Chapter Text
Chapter 1: Wins and Losses
August 2006
Tom hated Houston.
The perpetual fog of heat that sat heavy and thick in the air, the endless roll of sweat, the suffocating smell of concrete and diesel, and especially the business. Worst of all? He’d volunteered. It was self-inflicted agony. He’d let his anger turn to petty antagonism and that had managed to fuel him all the way from California.
Two more days, he thinks and takes a final drag, relishing the nicotine; he’d bought the pack just that morning and already it was starting to feel a little light. A problem for another day.
He kills the butt and heads back inside.
It’s nine o'clock on a Thursday and the bar is damp and packed; neon lights line the liquor shelf casting a sickly glow over the dark, pulsating masses. The place is stale, it reeks of sweat and bleach and the only bright spot seems to be the pool table in the back; the overhead casts a warm glow over the empty cloth in a way that takes Tom back, back to his parents basement in Arlington, his dad lining up to break, learning how to lose, how to win...a lifetime ago. He heads for the bathrooms.
The payphone on the wall looks like a relic but it works just fine.
“We got a berth?”
“Tee 6,” comes the now familiar drawl, all long vowels and eager apologies.
“You sure this time?” Ice asks, voice frosty.
“Guaranteed, man. You gotta know, was just a mix up’s all. Minor delay.”
“I’m patient Len, but next time they won’t send me.” He hangs up, contemplating another cigarette, but the ghost of Maverick’s reprimand seems to roll across state lines, so he settles on a vodka rocks instead.
He orders at the bar, tries to ignore the sweat that’s made a permanent home at the back of his neck and watches the crowd. That’s when he sees him.
He can’t be older than sixteen. Blonde and skinny, strutting around the pool table with a sly grin on his face as he pockets two stripes in quick succession. He’s good, clearly winning the game off the older guy who’s put money on the table, but he’s doing it with an attitude, the kind that Tom can feel all the way from his perch at the edge of the bar.
The kid lines up the next shot. It’s a clean strike, far left corner pocket, easy, much easier than the previous two balls, but the kid scratches. The white ball rolls into a tricky corner, bad leave, and the kid just smirks and shrugs his little shoulders.
Tom smiles into his glass and shakes his head. Funny. Guppy trying to be a shark. Except the guy who‘s losing doesn’t seem to find it as amusing and the guppy isn’t reading the room.
Keep moseying and there’s a black eye in your future, kiddo.
Ice takes another drink, glances at his watch and heads for the payphone. It takes three rings.
“Yeah?”
“I got it,” he says, hoping it’ll be that easy. It’s not.
“He’s not in, Ice. Give him twenty.”
“Just tell him I got it, Slider.”
“He wants to hear it from the horse's mouth.”
“Does he?” Ice asks, his tone is glacial.
“Ice, come on man–”
“You play the messenger just fine, I don’t feel like an encore. ”
“Man, don’t put me in the middle of whatever this sour battle of wills is,” Slider huffs into the receiver. “He’s been fucking unbearable since you left. Sure doesn’t help that he’s got to deal with Cain.”
“Lucky boy,” Tom mumbles.
Chester Cain is a prickly, old school asshole. Runs a number of the southern port jobs and thinks highly of himself but he’s a glorified middleman at best. A relic of Viper's time that Maverick has been unable to smooth over. Still, he’s the one who should be in Houston, not Tom. Being pushed aside for a deal this big? For Tom? No doubt he unleashed the full weight of his sanctimonious fury on Maverick. The thought sends a momentary thrill of vindictive pleasure through his body.
“Just…call him back, please?” Ron grouses, pissy but sincere. Sincerity has always been Ron’s best quality.
Ice weighs his options, as if there are any, and Slider has the decency to give him that.
“Twenty minutes,” Tom confirms woodenly.
“You’re a saint,” Slider drawls. Tom hangs up on him. He finishes his drink in one swallow and glances back at what he’s decided is going to help him kill time for the next half hour.
The guppy’s managed to clear the table. Only the eight ball’s left. It isn’t well positioned but it’s not impossible. The guy he’s playing, maybe thirty, has got his arms taught across his chest, jaw clenched, broadcasting pissed. In Tom’s book, he’s already lost. Kid wiped the floor with him when he cleared the deck. Pride’s gone out the window; all that’s left must be the petty desire to see the kid scratch on the eight-ball and lose the two pretty twenties perched on the edge of the table.
“Call it,” the guy gruffs.
The boy taps the far corner pocket. As he lines up the shot his brow furrows, just for a moment, and Ice sees his nose flare. The white ball strikes the eight and sends it neatly into the far right corner. Home sweet home.
