings out on the road. It scares him into a jolt and Fit glances over on instinct. Was someone honking at him–? 

“Fit!” Mike calls from across the street, bundled up in a slate gray woolen coat and bright pink scarf to match his hair– “What are you doing here?”

Fit’s molars creak with the strain of his gritted teeth. Of course, Mike is here. Of course. 

 Turns out it’s less of a question and more of a call and response, considering when Fit tries to explain what he is doing, Mike just gives a cursory glance to the road before jogging across to him.

“Dude!” Mike exclaims, gesturing up and down at him, “What are you wearing? It’s so cold out!” 

The lie comes quick to mind, “You’ll never believe it; I’m on my way to buy a coat.” It’s a little snark, maybe an inch of sass, and Mike laps it up with the widest grin, “What are you doing here?”

Mike jabs his thumb over his shoulder, “Usually not, but the auto-mechanic me and Pac like is down here. Says he’d rather die than move away from his daughter–” He waves it off, “ Walking?” 

“It’s not far.” The thrift store is literally down the street from his motel room. 

That gives Mike pause, though, and too-little-too-late does Fit realize Mike’s under the impression he doesn’t exactly live down the street. Because he didn’t, until recently, “I thought your apartment was like… twenty minutes away?” 

Fit shrugs, “I’ve got thick skin.”

While Mike doesn’t seem… pleased at the answer, he seems to not care enough to prod deeper, “Well, do you want a ride? I’ve got nothing else going on today.” And, when Fit presses his lips into a contemplative line, he tacks on, “I’ll buy us lunch!”

It’s almost embarrassing how fast Fit’s priorities shift, “Deal.” One less meal to buy and extra cash in my pocket.  

Mike’s brows fly to his hairline, but he says nothing. He gestures to his car, “Let’s hurry- I’m freezing, man.” 

Fit, feeling the chilly breeze crawl over his skin, hastens to agree. 

It’s not until he sees the thrift store in the rearview mirror that he realizes he forgot to tell Mike where he was getting his coat from. 

He mentally kicks himself, trying to rearrange the rising numbers in his head as the price of this coat hops from what might’ve been 10-15$ to a hefty 40-80$. 

He could ask for him to turn around and Fit considers it even as they pull into the mall’s parking lot, but that leads to a lot of questions like; Why? And Fit still hasn’t figured out a good answer that isn’t true yet. 

If Mike knows he’s struggling– like really struggling– then Pac will know. If they both know, then they’ll both try and… do something for him. Call him more, try and give him that job again or– And he’s still kinda unsure with what that’d mean for him . Especially with… whatever was going on in those tabloids. 

It feels too risky. 

Mike shuffles over the pavement and presses against his side with a toothy grin, “Cold?” 

No .  “Yeah. Thanks.” Mike shoves a hand in his coat pocket and spreads out the side of his jacket to try and shuffle Fit into it. 

It’s a valiant attempt to warm him, despite Fit being a half-head taller than him and most of the material ending up being smushed against his side. 

If he was actually very cold, he’s not sure it would’ve helped much. All it does is press the two together till Fit can smell the old money coming off him in waves of cologne and body sprays.

He takes a few glances around, but no one seems bothered or caring. He leans a little closer. How much like those article photos does he seem like right now? 

Fuck. Forget it. Forget the stupid fucking article. 

“Too good to me.” He says with a half-grin to Mike. It doesn’t really do much to extinguish that flicker of thought. 

They pass the threshold and the sudden woosh of heat gives him the excuse to detangle himself from Mike. 

Fit thinks he’s heard Santa Baby about four times since he and Mike entered the mall. It’s only contested by All I Want For Christmas is You which comes on at least four times more, or maybe twice but with a very long chorus that makes him sympathize for any and all retail workers. 

Mike says it’s better than the radio, when they sit down to eat in the food court with steaming bowls of gyro. Fit says without the ads, he’d disagree. Their ensuing argument lasts until both plates are nearly licked clean of pita bread and tzatziki. 

( “All the radio is— is ads!” 

“Not the good ones.” 

“What, like the War of the Worlds?”

”Mike, how fuckin’ old do you think I am?”)

The meal is good, though, and warms him just as fast as the heating did. It’s definitely food he’d eat before a nap, just to sit content and lazy in bed with a full stomach.

Mike seems eager to keep moving though and Fit’s happy to work off the sleepiness by following him through stores. 

They waltz through the next clothing department, eyeing up outfits and suits and dress shirts. 

He figures Mike is looking at things for himself, so Fit just follows the bobbing of his pink hair as they pass through racks until he’s suddenly in a more sporty, winter, section with glossy images of snowboarders and skis displayed on the walls. 

It’s not hard to turn his brain off and follow him as he comments on patterned shirts and pants. 

“Found ‘em!” 

Mike makes a hard turn towards a line of heavy duty coats with fur lined hoods and hums a noise of interest under his breath. 

Fit doesn’t even have to see the price tag to tell this section probably costs up to a hundred dollars or more. He doesn’t even know why he picked this store, considering it looks like it’s specialty camping and sports gear. 

A tight coil begins wrapping and knotting itself in his chest, “Mike—“ He hisses lowly, trying to chase his coattails around the clatter of hangers, “ Mike!” 

He turns to him, head cocked to the side. “Hm?” 

