A/N: So I accidentally made this nearly triple the length of the other chapters. Whoops. Hopefully the ending makes up for that. Also changing the rating of this to M because yeah. Anyway, enjoy and reviews would be lovely~ thank you for reading c:
"Slick?"
Droog knocks on his leader's door in hopes that today he'll come out of his room. He didn't yesterday. After the two of them returned to bed, Slick didn't come out. A day has passed and none of the three crew members have seen any of their boss, and they still know next to nothing of what exactly happened in the vault.
Boxcars and Deuce have chairs pulled up to the table in the center of the room, four steaming bowls placed on its surface. They rarely have meals together, and even when they do it's usually Boxcars who cooks. Today, Droog did. It's a special gourmet chili. Droog already had the ingredients for it, since he planned to make it some time ago. That was, until all this Felt business went down. He's only made it a few times before, and he knows it's Slick's favourite. He knows because he's never seen the man scarf something down so quickly and demand for seconds, then thirds.
Hopefully it'll play as a useful bargaining chip.
Droog knocks again. "Slick, you need to eat, at least."
Thwick.
He jumps a little at the sound, moving back to glance at the door, then over at the other two. They shrug, just as confused as him. It's a faint sound and none of them can put their finger on it.
Thwick.
Droog turns back to the door, a little concerned now. With a last ditch attempt he tries the handle. It turns. The door hasn't been locked this entire time. He lets out an exasperated sigh, then warns, "I'm coming in."
Thwick. Louder.
He peaks inside. The lights are off, so he can't see much of anything. "Slick-"
He ducks out of the way just in time to dodge a knife whizzing through the air. It embeds itself in the wall behind him.
Thwick.
Oh.
Droog observes the area around the knives. There's a sheet of paper with Sn0wman's face pinned to the wall-how the hell Slick got it is anyone's guess-covered in little cuts from what he assumes is the markings of other knives. Scratches also marr the surface around the sheet, concentrated there, but even in the darkness Droog can spot the odd two or three scattered about as though the knives had slipped from their owner's grasp.
Target practice.
Thwick.
"Agh- Slick, please, put the knives down for a minute." Droog flips the lightswitch, resulting in a pained groan from the man reclined on his bed. He's fully dressed, but the clothes are visibly ratty. Through Slick's squinting, he can see red against the white of his eyes.
"Fuck, turn the light off," he grumbles, waving his hand in an almost drunk manor.
"... Have you slept at all?"
"Yeah, plenty." Slick rubs at his eyes as they throb with want for darkness. "It's the drugs."
Droog nods. Whatever he's taking has some interesting side effects. It looks as though he's high and having a hangover at the same time. He blinks slowly, relaxed but irritated. "Well, will you eat?"
"I'm not hungry."
"That's not the point."
"Then what is?"
The taller man's shoulders droop at his stubbornness. The point is that you can't just sit in here and starve yourself, he wants to say, but instead he goes with something that might not piss him off nearly as much. "The point is that I made your favourite meal and it's sitting on the table getting cold."
Boxcars chuckles behind him. Deuce promptly delivers a small slap on the brute's arm.
After a squinted look and whiff of the air, Slick pushes himself out of bed. "Fine, honey, I'll eat the goddamn food."
The smallest crew member joins in the chuckling.
But all humour ends when Slick weakly pushes passed Droog, the missing arm and slouched posture doing nothing to deter his glare.
The two take their place at the table, all of them hesitantly picking up their spoons to eat. Except Slick. He's looking at it like he's interrogating it; like if he stares it down it'll eventually give in and eat itself. He lifts his left arm and holds the spoon, which wobbles-he'd always been favourable with his right hand, and the meds weren't helping. The spoon clangs as he tries to bring it into the bowl but ends up hitting the rim. Lack of depth perception wasn't going over well either.
He grumbles, tries again. This time he manages to scoop some of the chili onto it, but just as he's bringing it out of the bowl it hits the rim again. The spoon tips, and the chili drops right back in. Slick swears.