The smile that lights up the kid’s face is the most genuine thing he’s seen all night. It makes him look impossibly young and Tom feels his chest ache. He watches the kid grab the twenties, fold them twice and tuck them neatly into the pocket of his jeans.
His opponent scoffs, uncrosses his arms and smiles a mean little smile. “Not bad, kid. You can earn a union wage with this hustle.” The kid shrugs but keeps his mouth shut.
Maybe he can read the room after all...
The table’s open, the kid’s good, and he’s got time to burn.
He watches Tom approach with wary eyes and a crooked smile. “Fixin’ to play?”
Ice puts two crisp twenties on the table and grabs a cue of the wrack. The kid’s forehead wrinkles.
“Bet’s twenty,” he says, smile gone.
“Raising the stakes,” Ice responds, fishing balls out of the far corner pockets and rolling them back onto the table. He watches the kid fidget from the corner of his eye, shifting the pool cue from hand to hand, pausing to dip the thumb of his left hand into his front pocket before immediately pulling it out.
“Don’t have forty to burn.”
“Sure you do,” Ice says, racking the balls. “Besides, you’re not planning on losing, are you?”
The kid scoffs, considering Ice from across the pool table, eyeing him up and down like he’s solving a mystery.
“You can put down twenty to my forty,” Tom offers.
Anger flashes across the kids face. “That’s not how bettin’ works.”
Tom shrugs. “You saying no to forty bucks?”
The kid stares at him then nods at the table. “You breaking, mister?” The money stays in his pocket.
Ice breaks. Plays solids. He’s not a chump, more than able to hold his own, but the kid is…impressive. He doesn’t broadcast his hustle as loudly this time, doesn’t peacock around the table, he’s quieter, focused; playing neatly and never missing an opportunity. Occasionally, his eyes drift to the two twenties but as soon as he feels Tom’s gaze he’s back and focused on the game.
“On your way home from school?” Ice inquires as he lines up the next shot. He’d clocked the kids blue backpack, tucked surreptitiously under the pool table.
“Community college,” the kid responds eventually, his eyes never leaving the orange ball Ice is aiming for.
Tom raises an eyebrow but the kid doesn’t budge on the lie. The bar could be on fire and he’d stand his ground, and Ice, Ice respects that. Understands. Remembers being seventeen and feeling the earth shift beneath him. He makes the shot, watches the orange ball sink into the far right corner and keeps playing. Twenty minutes later they're neck and neck.
“I have to make a phone call, your shot.”
“Really?” The kid looks incredulous. Four balls on the table, and here he is leaving the scene unattended.
“Really,” Ice says, leaning his cue against the wall. “Take your shot.”
“I’m not–”
“Take your shot. I trust you.”
The kids' eyes barely widen but Ice doesn’t miss the shock on his face. He nods at the table and mouths ‘play’ before heading for the payphone. Pete answers on the second ring.
“Ice?”
“T6.”
“You alright?”
“Tomorrow. Before daybreak.”
“How long are we going to do this for, Ice?” Pete asks, his voice is soft and disarming and Tom feels rage flood his system like a riptide.
Fuck you, this is all your fault.
It doesn’t feel far off the mark, but what good would it do, taking his anger out on Maverick over the phone? He’s supposed to be a goddamned professional; he’s not going to hash this out here, in this shitty bar, in this shitty town...still, he’s itching for a fight. There’s a petty part of him that wants Pete to crack first. Break the silence. Bluster and show. No restraint. It had always been Mavericks way, but over the years the least patient man Ice knows has gotten good at waiting.
I think I’d have waited forever for this.
The memory of that day rings in his head. Petty grievances and one-upmanships turning into something that Tom would feel in his body for days afterwards. An itch to an ache––relief. God, the relief. He can almost feel the coolness of the sheets on his overheated body, the shiver of sweat and the heady smell of it all floating through the air; he can see Pete’s outline in the darkness of the bedroom lying beside him, naked as the day he was born, satiated and honest, his little finger brushing the edge of Tom’s hip…if only he’d known then who would be doing the waiting.
“I’m not doing this over the phone.”
Pete exhales. It sends a distorted woosh of air down the line.
“I’ll be home in two days.”
“Home?” Pete asks and Tom hears the real question underneath. Home? Or that damned apartment you’ve holed yourself up in to avoid me?
“Home,” Tom confirms. He can practically feel Pete smiling down the line, like he’s won something. That joy would usually bring him comfort, now it just makes him chafe.