The words get caught up on his tongue. I can’t afford this. This is too expensive. Surely he has to know, even without the present knowledge of his situation— Fit could never, in his life, spend the kind of money these coats ask for on them. 

Mike, almost certainly ignoring him, holds up another coat. He eyes it, comparing it to Fit’s broad shoulders, “This one looks nice!” 

 Fit reaches out and pushes it down towards his chest. He hopes his face screams the words he cannot say; This is serious. Please listen. 

Mike softens, leaning in expectantly.

Fit squirms in place. It must be obvious. It has to be obvious. He shuffles his feet once. Twice. “ Mike.” He says, exasperated. He gestures around with a flippant hand. 

“You can do it.” It’s edged with a tease that makes Fit’s face warm. Encouraging, yes, and yet his stomach flips and twists, “C’mon.” 

He huffs. 

”I can’t… This stuff’s too expensive. I can’t… buy it.” He grumbles finally, only after rolling out the anxious twinge in his shoulders. 

“Then I will. Consider it an investment. It’ll keep you warm for all of winter and then some.” 

His hands clench and unclench by his sides, “I didn’t… I didn’t ask you out here to make you buy me stuff.” Fuckin’ hell, Fit feels bad enough already by dragging Mike here and having him buy him lunch– He knows they’re rich but– Fit’s not a guy to take advantage. He knows how that shit feels. 

Mike huffs, “You’re not making me do anything. You need a nice coat. If you can’t afford one, I’ll just buy it for you.” 

“Your whole debt thing was… ah, what? Half a million?” Mike purses his lips in though, putting a coat back on the rack, “If I’m willing to drop that much on you before we’ve become friends, I’m okay with spending a handful on a coat for you after.” 

Friends. There’s that word again.

 Fit wipes his palms off on his jeans; ”I’d hardly call a coat worth a handful of cash.”

“ Uh huh, uh huh— Not listening!” He intones sweetly, swiping through more coats, “Pick a color.” 

A month or two ago I would’ve left by now. “Brown. Don’t need the hood.” He’s not sure if it’s desperation or… whatever Tazercraft do to him that makes him stick around. Or friendship. Whatever that is for them. It’s not like Fit has a ton of frames of reference for what those usually look like. 

Something catches his attention from the corner of his vision. He brushes aside a flat pink puffer and sees something tucked behind a larger, misplaced, jacket. 

He stares down a coat. It’s a bit thicker and padded with dense fluff— No fur along the collar, but instead a more coiled plush fabric that reminds him— 

Oh, fuck this. It reminds him of that fucking toy dog Pac got him. 

“How about this, or—?” Mike pushes some racks aside and gets drawn into silence. He can almost hear the smile as it crawls on his features. 

Fit’s face burns and he rubs his palm over his nape, “ Don’t . Don’t say a fuckin’ thing, Mike.” 

He’s already picking it up off the hanger, “You want this one? Looks warm!” Charitably, he ignores the obvious. 

”I don’t—“ He cuts himself off. Fit can almost hear the warring conflict going on in his head; I need a coat. I need a good one too. If he does get me this, then I’ll be set for the next couple of winters and I like it, it’s— 

This, the coat, everything recently… He’s just– 

“I can’t pay you back.” Fit’s voice crumples slightly, to his horror. He can’t even look at the price tag without feeling like he’s gonna gag. 

Mike huffs, “Fit. You don’t need to. It’s a gift from a friend. You can just have it,” He pushes it forward slightly, “No strings attached.” 

He wants to keep pressing. I mean those articles don’t pop out of nowhere, do they? Someone was there. Maybe someone like Fit. 

Fit takes the coat, scrutinizing the cuffs like they’re the most interesting thing in the world. 

“Try it on, at least. See how it feels, you know?” Mike says, “If you really don’t want it, we can find something else. But it’s cold out, man. I want you to have a good coat. And Pac would kill me if I let you get sick again.” 

“And we’re friends.” Fit says, unsure if he’s asking or telling Mike this. Unsure as to why it would matter. 

Mike smiles anyway, “And we’re friends.” He affirms. 

Fit’s tongue darts out to wet his lip. “Alright.” He glances around, then pulls it off the hanger and tugs his arms through the sleeves. 

It’s as warm as it looked. That same plush fabric travels through the sleeve and he can feel it caress his slightly chilled skin. This would keep him warm in the winter, he knows it. The front is also very padded, and he adjusts each corner of it before zipping it up to his chin.

He hopes it’s not too obvious how much he likes it. 

Mike steps forward and adjusts the collar a bit, unfurling them from under his chin so it frames his face better, “Awesome. How’s it feel?”

”It’s a coat, Mike.” 

Mike slaps his knuckles against his shoulder, scowling playfully, “Answer the question.” 

“It’s good. Fancy as fuck. I’d probably wear it till I died,” And he tacks on a more stammered, “Because it’s a sturdy coat. I don’t replace shit often, so—“ 

“Looks like we got ourselves a winner then!” Mike rests his hands on his hips, “C’mon, let's take it to the counter.” 

It really is warm. 

He wasn’t just saying it to get out of there, or because it was nice-looking. Or because Mike praised it the whole way up to the counter, to where even the attendant seemed worn out. 