"So, uh, boss," Boxcars coughs out, averting everyone's attention from their struggling leader. They were staring without realizing it. "What happened? You know, in the vault."
"What the fuck else happened? Sn0wman." Slick drops the spoon, giving up. "Took my arm and then locked me up in that safe. Which, by the way, had shit. Zip. Nadda. Nothing."
"But," Droog cuts in, "it did have that command center. Just like ours." They'd all had their own. Found them on different heists. It was only the code on their wrists that opened the locks, so they supposed that in some way they were important. They typed in commands until the screen went dark, which they supposed meant they were finished, so they went on their way.
It's been so long since Droog found his command center that they assumed Slick didn't have one.
Slick scrunches his face. "You never told me how to get inside."
Droog shrugs. "You got in, didn't you?" Slick grumbles, but continues.
"So it was in the Felt mansion. This whole time?" The crew leader lets that sink in for a moment. "Why would they lock my command center away, behind a giant time paradox safe door? More importantly, why would that bitch lock me in there when I finally got inside? Wouldn't she want me to stay out if it was so important?"
Slick grinds his teeth as he thinks it over. "There's something missing because none of this makes any sense.
"She's hiding something. I can feel it."
The crew is silent, the topic dropped and eventually forgotten. A few minutes later they start up again, even adding a few little jabs at Slick as he concentrates on eating. Threats are thrown around as the teasing continues. It's a very average meal in the hideout.
Droog is quiet.
The rest of that day goes by slowly. Slick returns to his room and isn't seen again. They all go about their own business. Nothing much happens until evening, when Boxcars and Deuce leave to take care of another gang moving into their territory.
Droog stays behind to make sure Slick doesn't try to follow.
He never does.
He leaves his room but doesn't attempt to pass Droog-who's sitting at the table-to get to the ladder. Instead he sits across from him, pulls out a deck of cards, and plays a game of solitaire while the other solves a crossword. No words or contact is traded, except for the occasional nudge of Slick's foot from Droog whenever the man seems to be drifting to sleep in the middle of his game.
They both wait for the others to return. Silently.
Droog can't help but observe him now and then, though. Can't help but notice that he's not eager about another heist. Can't help but notice how content he is just lazing around. It makes him wonder if his state of mind has changed at all since the other day, despite his efforts. If this is the same Slick or not.
And then Droog wonders, more and more, if he is the one with the missing piece to this puzzle.
Something happened in the Felt Mansion that he had yet to mention to anyone. He heard a voice. He couldn't tell if it was disembodied or if he'd just been looking in the wrong direction, since it came from behind him. But he'd heard the words, clear as day as he made his way to Stitch.
"Set off the alarm by the vault. Answers will be given."
He couldn't put a face to the voice, but it couldn't have been anyone good considering where they were. He checked anyway. There was no alarm by the vault.
But after the conversation today, he realized something.
Maybe they didn't mean that vault. Droog's command center had been in a locked room as well. Maybe that's where he needs to go. Maybe this is his part to play.
More importantly, maybe this will restore Slick's motivation.
Slick sends Droog to do a grocery run for him the next morning, not only for food but for his medication. Not surprising. It's been seven days since everything happened, and he figured Cans had punched him into a 'next week' that correlated with this timeline.
He goes as he's told, but the only thing he buys is the medication for Slick. He pockets the few bottles of pills and promptly exits the store, heading in the opposite direction of their hideout. This is the safest time to investigate. They weren't outside much during the day, let alone early morning. Less of a chance of getting caught.
Droog walks for about half an hour. He remembers the general location of the vault-a sort of office building on a street corner, occupied by a gang who'd trashed a few of the crew's many bars, and rumored to have connections with the Felt.
It's not hard to find. The building is run-down now from months of neglect. Once they'd driven the gang out it stayed this way-deserted, abandoned and forgotten.