“That’s not forgiveness,” Tom bites out.
In return, he gets a soft, “Come home safe, Ice,” followed by the dial tone.
Fucking Maverick. Disarming sonuvabitch.
Unsurprisingly, the pool table is empty except for his two solids. The white ball sits pretty at one of the center pockets. Counting wins and losses, he’s just about even for the day.
He’s having that fucking cigarette.
— // —
The air outside is somehow more putridly thick than before but Ice refuses to smoke in the car, hates when the smell seeps into the upholstery and lingers on his clothes. He’s barely taken a drag when he hears the scuffle.
It’s none of his business. Ice is all too familiar with the stellar combination and its order of operations; alcohol meets rage meets fists. He’s sported enough black eyes to know better. Just some idiots having it out by the dumpsters out back.
“Get off me, dipshit!”
He hears Mavericks' voice in his head. Don’t get involved, Ice.
“Don’t touch that!” The voice rips like an angry howl from behind the bar. It sounds like a wounded animal. Ice drops the cigarette, opens the car door and pulls out the gun tucked between the seats, pushing it into the waistband of his jeans as he goes. When he rounds the corner there’s a part of him that knows it’s the guppy.
The kid’s shoved up against the wall, his feet barely touch the ground. The guy holding him has got his meaty hands wrapped around the kid's jaw, his fleshy fingers digging painfully into his right ear. There’s another one on the ground, digging through the backpack Ice clocked under the pool table. Half the contents of the bag are strewn across the dirty asphalt.
The kid sees him first and stops wriggling. His eyes burn with humiliation and a silent plea for help. Ice pulls and cocks the gun before Fat Fingers and the scavenger even notice him.
“Shit.”
Fat fingers drops the kid. The prick on the ground twists around and judders at the sight of the gun and Tom immediately recognizes him. The guy who’d lost to the kid. He feels a rush of fury burn down his throat. Is this all it takes? A bit of liquor and some wounded pride and this prick is ready to rewrite the evening?
Kid was a dirty cheat. Had to teach him a lesson, or better yet––some manners. That’s how the story would go when he’d tell his buddies about it afterwards Little prick was asking for it.
Ice flicks the safety off of the Colt.
“Hey, man…” the guy's shaky voice carries across the alley like an open ended supplication. He lifts his hands and loses his balance, falling awkwardly onto his ass. Fear sobers his sweaty face and his hands shake but he doesn’t dare lower them. Tom wants to pummel him; take the gun clean across his face, give in to the animal instinct, relish the sights and sounds the act would produce...but he’s better than that. And even if he wasn’t, there’s the kid to think about.
“Get lost.”
They’re down the alley and across the back end of the parking lot almost instantly.
The kid slides to the ground, watching him. Ice puts the safety back on, unloads and tucks the clip into his pocket, the gun into the waistband of his jeans, then he crouches down and begins tucking away the kids belongings. It's a scattering of oddities: an old Patsy Cline cassette, a few CDs, a hunting knife that’s starting to rust at the edge of the handle, a toothbrush, a stick of women's deodorant, a library copy of Rolling Stones Magazine, and buried at the bottom amid some t-shirts and a pair of boxers is a book on…engine mechanics?
“Thanks,” the kid whispers.
“They take your money?”
“What do you think?”
Ice looks up and the kid is staring back at him, willful and petulant, even as his clenched fists quiver at his sides. His face is splotched red, his shirt collar is stretched and ruined and the inside pockets of his jeans are sticking out. He hasn’t moved from his spot against the wall.
You pulled a fucking gun. He’s just a kid.
Tom zips the backpack, gently puts it at the kids feet and takes a step back. The kid tugs the bag close and wraps a strap tightly around his wrists. Tom can tell the adrenaline is starting to wear off. The kid’s on the verge of tears, and judging by his breathing, full body hysterics might not be far behind. Tom can’t let that happen. Can’t make a scene. Can’t leave this kid to––
What are you doing, Ice? What the fuck are you thinking…
“You hungry?”
“What?” The kid looks at him like he’s grown an extra head. There’s wariness in his eyes but even more than that there's desperation. It makes Tom’s gut churn again.
“Come on,” he says and heads towards the street.
— // —
There’s a burger joint down the block.
Ice watches the kid hesitate over the menu and orders for them--two cheeseburgers, fries, chicken tenders, a chocolate milkshake and a couple of Cokes. Since they’ve ordered, he’s heard the kid’s stomach raise a ruckus at least twice. He’s still wearing his backpack and it’s squishing him forward against the table but he doesn’t seem to notice. The redness around his jaw has faded and it no longer looks like it’ll bruise but in the harsh fluorescents of the restaurant Ice can now clearly see the dark circles under his eyes.