Mike blasts the heat the minute they jump into his car, but Fit can barely feel the difference in his fingers. At least on the one hand. On the other— Well, it’s a metal claw, so—

“No more Christmas music.” Mike decides, “Too early. Throw something in the player.” And he pulls open the middle console to show off a bunch of stacked and organized discs. 

Fit thumbs through them, grateful for the mild distraction, “Hey, can you drop me off somewhere else today?” Mike has a lot of punk rock. He’s not sure why it’s surprising. 

“Yeah, sure,” Mike says, pulling out of the parking lot. He’s paying attention, but only just so. Which is perfect for Fit, “Where at?” 

Fit rattles out the address, watching Mike type it into his phone. He sees the pin fly around the Quesadilla area and land squarely a few blocks from his motel. 

Mike scrutinizes it with furrowed brows. “Isn’t this where I just got you from?” He leans in, “Yeah, by the mechanic–?”

“Well, I still gotta go back there.” Fit clears his throat, tugging a random case– Evanescence? Sure – from the stack, “Got things I need to do.” 

“I thought we just did it,” Mike says, giving him an odd look, “We can keep driving around if you need it. I don’t mind.” 

“No, I just… need to get something.” He cringes at his own words. 

“But this is miles from your apartment.” Mike drags his finger over the screen, searching around for his previous address, “I can just drive you home.” 

Christ. He knew Mike would be curious. It’s embarrassing, maybe? No— That doesn’t work. Mike is too nice, he’d say he doesn’t care. I moved? But if it’s another apartment, then why all the hassle? He’s already trying to drive me home, it’s gonna look really suspicious—

“Does it matter?” 

Mike recoils slightly, giving him an odd look. 

“Fit is… is everything… okay? ” 

He has to restrain himself from the immediate no. 

“I don’t live… there. Anymore.” Fit struggles out, keeping his eyes on the CD case, “And… I don’t want you to know where it is.” He runs the words over in his head. He has no idea how it sounds beyond the pounding in his ear drums. 

“Oh.” Mike’s voice is small, cloaked almost in its entirety by the hum of the engine, “Did I… Did we do something…?” Wrong, goes unspoken. 

Fit’s ribs squeeze tight around his heart, “No, no! No, you didn’t do anything wrong.” When he glances up, Mike is staring through the windshield, hands tight on the wheel. 

“I’d never…” His mouth moves, voiceless, for a second, “Fit, okay— Something’s… off. I thought it was nothing, but this is… this is strange, Fit.”

Fit balks, “What? It’s just an address—“

Mike’s lip twists, “But it’s more than that. You’ve been distant, quieter, more… I don’t know. Usually you fight me more on letting me buy you things. And not that I don’t want to—!” Mike hastens to say, “I like it, but I like you. I don’t want you to… make yourself small for me. Agree because I say it. Now this and the jacket and the address—“ 

”I got evicted.” The words tumble out of his mouth unbidden.

Mike blinks, wide eyed, to him. He seems to struggle with his expression, twisting between a whole spectrum of emotion before landing squarely on a poker face of blank confusion, “What?” 

“I got kicked out ‘cause I couldn’t foot the bill for rent.” Fit huffs, twisting away slightly. He’s not pouting because Fit doesn’t pout, but he… Is discontent in a very obvious manner. 

Mike stumbles over his words, “Where are you staying? Do you have a place to stay? You have a place to stay, right—?” He sounds weak at the suggestion.

“I’m in a motel right now. It’s not permanent." Fit explains, running a nervous hand up and over his prosthetic claw, “I’m just trying to get a job and it’s hard.” 

Mike nods slowly out of the corner of his eye. 

“Okay. Alright. And you… have it.” Mike says, “You have it under control.” 

“Yeah.” Sure. ”I just didn’t want to worry you guys.” He grits his teeth, teetering his head back and forth, “Get all your panties in a bunch over it.” 

Mike slumps with a dry laugh. “Yeah. Yeah . Okay.” If he reaches, Fit could say looks relieved, “That’s what it is. Nossa, Fit, that’s… That’s okay. I’m sorry that happened, man. You didn’t need to… to hide it, you know? If you need space, you can tell us.” 

Well. That’s not all of it. But Fit’s spoken enough truth for today. “It all happened at once.” Fit admits, “There wasn’t time.” 

Mike runs a hand through his hair, “Yeah. I get it.” 

Okay, now for the other shoe — “You can’t tell Pac.” 

He startles, fixing Fit with an incredulous look, “What? Are you joking?” 

He wishes— “No, not joking. Mike, you can’t tell Pac about this. You know how he is, better than me. He’ll try and help and right now…” Fit shakes his head, “I swear, I just… I got this, I just need more time. I can do it on my own. I appreciate the care, but…” 

Mike mulls it over, gnawing on his lip, “I can’t— Man, I can’t lie to Pac. Not because I wouldn’t, but—“ He runs a hand down his face with a sigh, “I just can’t. He sees through my— my shit. Immediately. We’ve known each other for so long.”

He flicks the turn signal on, drumming his fingers on the wheel. “I’ll try. If he doesn’t ask, I won’t say anything. But if he figures it out, there’s not much I can do… I’m sorry.” 

Fit gives a weak shrug, “No, I get it. It’s… I don’t wanna put you in a situation to lie to him, but—“ 

“You need some kind of privacy, man, I get it. Independent.” 