The front door is slightly ajar. Droog walks in, cue stick at the ready, but the halls are hollow. Every step he takes echoes loud in every direction. No chance for stealth, but that goes not only for him but anyone who might be lurking in the shadows. He lets his guard down just enough to concentrate on his goal while still maintaining an awareness of his surroundings.
He finds his way to the stairs leading into the basement, where they found the vault door, hidden behind boxes and other storage containers. As he makes his way down, he notices a flickering light bouncing off the walls of the otherwise dark basement. A peek between the railings reveals a squatter resting by a fire made of scraps of plywood and garbage. Harmless.
However, the fire is concerning. Would the smoke set of an ala-
A fire alarm. That's what he needs.
He glances around the nearly empty storage space. It's not hard to spot the small red switch on the wall, adjacent to the squatter. Jackpot. There is no hesitation as he darts down the stairs and strides over to it. But he stops, just before his finger pushes down on the small lever. He looks around the room, at the yawning squatter, the dusty air, the abandonment, and wonders if maybe he's wrong. This is ridiculous.
Only one way to find out.
He presses it down.
Nothing happens. No irritating sound, no water, no-
The squatter screams. Droog glances over, intrigued as the man stares in horror at the fire and stumbles back. He turns, notices Droog but doesn't comment, and darts up the stairs absolutely petrified.
That's when he sees it.
A figure slowly materializes from the flames, licking at its burly stature, hissing as it evaporates to reveal more of whatever this creature is. Droog's eyes widen, frozen in place, not sure if he should believe what-or rather who, evidently-he's seeing.
Free from the fire, the large man coughs and dusts off the front of his green suit. He doesn't seem surprised in the least. "Hello, Droog. A little late in calling, I see."
His mouth is dry as he greets the Felt.
"Matchsticks."
Three days. It's been three days.
And Droog's still missing.
When he didn't come back the first night, none of them were too concerned. Especially Slick, who was more angry than anything. Droog is probably the most compitent of any of them. He wouldn't do something stupid.
Frustration fills the hideout by the second night. They have enough food for now but Slick's drugs are running out. Less and less doses in order to compensate. More and more irritation from his right shoulder. Whatever the fuck his right-hand man is doing, it better be important, or this time he'll break all of his limbs.
But it's the third night now. Deuce and Boxcars went out to search, leaving Slick behind in case Droog comes back while they're looking. No matter what the man is doing, he should have been back by now. Three days is the limit. If any of the crew members don't report back in that time, the assumption is that something happened. Something bad.
Slick sits at the main table in the hideout, glaring at the ladder as he spins a knife between his fingers and his thumb. He'd have gone with the others to search, but he isn't reckless. Okay, he is, but this is different. If Droog's in trouble, they're not dealing with small-fry, and he's not in any condition to fight. Not yet. His arm still hurts without the painkillers, and with them he's a fumbling idiot. Someone has to stay behind regardless, and no way would that person be their muscle or their demolitions expert.
Logic, he reminds himself. Logic. Not self-pity. He's gotten over that. The moment he's ready to fight, he'll tear everyone to shreds. Especially her.
Droog snapped him out of that shitty mindset. And the more he thinks about it, the more he grinds his teeth. He won't admit it to anyone, but if Droog wasn't around he'd probably be dead five times over by now. The guy is selfless. Caring. His voice of reason.
Slick grimaces as he lifts the knife and throws it across the room. The blade embeds itself in the wall.
And hell if he's not fucking worried for the son of a bitch.
It's around two in the morning when the manhole cover shifts aside, breaking the silent tension that had risen in the night. The edge of it is dropped with a clang, the man descending the ladder and moving it back into place. He holds a briefcase.
Droog.
He expects to be beaten to a pulp the moment he enters the hideout, but instead he's greeted by... nothing. Except for, well, the gentle breathing of a certain sleeping crew leader. Evidently, no one is here to wake him or bring him to his room.
"... Slick?" Droog mutters with hesitation as he reaches the last step of the ladder.