His eyes are green. Olive. They have the same color eyes. Had he noticed at the bar? Or just now?
The milkshake and Cokes get their first. Ice pushes the frothy concoction towards the kid and takes one of the Cokes for himself.
“Chocolate helps.” When you’ve had a scare. But Ice leaves that part unspoken. There’s clearly an argument lurking behind the kid's eyes, like he wants to refuse on principle, but then his stomach growls again and he’s downed half the milkshake in a matter of seconds.
“You got a name?”
He chews on the straw. “Yeah, I got one of those.”
Ice doesn’t take the bait. Teenagers aren’t a grand mystery to him, he’s had enough practice with Bradley, and if he looks back far enough, can remember doing his own share of baiting and testing. His father preferred to hit first and ask questions later so Ice learned pretty quickly that there was no use hedging his bets. He might be far from a nice guy, but he’s worked hard to be nothing like his father. Besides, there’s plenty of pleasure in playing the long game.
Wears you down, Goose used to say—always lovingly.
Their waitress ambles back over with the rest of their order and leaves without sparing them a second glance. Tom leans back against the vinyl, keeps his hands on the table (in view at all times), and watches the kid wolf down two chicken tenders, dry, like his life depends on it. He only hesitates once he gets halfway through the pile, looking up at Ice with a question in his eyes.
You eating these?
Ice ignores the halfhearted offer. Instead, he leans over to the empty table across from them, scoops up a bottle of ketchup and deposits it in front of the kid who immediately helps himself. Tom watches him work his way through the rest of the chicken and half his burger in silence. He eats fast but chews politely, looking at Ice between bites. Whatever he sees in Tom, in the slouch of his form, in the ease of his hands on the table, in the steadfast patience of his gaze…
“Jake.”
It’s an offer. Tom smiles kindly and nods in greeting. “I’m Ice.”
Jake scrunches his nose and picks up the half-eaten burger. “Kind of name is that?”
“A nickname. All my friends call me Ice.”
Jake squares his shoulders at the word ‘friends.’
“Where’re your friends?” He tries to sound nonchalant, but Tom can feel his discomfort.
“Out West. California.”
Jake’s shoulders drop a fraction, relaxing, like he was afraid they were lurking out back, waiting for Ice to give the signal.
“Are you from Hollywood?” There's a note of serious interest. Tom almost feels bad to disappoint the kid.
“San Diego.” Jake deflates, but only slightly.
“What about you?” Tom asks.
“Texas. Born and raised.”
“Houston?”
Jake frowns like the very thought offends him. “No way.” But he doesn’t offer much beyond that.
Tom smiles, “Yeah, I get that. I’m not much of a fan either.”
“Why visit?”
Tom pauses. “Business.”
Jake looks up at him, dips a fry in the puddle of ketchup and asks as casually as anything else, “So, you looking for company, mister?”
Ice’s face shutters.
If he’s honest with himself, truly honest, he knew it was coming. He’d clocked the kid as a runaway from across the bar. He’d known when he put down the forty to lose, when he’d pulled the gun, when he tucked Jake’s belongings into the bag and offered to buy him a burger. He sure as hell knew what the hustle was on the street…still, the words hit him like a bucket of ice water.
He looks at the kid, at his ruined shirt collar and the splotches that have settled onto his cheeks in the embarrassing silence.
“How old are you, Jake?”
“Eighteen,” he responds and his face gets even redder.
Ice snorts. “Bulshit.”
Jake shutters, his eyes turn hard and mean. “Why? You like ‘em younger, pops?”
Tom doesn’t flinch. “Thought we were being honest."
"Oh yeah. How old are you?"
"Forty."
"Pretty old," Jake snipes.
Ice stares him down, then shrugs. "Yeah, I imagine that seems pretty old when you're a kid."
Kid.
Jake glares at him like it’s the nastiest thing he’s heard all day.
Tom doesn't budge. “How old are you, Jake?”
Jake huffs and sticks his finger in the remains of the ketchup puddle, sharply drawing out a one and a five.
Fuck. Barely a teenager.
His eyes burn with a spiteful fury, like he’s daring Tom to try and do something about it as he smudges out the numbers and licks his finger. Tom's about one misstep away from watching the kid pitch out the booth and down the street.
“I was seventeen,” he says.
“What?” Jake stares, perplexed.
“When I ran away,” Ice explains, waving over the waitress. “What do you want for dessert?”