He lets out a breath that drains him down to his bones, “Yeah. Exactly. I just— I can figure it out.” The forgotten CD gets plucked back off the center console and Fit drops it in the player. A low bass and guitar melody begin playing softly through the speakers. 

Mike doesn’t take his eyes off the road once, “But when you can’t you… Just— Call us, Fit. There’s independence and then there’s… self-sacrificial bullshit, you know? The world is— It’s hard enough.” 

Fit sees a flash of eyes flicking to him in his peripheral vision. “Promise?”

”Yeah. I promise.” 

Mike takes a slow breath in. “Alright. I trust you.” He turns up the music, letting it drown out the tail end of their conversation. 

Gravel crunches under his wheels as he tucks onto the side of the road, a few blocks from his motel. It’s only a few minutes out of his way, and Fit’s grateful for the pinch of anonymity he has over it all. 

He unbuckles, popping open the door with his good hand and keeping the prosthetic claw inside his pocket. ”Thank you, Mike.” He says, trying to push the anxieties far from his mind, “Yeah just… just thanks. ” 

It’s good to know he can count on someone again. It’s like a weight lifted from his shoulders. 

“Stay safe,” Mike says, scanning him up and down, “And remember to call if you need anything.” 

Fit chuckles, “ Ok mom. ” 

Mike rolls his eyes, “Oh my god. Get out of my car, man.” 

Fit’s still glowing from it when he’s jogging around the back to the sidewalk, watching Mike’s car pull away into traffic. 

He makes sure to hang up the coat with great delicacy the minute he gets back to his motel room.

Chapter Text

Fit thought the expression in the blink of an eye meant solely that what happened, happened quickly.

In a sense, it still does; The blink of an eye is so rapid you don't notice it.

But in his experience, it's more suited to long amounts of time that go by without his awareness, in between the blinks as opposed to happening during it.

For example— Fit is driving down Marine and Fifteenth street. He's a little tired, a little stressed, but going as he would any other day. It's cold out, but he's got his coat and now; a pair of worn gloves to cover his frigid calluced fingers.

Groceries are a priority, he's just gotten his diability check and it's more than enough to fund a quick run to the store. The drive is quiet, at ease, with each passing car nothing more than a fleeting memory. The rattling of his old, cracked, vents buffetting one another is a familiar one.

A blink. Now him, his car, and someone who's wheels squeal are now a mess of jumped diagonals and his hood a junted scrapheap of metal. The air is thick with burnt rubber, yet it remains still, a held breath.

The thought lags behind his observation, so he knows before he thinks it; Oh. I've been in a car accident.

He flexes his fingers, pulls his shoulder to shift the claw of his prosthetic from open to close.

He's told this is dangerous, this sort of half-blurry existence, and nervous instinct driven into his skull keeps him from ignoring that flag. Which is good. Very good. He flexes his fingers again.

A quick body scan shows that he's… fine? He's fine. Fit can wiggle all his toes and the lack of ability of half of his fingers is a pre-existing issue.

Over the dashboard, someone else is stepping out of their car, hands on their head as they jog around to the front of their vehicle— It doesn't look too bad either. The front is crumpled slightly, the liscense plate hanging on by a thread, but not awful.

Hey! He's the right side up! Both of them are. Also very good. He draws his attention to the rankled hood.

Fit's car is off, as in facing the corner store at the worst angle in an intersection and looks… pretty banged up. From where he sits, the front is better described as an accordian than a vehicle.

He can feel the tinny air pooling in his lungs. It's a concious effort to breathe it out. Fit's used to high stakes situations. He's alright. He's okay.

Traffic moves around them without too much of a secondary glance, which must mean it's not that impressive from the outside— Or maybe the residents of Quesadilla don't really care.

He'd bet his money on the latter; He's never done much more than gawk when there was a car accident on the side of the road. Fit would hardly blame others to do the same.

…Holy shit. Someone hit his fucking car.

Fit's prosthetic grapples with the handle, his door shuddering open as he half-tumbles out of the front seat. He’s still reeling, trying to figure out if he’s bleeding out and not noticing it.

You did security, idiot. You got shot at. He wobbles in place, Well, at least I knew I was going to be shot at.

“Holy shit!” Someone shrilly calls, “Are you okay?” Fit blinks away the haziness, trying to zero in on the voice. It’s some stranger he’s never seen, her head poked out of the front seat as her engine rumbles in the middle of the street. 

(Oh, someone did stop. Look at that.)

Is he? Fit twists his palm over and touches around his head. Nothing comes back wet, he’s not feeling any pain, but there’s a chance that’s the shock. “Maybe?” Fit calls back. The stranger isn’t listening, too busy squawking at a phone call, probably to the police. 

Fit glances back at his car for a better look. His knees are slightly jellied, but he can do a slow trot around the wheelwell and—

Shit. His front bumper is ruined, clinging desperately to the grate and outer casing. The whole front caves inwards, pieces of his vehicle scattered across the pavement. The engine is probably…

The engine… Is probably not gonna work. A cold sweat breaks out on his forehead. Not the car, not the car, c'mon man, you gotta be joking me. I need the fucking car—

Stumbling, he reaches the front seat and gropes around for the keys.