If it's possible for a man to jump out of sleep, that's exactly what he does. He stands up with a flash, eye wide and hands searching the table for some sort of weapon. Droog's mouth twitches as he takes the knife out of the wall, holding it out. "Are you looking for this, sir?"
His words snap Slick out of his momentary adrenaline rush, hands freezing and expression stricken with shock. But slowly, ever so slowly, that look morphs into one of anger and disgust and-is Droog imagining it?-relief.
"You idiot!" Slick screams, circling the table with much more purpose than he'd shown previously. Ah. No medication. "Where the fuck were you? Where the fuck do you get off wandering around without saying shit and coming back without a fucking scratch, huh!" Droog raises his arms, dropping the knife but keeping the briefcase in his grasp.
"I can explain-"
"You can't explain anything right now, buddy. There is nothing that'll stop me from tearing you a new goddamn-"
"I got you help."
Slick stops a few feet away. His look is indecipherable for a moment. Droog predicts something like graditude, if only a little. But no. He grimaces as if he's offended. "What?"
"Just-" Droog walks forward and places a reassuring palm on Slick's arm. He shrugs it off and backs away. Mortified. The taller sighs, clenching his fist. "Please, take a seat. Let me show you. Please."
Every fibre of Slick seems to want to cut Droog to pieces. Every last fibre. But he backs away. Whatever the reason is-curiosity, desperation, trust-he backs away. He does so until he hits the edge of the table, at which point he hops up onto it rather than sitting in a chair. His continuous glare is discouraging.
Droog is tight-lipped as he approaches and places the briefcase next to him, Slick's gaze sinking into him like daggers with every move. "... I need to see your arm."
He doesn't have to say which one. Slick understands. He glances between the briefcase and his partner, more and more suspicious with every second that passes by.
"Why."
It's not a question. It's a demand. Droog taps his fingers against the case's latch, refusing to meet his leader's gaze.
"Spades-"
"Diamonds. What. Is in the briefcase."
He won't cooperate until he knows. Until he sees instead of being told. There is no choice.
Droog undoes the latch and opens the lid. Inside, placed in the corner of some sort of soft surface, is a syringe with a bottle of clear liquid next to it. Next to that? A robotic arm. A very detailed, very intricate, very expensive-looking robotic arm.
Slick, for a moment, says nothing.
"You did something idiotic, didn't you." His voice is barely over a whisper, but the anger in it is obvious.
Droog sighs and shakes his head. He can't know. "It doesn't matter. I'm here and-"
"It does fucking matter." Slick's frustration is almost palpable. His anger has calmed to a simmer, but the underlying rage is still there. "How do I know that you didn't get this from some fuckwit trying to make a quick buck? How do I know you get this enough to actually attach it to me? How do I know that I can trust whoever gave this to you?"
"Do you trust me?" Droog looks at him. Looks him right in the eye with a determination he shouldn't have. Because he worked with the enemy, learned everything about the attachment process from him. He ignored his intuition and did something he should never have done. And now he's asking Slick to trust him. Everything is fine. There are no loose ends, no fine prints to be concerned about. He's lying. Straight to his goddamn face.
Slick is the first to look away. He has no reply, because he trusts him. He does. He does with all of his being and Droog wants vomit. Despite doing all of this for Slick, for him, he's still a fucking traitor.
He waits as Slick removes his blazer and unbuttons his collared shirt to peel the right side away. He refuses to look at Droog, and he can't tell if it's out of stubborness or shame or embarassment. Bandages still cover the end of what is the rest of his right arm. He unwraps it, slowly. Not because he hates it, but because it hurts.
Droog can't hold back the grimace once the bandage is gone. It's not fully healed. There's clotted blood and healing skin tissue, puckered and thin. Slick takes one look at it and winces. "Fuck."
"It's fine," the taller reassures, picking up the syringe and bottle. He inserts the end and takes out the amount he needs before stepping towards Slick. He flinches away a little as he realizes where the needle is going, but Droog gives him another reassuring glance and that seems to calm him down enough.
