A/N: So uh here's the end of this. This one's four times the length of the first chapter whoops. Anyway, thank you for reading. UuU
A few weeks pass by with little acitivity, much to the Crew's dismay. Their heists are quick and seldom happen. They wouldn't go on any at all, in fact, but they need to eat somehow. Their usual nightly endeavors have been cut down to weekly events. Why?
Droog.
There was much protest at first. After his very vague explanation of getting the mechanical arm from a "specialist", he insisted that they keep low for a while. He never provided reason for it, and so the other three were suspicious. But no matter how long they argued, or how hard they prodded, Droog never gave an inch.
So they agreed. Reluctantly.
Slick spends the first little while brooding over a sense of betrayal from his comrade… among other things associated with that night. But eventually he distracts himself. He trains his arm.
It's strange. It's like he slept on his arm all night and he's waiting for it to wake up, but he knows it won't. No matter how much of an urge he has to wave the limb or hit it against something to get the blood circulating, he knows there is no blood to circulate.
After getting used to that feeling, he moves on to basic movement. Holding objects without dropping them. Throwing a ball straight up and catching it. Things that aren't dangerous and don't require intricate movements. He adapts to memory of the movement rather than the feel of it. Feeling is out of the question.
After that he switches the ball for his piano and knives. Finger movement is the key, but it's much harder than general movements that involve the larger parts of his arm like his elbow and wrist. He fumbles many times, as made evident by the little markings criss-crossing on the metal digits.
Oddly enough—or rather, not so oddly enough—he fumbles much more often when Droog is around. He'll be at his piano or throwing knives at that one specific picture, or even just sitting around spinning one about, when the man knocks—or walks in, depending on where Slick is holed up in the hideout. And he, not subtley, will screw up in some embarrassing way.
And Droog's fucking poker face does not help. Not a damn bit.
It's like he's moved on, but Slick can't tell if he has or hasn't because the man is known for that deadpan expression of his. Meanwhile, every time Slick's training his arm and Droog walks in, his mind drifts to the thought that he was the one to give him the arm in the first place, which inevitably leads to the moment that he installed it, which inevitably leads to that very heated make out session they'd briefly shared, which inevitably leads to Slick wondering where it may have gone if the other two hadn't shown up, which inevitably leads to…
… fumbling.
It's not like it meant anything. Droog isn't a saint. He's broken many men with that well-concealed temper of his. He needs release too. But maybe it's not always in the same way that Slick needs it. Maybe it's more… intimate than that.
That fact doesn't keep it from driving Slick up the wall. He's thought of the possibility of something like this for quite a while, even thought of taking it. He takes what he wants. He made this town, after all. But for the sake of partnership, he never persued the thought passed just that— a thought. They don't need that kind of tension between them. This is a business relationship.
But now the idea is full-fucking-frontal and it won't close its trenchcoat. The idea of being controlled rather than being in control, pinned to the table. The idea of Droog leaning over him, fingers gliding across his bare back. The idea of ripping clothes away, legs spread apart, right then and there…
Needless to say, there's a very specific name that comes tumbling out of his mouth in the quiet of most nights.
"Good job, boss."
It's been a month. They just finished a heist, which, consequently, was also Slick's first heist since getting his metal arm. This time they had to eliminate a group of brutes and scammers, who'd had a vendetta against the Crew for driving them out of one of their casinos some time ago. Not anymore.
They never tried to keep Slick in the hideout. In fact, he could have gone wherever and whenever he wanted. Despite the lack of an eye and throbbing of his shoulder, the Crew wasn't going to get in their leader's way anymore, as long as he believed he could handle himself. But he never took the opportunity.
Droog speculated that it was because he was training that arm of his, enough that as long as it was hidden no one would have a clue that it's fake. Now, as they walk back to their vehicle parked just down the alley, Droog thinks he's right. A pair of gloves over Slick's hands conceals the missing limb very well, and if he didn't know about it he probably would have chalked up his boss's few slip-ups today to a sprain or a bad day.
But Slick is not smiling about their victory.
He grunts at Boxcars's praise. "Don't butter me up." He has his right gloved hand raised, looking at it as he flexes the metal fingers slowly, one by one. Glaring. Angry.
Droog knows why. When they were trying to regroup earlier, he'd found Slick finishing off the last of the brutes. He had him pinned, his right hand around the man's neck, the other wailing on his face. But the guy was already dead and he didn't even know it. The metal arm snapped his neck, but because Slick couldn't feel it, he kept going. Droog had to pull him out of the moment, shaking a little. The robot arm on its own is strong—at least twice as strong as a regular arm. But if Slick can't tell how much damage he's capable of? Can't stop because he can't feel the snap of a spine under his fingertips? That's worrying.