Someone calls out, “Hey! Hey– Don’t touch it, man!” But he has to know– 

It rumbles, revs, and dies before he even twists the key the whole way. “Fuck. No, no, c’mon–” Fit begs, trying it again.

This time, it doesn’t bother to start up. He can almost hear the thing being flooded and puffing out smoke the shape of big gold dollar signs.

Fit doesn’t cry. That’s not something he’s ever allowed himself to indulge in, much less let overwhelm him. But right now, trying to rev his dead engine, feeling the cost of the tow and the repairs and everything start to mount on his shoulders, heavier and heavier– 

He palms the hollow of his eye, fighting back the burning sting that threatens to overwhelm him. Fit ends up staring up at the flat blue sky, willing them away before they fall.

Fit’s imagination conjures some tempting images of kicking the thing until something more expensive drops off, if only for some cathartic punishment on his already shit month. But knowing his luck, he'll sprain an ankle trying.

He yanks the keys out and slumps to the ground besides his dead, worthless, car.

"Hey—" The woman calls, face pinched with concern, "It's okay, it's just a car. If you're alright, that's what matters." She cuts her engine, probably unaware or uncaring to how she's blocking traffic with her four-door Honda Accord.

Fit grinds his molars. "Did you call the police?"

She holds up the phone that's pinned to her ear. Fit gives her a thumbs up and hangs his head between his knees.

It's not a big deal. Maybe he's saying it for his own peace of mind, but the sentiment is real enough to keep him steady on the pavement. Or from throwing up, if the nausea building in his throat has anything to say about it.

He rubs a thumb between his brows. In fact, there's an insistent clawing in his stomach, harrowed and tired—

His attempts to stop it from overwhelming his thoughts is harder than usual. Any tapping into it throws up the same despair he's always had at the center of his thoughts;

Money. This is gonna cost a lot of money. The thing he doesn't have.

And he's out of a vehicle. There's a bus, he can get some cash and take that. He had insurance on the car, he had to, it's the law to own one, so he might get a stipend to make up for a lot of the cost—

Sharp whooping sirens twist his guts into knots. Ambulance, right on schedule. He's staggering to a stand before they get to him, even though he can tell the movement puts them on edge.

They split out in organized groups. Apparently Fit's position seems more dire than the woman currently barking at her phone, so he gets the uncertain glances and the signal back to the driver to pull the stretcher— Yeah he knows that fuckin' signal—

"Hey— Hey, don't stand." Fuck that. Fit isn't gonna lay on the goddamn street. He waves off those approaching with a stubborn huff, "I'm good. I'm good, really."

"Sit down, please." The nurse orders again, gentler. She's dressed to the nines in her gear, latex gloves and mask already donned.

He raises his hands and eases back into a sit. "I'm fine." He'll play the game, as long as they know he's fine. That he's okay. It wasn't even that bad of a crash.

She jogs the rest of the way to him, tugging a pen light out of a pocket. Intentional or not, she steamrolls his statement, gently pulling under his eye to shine the light, "Can you tell me what happened?"

Yeah, I just lost thousands of dollars. And I'll lose another couple hundred before the day is done.

The thought goes down, down, deeper into his gut. It passes each turn of his intestines with a nauseating turn, yet deeper it goes till Fit is certain it'll never resurface.

It's not a big deal.

A tow truck rumbles past him, his truck sitting on it’s bed. Their prodding and poking has ceased for the moment, if only because the police officers needed a solid statement from both parties on what happened.

Apparently the other driver took the whole blame, and Fit doesn't press charges for that reason alone. It takes a big person to admit they fucked up. Fit can respect that.

Afterwards, Fit waves down a cop, shucking the shock blanket someone had thrown over his shoulders, “D’you know where they take ‘em?” He asks, lazily gesturing to the ruined remains of his car getting driven away. 

“Tow yard,” He explains, curt, “Though if I were you, I’d call to get it out as soon as possible. They charge daily fees for that. Insurance doesn’t cover it either, so–” 

“Thanks.” He cuts him off before the officer gets into any more gruesome detail. It's fine. It's really, really, fine.

"Is there anyone you want us to call?" The officer asks, eyeing him up and down.

He doesn't hesitate for long, "No." And forces out another dry, "Thanks." To hopefully drive home that Fit isn't going to placate this conversation any longer than he needs to.

The stretcher rattles out of the back of the ambulance. He tried stalling this for as long as possible, recounting the stupid fender bender as in much detail he could stand. Maybe they would've just… left.

It was a hapless dream. "I said I'm fine." Fit grunts as the EMT's swarm in.

"It's policy," One of them says with a lopsided expression, maybe an inch pitying, "The hospital is close, we just have to check."

It's useless to argue. He knows that. They certainly aren't just gonna take his word for it, considering how often people keel over when the adrenaline fades.

The cop snaps shut the notepad he'd been scribbling on and bobs his head at Fit, "Have a good evening, sir."

"Yeah." Fit blunts back. Whatever.

He doesn't swat at the nurses as he gets clambered onto the stretcher, or even snap at them when someone immediately checks his pulse— If I was fucking coding, I wouldn't be talking to you, would I?

Fit squeezes his eyes shut. His focus is better spent on the clinking of medical equipment and the rumble of the engine.