Strange, how few words they're exchanging. There's still tension, and anger, but this process keeps them quiet, at least for now.
Slick takes in a sharp breath as the needle enters his arm, just above the wound, but as soon as it happens it's over. The meds are in, and all they can do at this point is wait. Droog pulls out a chair, crossing his arms and legs, not saying a word.
Tick. Tock.
"I didn't ask for this," Slick mutters. It's been maybe a minute. His right shoulder is more relaxed than the other.
"You didn't need to."
Slick shoots him a look. "What the fuck is that supposed to mean?" The anger is returning. Droog's jaw clenches.
"You know."
"What? Because my first day out of the hospital, I'm a little twisted, and that makes you jump the fucking gun and go overboard with trying to... to fix me? Is that what you're trying to do?" He pauses, eyes narrow. Droog doesn't speak. "Listen, buddy, I'm fine. You slapped that shit outta me as soon as it got in. I can live with this. But then you bring in this crap and you're not telling me who or where it's from and saying it's fine? Fucking ridiculous."
Droog almost laughs.
They've switched roles. Slick no longer cares. He's moved on. And yet here's Droog, trying to fix something that doesn't need fixing. Trying to pick him up when he's already running.
He lets another minute pass before he speaks. "How are you feeling?"
"Stabby," is Slick's automatic reply. His right shoulder is completely relaxed, likely numb, and that's really all Droog needs as reassurance to continue. He stands and retrieves the first piece of the robotic arm.
Piece by piece, he attaches it to Slick. The first bit, despite the heavy painkiller, makes him clench his teeth hard enough that his gums start to bleed. Of course, the process isn't bloodless. Droog has to tear into his tissue in order to reach the proper nerves. A few towels are ruined.
But after that, it's all a matter of linking wire to wire, plate to plate, metal to metal. It goes like clockwork. When he attaches that last piece of thumb, he holds his breath. It's done.
"Okay." Droog tentatively puts down his tools and lifts Slick's arm by the fingers. He's calm now, having accepted it, his anger for the man's three-day-abscence bottled away at least for the moment. "How is it?"
Slick rolls his shoulder, just regaining feeling in it, and after a rather long pause he observes his new arm. New hand. New fingers.
Droog watches as his index finger flexes. Slowly. The breath that he was holding comes out in a giant wave. It's working.
But when he looks at Slick's face, his heart drops into the pit of his stomach. There is no joy. He looks... confused.
"What's wrong?"
Slick just shakes his head, moving more fingers, even turning his hand. But every movement is tedious and forced and wrong.
"Can't feel it."
Everything shatters.
Droog's eyes widen as he stares at the arm, still holding the mechanical appendages. "No, you're supposed to..." he trails off, grabbing his palm, the back of his hand, his wrist, squeezing and pressing and panicking. "Maybe your shoulder's still numb." But Slick shakes his head. He can feel his shoulder fine. It's the arm.
It's the arm.
"No." It's supposed to work. It's supposed to fucking work. He followed everything perfectly. Every little detail. And yet it's useless anyway. He risked his life and the crew's safety. He risked their trust. He risked it all for this piece of shit.
"Hey. Hey, Diamonds!" Slick snaps his fingers, grabbing his attention. "Calm down, it's not a big fucking deal."
But it is a big fucking deal keeps running through his mind and he's breathing fast and his eyes are wide and he's panicked and frustrated and angry and-
"Punch me."
Droog's silent breakdown takes a pause.
"What?"
"I said punch me." Slick gestures to his own face. "You're fucking angrier than I am about this and I'm the one missing a limb. So punch me. You of all people need to stay in check."
The roles have completely switched. It's so goddamn surreal. Droog is never angry, and yet here he is, his usual calm demeanor destroyed by something that isn't his issue. And there's Slick, taking that place for him. Being the punching bag. Being the stress ball when he should be the one losing it over this.
Droog shakes his head, taking a deep breath. "No."