Closing his eyes only gives his mind more time to stray to expenses though, and if he thinks abou that any longer, he'll spike their heart monitor and cause a fuss.

Instead they drift to Mike and his warning about being careful. And the coat that the EMTs have told him is safely folded up on the side, where he can see it.

They drift to Pac and tabloids and things he doesn't want to think about most of the time, because that's a lot easier right now than the present.

It's a long, long, drive to the hospital.

They give him an ice pack and told him to lay down.

Fit's not quite sure how he feels about being given the same treatment plan as a kid who went to the nurses office after falling off the monkey bars.

It's explained to him in bursts; Soft tissue injury, no signs of concussion, rest and ice, sprains and strain— He retains very little of it. All he knows is that he's bustled quickly out of one room and into another, quieter, one. With shut doors and closed blinds to lower what the nurse calls a very quick heartbeat.

This one is better, though. Mostly because the nurse went to get fresh out-of-the-dryer-feeling sheets for him.

He doesn't know how they heat up the sheets in this place, but feeling the layers of warmed fabric cover him chases the need for answers far from mind. "It's better for your veins if it's warm," The nurse notes, patting down an edge of fabric, "Besides, it's always chilly in here. If you start getting cold again, let me know and I'll switch these out."

Fit nods, because the rock in his throat is a bit too clogging to force words past. It shouldn't matter— It doesn't— But it's very… kind. It's simply very kind, in a way that Fit doesn't have to defend himself for.

If the nurse notices, she says nothing, swiping back up the plastic blue clipboard to scribble out some notes.

"I think if we check back in an hour or so and you're still good, we'll be able to release you. It's just important to wait in case something rises up, adrenaline can mask a lot of things we can't see—" The nurse taps out a tune on her clipboard. "The biggest concern right now is keeping you hydrated."

Apparently he'd been severely dehydrated, but the saline is meant to fix that. He would've offered to just drink whatever gallon of water they gave him, but the nurses ended up affixing that saline treatment and getting him a large cup of water, so maybe he wasn't to be trusted, or it was just that bad.

"We'll get in touch with your emergency contact and get ready on that discharge, alright?" She gives Fit a warm smile and he doesn't have the heart to tell her that number isn't going to work.

It's Madagio's work number. Y'know, to the company that doesn't exist anymore.

"Thank you." He's saying it a lot today, mostly to be polite. But he does mean it this time.

"If you need anything, ring the call button."

He's half-tempted to ask about the bill before she goes. She probably doesn't know what the estimation is, though, and he decides it's best to watch her go.

Maybe he can ask when she comes back to ask why no one's picking up the emergency contact number.

The heart monitor beeps away, a ticking, nervous, reflection of his thoughts. I need to calm down. He's never getting out of here if his heart beat stays this high. The doctors will start thinking there's something really wrong then.

When he taps his phone awake and slides the code in, he's blasted with the last seven tabs of information digging he'd done on Tazercraft— Much to his chagrin. He furiously closes them all.

So much for a distraction. He slips his eyes shut.

Does this count as being out of his depth? He doesn't feel out of his depth yet, but Fit's having a hard time feeling anything despite the loud proclamation (See; Snitch) of his heartbeat.

He's not used to being the one in trouble. At least, not this kind of trouble. But all the debt and prices and his stupid motel room and stupid job interviews—

He tells himself that it's growing pains. He'll get his feet under him eventually.

The door swings open suddenly and Fit tries to keep his tone under control— "Has it been an hour already?" It's barely been thirty, though he's had his eyes shut for most of it.

"Fit!"

He sits up so quick he gets a headrush. Standing in his doorway isn't the pruny nurse, but fucking Pac. Fully dressed, black nailpolish, wide eyed— Pac.

"Pac?" He balks, "What—?"

He looks half-dressed, still red in the face from the exertion of what has to have been a full sprint across the hospital floor. Fit can see the inside seams of his shirt— he put it on inside out.

"Are you okay?" Pac says, stepping in and shutting the door behind him without a glance, "M— My god— Fit, what is happening—?"

I could ask you the same question, "How are you here?" Fit is mind-boggled by his presence, unable to ease himself off the elbows he's propped himself up with.

"They called me—!" Pac gestures behind him, "The hospital— She— The lady said you were in a crash?!"

Fit's brows furrow further, "You're—"

Oh.

He slides his hand down his face.

Pac bought that company off Madagio. What the hell was he thinking?

Anyone who called to reach what was previously Madagio's company would eventually end up calling Pac because he owned that fucking business now.

"I'm an idiot." Fit mumbles into his palm.

Pac is no less brazen, "What?"

"I didn't think they'd call…" And when it dawns on Fit that, maybe, just maybe, Pac didn't want to hear this, he cuts his words short.

Unfortunately, Pac seems to pick up the meaning anyhow.

"I'm glad they did—! Fitch— Fit I'm glad they did." He seems to fiddle with wires, looking at the machines, like he owns them— knows them— before turning back to him, "Are you… are you okay?"

His answer is automatic, "Yeah? Pac, I'm fine. It was a small crash." He waves off the notion, "Don't worry about it."

"Small crash." Pac giggles nervously, gnawing at his lip. There's deep circles under his eyes, small blemishes on his cheeks all rounding out the cherub-like dimples by his smile. It's an odd contrast. He thought Pac just had perfect skin like every rich person. Hydrated by tax-evasion.