Slick blanks. "I'm offering you a punch to my face. Think of it as payback. Come on."
"No." I can't lose it. I'm the punching bag. That's my job.
"I said punch me."
"I said no." Droog meets his gaze straight-on, but he can't hide the anger there.
"It's a fucking order. Now hit me, you piece of shit."
"I won't."
Slick slaps him. "Hit me."
Droog clenches his teeth. "No."
"Hit me!"
"N-"
Slick grabs his tie and pulls him in, pressing their mouths together and ending the argument.
Droog is frozen. He knows exactly what Slick wants him to do. He wants him to bite, to shred, to make him bleed. This is so absolutely unlike him. The first time they ever did this, Droog attempted to participate-simply to create a struggle and give Slick more to work with-but he pulled away and beat him to a pulp all over again. He never tried after that. But here they are now and Slick is on the receiving end, offering himself up, being the selfless one. Maybe this is his way of showing his gratitude for trying. Despite all of the yelling and the scolding, maybe there is a part of him that wants to thank him.
But Droog can't do it.
So they stay that way for a few seconds, awkward, Slick's hand clenched around his tie hard enough to keep him from escaping. Neither move, one waiting for pain, the other hesitant and unsure.
Slick gets impatient.
He leans in and grabs Droog's bottom lips between his teeth, not enough to sting but enough to get a hold on it, and he pulls just a little, muttering "come on" as he does. Droog has to place a hand against the table to support himself, because christ if that's not...
Seductive? No. That's not it. That's not what this is. But he's already thinking it and before he can stop himself he pushes against his mouth. It's just a peck, but Slick, figuring he's encouraged him to at least start something, lets go. And he waits again. Nothing happens.
Droog's inner voice is screaming at him, that's not what this is, that's not what this is, but he can't fight off the feeling of his heart jumping into his throat as Slick's teeth nip at his mouth again. This time Droog pushes forward a little harder. And again, the shorter stops and waits.
The cycle continues, encouragement followed by progressively deeper kisses, Slick completely oblivious to the advances. But then Droog's tongue darts out, just briefly, but enough that he sees it. And it clicks.
His encouragements become half-hearted, until eventually his original intentions are non-existant. He moves when Droog moves, he pushes when Droog pushes, and when the latter feels the former's tongue trace the scars on his lips he throws logic to the wind.
"Slick," he breathes, feeling the man's hand wrap around to cup the back of his head, his hat falling off without notice as their movements become frantic. His mouth parts and wow, wow can Slick kiss without the gore and pain in the way. Droog's free hand grabs the mechanical arm to rest it over his shoulder before he slithers his fingers up his bare back, between his shoulder blades.
The room is heady, their breathing hard with the occasional grunt or whispered cuss. Tools clatter and roll, Droog moving in closer and pushing Slick down so he's nearly hanging off of him, and Slick complies with the slightest spread of his legs. It's getting way out of hand but they're just following the motions, letting it take over, the reality around them fading far into the background to make room for the heat rising and rising, Slick's hand crawling down and fumbling with the top button of Droog's suit-
A clang resounds from the top of the ladder.
Droog straightens himself out, head turning swiftly and watching as the cover is removed and two large feet step onto the top rung. Before he can even react, a hand is pushing him back. He turns to look at Slick, but the man is already off the table, face turned away as he darts into his room and slams the door behind him. It's over.
"Droog?" Boxcars's voice isn't tinged with anger. It's just surprise and worry as he observes the mess that is their hideout. "What happened?"
Droog's breath is still coming out in huffs as he picks up his hat and dusts it off, straightening his tie. There's not a whole lot he can say to summarize exactly why there are tools and bloody towels lying around. He's flustered, words momentarily lost to him.
"I-" he begins, Deuce now making his way down, "I'm not... exactly sure. I'll clean it up and get back to you."
He looks at it all, nearly as confused as the other two are. But there is at least one thing he's sure about.
He's not angry anymore.