It could be the low lighting. His room is dark save the mintors and hallway light, which does little more than send rays of white across the patterned vinyl.

He seems though, for all the world, raw. Like something's peeled back. Vulnerable and shaken. And it's exposure makes him want to guard his own tremble. Or maybe lean into it.

It must not be about him, but Fit guards his heart around the idea it might.

Pac stops by Fit's bedside, and after a beat, takes a meaningful step back from it, "We— Fit we need to talk."

He smothers a snort, waving his prosthetic around at the wires and IV drips, "Is now really the time?"

"Yes! Yes, I… They called me and said you were in the hospital—" Now comes a twist of guilt, his proverbial ears flattened to the skull, "They must've thought… I was family because they… just kept talking?" His smile is weak and shows no gums, and Fit is too afraid to say anything and break whatever trail of confession he's started.

"Fit they told me you didn't have a permenant housing address and—"

Stillness encases him in stone.

Pac runs a hand through his hair, "When I told them your address— Your apartment— they said that was on their records, but had been striked out recently—"

Fit wants to sink into the mattress and never resurface.

"—Said there was no insurance on your file—"

Am I dreaming? It follows so closely the sweat laden nightmares Fit would push away when the sun came up. Forced to come face to face with his failure, his lack of being, his disappointment of a life without Madagio.

Pac's hands grasp the footboard of the hospital bed, it's creaks of strain the only trail of life and awareness Fit can follow beyond the pure panicked blankness that overcomes him.

He's backed away further. Fit can't tell if he likes that or not.

"Fit, it's— it's okay, just talk to me. I'm here—" Pac's words are stacatto between the rapid beeping of his heart monitor.

"It's fine." He croaks. A wave drags him under, pulls the tense twinge from his face. Who cares. It's not a big deal. He's making a big thing out of nothing. Fit doesn't need to hear this, it's just dramatics from the guy who probably calls the cops about a chipped nail.

He can see Pac, a hazy figure tuning in and out of focus, "I'm sorry. I just— I wasn't… It wasn't on purpose."

"I know." It's just Fit's luck. Again and again.

Pac looks none too pleased with his response, letting it hang in the air like he's giving it room to breathe.

"Okay… Okay. Do you… Do you wanna talk about what happened?"

"What does it look like?"

"Fit!" He slumps, exasperated.

"I got into a car accident." Fit shrugs, "It happens. I'm fine. Barely a scratch."

Pac's foot bounces in place, then the movement shivers up his body and out to his hands till he shakes them in a sudden burst and shoves them violently back into his pockets.

"Okay. And everything else?" The no home address, the lack of insurance, the fact his car is now totaled and Fit didn't tell him any of it—

Fit gives another apathetic shrug. "It's nothing."

Pac does a good impression of looking like Fit slapped him. "Nothing?" He shrills, "Nothing? Absolutely nothing, Fit?"

"Nothing that concerns you." And, you know what, fuck it— Fit bites out the words like venom. Pac's presence is grating on him right now and he wants him out of here before whatever's welling in his stomach comes up to the surface.

"Really, Fit? Really?" Pac clenches his jaw so tight it looks like it might snap. Then, right when Fit can feel that tipping over the edge, the glazed over look of someone about to step into the raging abyss—

He stops. He takes a deep, deep, breath and pinches the bridge of his nose.

"Okay. Okay, Fit. I'm…" His breath comes out a great woosh of breath, "I'm gonna go talk to the nurse about the bill."

Oh— No. They're not doing this right now. "You're not paying for this." He leans forward out of bed, heartbeat skipping up in rythmn.

If looks could kill— "Fit, you don't have insurance. This is going to cost h—hundreds— no, thousands of hundreds—"

"I can deal with it." Fit responds, clipped.

Pac throws his hands up, "No! No you can't! Fit, it's insane to— to try and do this by yourself!"

"You don't know if I'm doing this by myself, I can have it handled."

"I'd be more sure of that if you just talked to me for once—!"

Fit nearly bawls with sardonic laughter, "We talk all the fucking time!"

Pac cuts him off with a jab of his finger, "No! We talk, but you never let me in. You never—" He makes a vague strangling movement with his hands and a grunt of frustration, "Fit, everything I learn about you only comes from when you have no other choice. I want you to talk to me, like— really talk to me, you know?"

His voice softens to a painful degree, "I want to understand, I—I want to know what's going on. Please."

In and out. Fit breathes in and out. His fingers tingle with numbness.

It's just not fuckin' fair. He doesn't— No, Pac doesn't get to demand the truth like this.

"What happened to the guy before me?" The words tumble out of his mouth.

Pac's face goes blank. It looks practiced. It looks fake. "The… guy?"

"From the tabloids." Fit's jaw sets, "The newspapers about some guy you and Mike owned like a slave—"

Pac staggers back, "—H- hang on—" He's paled several shades.

The words don't stop coming, though, and Fit can't stop talking.

"How much of it was true?" His molars creak under the strain, "How much of that were you gonna do to me?"

There's no words Fit can put to Pac that are fitting. Crestfallen is a good beginning and ashamed feels like an good end. His expression is a shifting kaledioscope of that range, punctuated by the glimmering beginnings of tears in his eyes.

"Fit—"

"Not a good fucking start." He snaps.

Pac holds out his palms, then twists them back into his pockets, crossing them over his chest— A constant wave of motion, "That was not— We didn't own someone. It was…" Pain twists and bends his brows.

Pac runs a nervous hand though his hair again, but this time holds it at the roots, "It was complicated. He wanted to be there and when he left it was… Merda, Fit it's complicated!"

He's tired of this. He's so fucking tired of it. "Simplify it."

Pac rolls his lip between his teeth, "It was…. Distant, it was a- a distant idea, Fit, it wasn't going— A-and we weren't going to push you or—"

Fit feels lightheaded. Moreso than from the crash. Right, so it was true. He was right to think they were acting strange. Of course. This was their end goal all along.

"So, what?" Fit grips the sheets in a whiteknuckle grasp, "What was the plan here? Give me a job under you, leverage it against me? Or, since that didn't work, wait till my life crashed into pieces and swoop in last minute?"

Pac is shaking his head before Fit even finishes speaking, leaning forward to grab the end of his bed again with a feverish desperation, "No, no, no— Never, Fit, never. It would always be your choice, your decision if you wanted—"

"Right, because I would have a ton of options when I hit rock bottom. We can pretend that's a choice, sure." Wow. Fit tilts his head back with a miserable bark of laughter.

He did it again. It's like he has a talent for bad situations. No agency in home, with Spreen, with the army, with Madagio— Fit must love getting himself into deep shit with dangerous people.

It's a fucking neverending nightmare. A prophecy he can't stop fullfilling. A trap he keeps walking into.

Pac is still talking, tittering away about details but Fit has zoned it all out. His head is cotton and packed static. He needs to pop a hole in it to vent it all out, but it stays trapped between his ears, building tight with pressure.

He shuts his eyes. "Get out. Just— Just get the fuck out."

Pac draws silent. "…Fit, I can—"

"I said get the fuck out." He's not yelling, Fit doesn't have the energy for it, but he tries to push as much frustration into his words as possible anyhow.

Pac shuts the door behind him without a hint of anger. No slamming, no tight grinding of the teeth or a last word shoved in. He just leaves. Quieter

than when he came in.

And Fit, in comparison, tightens the grip on his prosthetic arm until he sees dents carve into the bedside.

Sometimes it feels like Fit lives in a timeloop. Or maybe in a hellish purgatory designed specifically to fuck him over for some past life huberis.

It's tiring to see himself do the same song and dance over and over again. It's tiring to know it's his own fault it happens.

It's exhausting to know he's the only one who can change it, but he doesn't know how. How does a man rewrite what's written into his bones? How does anyone?

Fit spent ages trying to escape Madagio's clutches. Now he has. The curtains were meant to fall, the story was meant to end— Roll credits! Starring Fit as the heroic fuck-up who changed his ways!

He's discharged from the hospital the very same day, maybe thirty minutes after Pac leaves. And an hour after that is when Fit wonders if Madagio would ever take him back for work.

Because maybe he was wrong about many things and maybe he was a piece of shit— But he probably understood Fit better than most. More than Fit did, apparently.

He's good for nothin' but hurt. And when he's not doing that, he's getting played for cash like a common whore.

He ocilates between two extremes in the blurry mess of the upcoming days;

One side; Fuck those guys. Fuck them for playing me. Fuck them for hiding this and fuck me for falling for it hook line and sinker again, like I always do.

And the other; I miss them so much it hurts. Why do I always do this? I fucked up— I'm fucked up.

It swings day by day, hour by hour. He's tired of it all.

Pac doesn’t call him anymore. Days pass and Fit is almost tempted to call him instead and apologize or maybe scream— either one, or both— till his voice gives out.

Maybe say that he’s sorry he keeps fucking up. That he’s all Fit and being Fit comes with violence and anger inherently. No refunds.

He just keeps remembering how out of breath he'd seemed when he came to find him. That he'd ran. His wavering voice. His fingers so tight on the footboard that it'd creaked with strain. Fit runs the events over in his mind; A rewind on loop.

Fit can't remember the last time anyone gave enough of a shit about him to run to see him. Maybe he was just worried about his late investment, he bitterly suggests to his own thoughts.

He replays the memory over and over anyway. Usually with the stuffed dog Pac got him on his chest.

(Fit thinks about getting rid of it. He really does. But it's cute. And when he picks it up to take it out to the trash, his heart clenches so tightly he turns on his heel and sets it back down.)

It doesn’t truly matter. Fit can tell by now that he’s circling the drain. He’s not getting enough responses for a job and interviews are falling flat– His savings are dwindling. 

Somewhere between the bleary mornings and evenings he searches out Madagio's new employment. He started another business— Typical. He's a hydra; Cut one head off and two more will sprout in it's wake.

There's an email. He sends one over, in a tone he's sure is too pathetic to ignore. However much grovelling needs to be done will be worth it when the cash flow starts up again. It gets harder to care that Madagio had probably intended to get him killed.

No more debt, right? So maybe things will be different.

He includes some notes. Attaches a cover letter and resume. Sends it out before he can double-guess himself.

Then he goes to lay down and not think about it. Four steps forward, a thousand steps back. That's Fit, from tip to toe.

He spends more time staring at his ceiling.