Slick isn't interested by this, though. He's more focused on the fact that he couldn't feel the kill. And without the feeling of the kill, it's not a kill to him at all.
"'Ey, lighten up." Boxcars gives Slick a gentle slap on the back.
"Yeah," Deuce pipes in, "Why don't we do something to celebrate?" He sucks in a small breath, feeling a scolding from Droog coming on about laying low. But when nothing happens, he continues. "Uh… is that okay? Can we do that?"
Droog thinks for a moment. A month. Is that enough? According to most, the Midnight Crew has all but fallen off the face of the world. It's really only paranoia keeping gangs in line; from raiding and taking over their establishments. They're called the Midnight Crew for a reason.
Will one moment of sticking their head out ruin it? After a month? Is there still something to look out for?
"… I suppose we can," he sighs, hesitance in his words. But Deuce cheers and Boxcars joins him. Slick's mouth even twitches up a little. They're all at least a bit stir-crazy. The thought of getting out of the hideout and this routine is very welcoming, and moments later they're discussing where they should go, the thought of laying low long gone.
As their heist car scuttles off, a flickering light makes itself known in the alley across the street. A slender woman watches the vehicle drive away, the soft cackling of a small green figure echoing ominously just behind her.
The Black Maria, located just two streets down from the Crew's hideout, is one of their sleezier establishments. Not that they had planned that. The ambiance is a mish-mash of classy and crude—dim lighting, couples in fashionable clothing mingling with roudy crowds, an open bar displaying fine wines and cheap beer. To most it might seem chaotic, but somehow it all manages to balance itself out, making the Black Maria one of the most popular places to be during the late hours in Midnight City.
It's incredibly crowded when they get inside, which is to their advantage. They slip in unnoticed and go their own ways, directing themselves where they please. Many recognize them as a group rather than individuals. They blend in seamlessly.
An hour flies by, and the place has nearly packed itself to the brim rather than thinning out. Boxcars shouts with victory as he cleans up a game of poker. Deuce spaces out in a stupor nearby, spinning on a bar stool, now and then attracting the attention of patrons who think he's a child. Droog's not doing much more than watching over all of them.
His eyes dart about as he takes a drag of a cigarette. He's sitting in a booth on his own, too paranoid to lean back and enjoy himself. He can't help it. There's a feeling in his gut that hasn't gone away since they got here, and he can't fight it off. So he continues with his duties—looking out for his crew members while they enjoy themselves.
However, he can't help that his eyes drift more towards Slick than the other two, involuntarily. The man's leaning back in a corner with a woman on each side, right hand in his pocket as he smirks and nods along. Trying to be suave with the ladies isn't his regular routine—he's more than likely to be playing that game of Poker with Boxcars—but he looks like he's having a good time, so Droog can't complain.
He also can't hold back the pangs of jealousy.
It's childish, really. He's pretty sure Slick's already forgotten about it, and yet it still plagues the back of his mind. He's always cared about the man a little more than he should. But this? This is different. If it's just sexual tension, Droog can have almost any woman here—in fact quite a few have approached him. But he waved them off without a second glance. He sort of hates himself for it. For the jealousy. For that little bout of fury running up his spine every time one of the women lays a delicate hand on Slick's arm or giggles at something he mumbles. For that feeling of possessiveness just because they shared a moment in order to release tension. Hell, Slick ripped his mouth up a few days ago.
… But it was different.
It didn't end like it always had. He didn't slow. Didn't nod and wait for Droog to brush the blood off his mouth. He just stopped, suddenly, and then darted away to clean himself up. It felt unfinished, and left the taller feeling a bit baffled and even disappointed. Why the sudden change?
Droog pushes the thoughts away, squinting as the woman on Slick's right searches through the purse slung on her shoulder. She's muttering something about how it's getting late and how she really must be going.
That's when Droog spots the glint of a pistol handle peaking out of her purse's pocket.
Slick leans a little forward and mutters something, to which the woman nods with a sheepish smile. He gives the second woman a wink before following as the first begins to leave. They walk right passed Droog's booth.
Without so much as a twitch of emotion, Droog puts out a hand so his fingers brush against Slick's left forearm. "Sir."
The man turns, grimace already plastered. "What the hell do you want?"
"May I speak to you for a moment?" Droog turns to look at him, calm, unphased. Slick eyes him, trying to figure him out, but to no avail. The woman stands just behind him, looking a little distraught.
"Well I'm here, so talk."
"In private."
The shorter man glares, but there's a part of his look that seems almost intrigued. He glances back at the woman, then returns his gaze to Droog. "Fine. But make it quick."
Droog nods and stands, putting out his smoke in the ash tray. "Of course. Excuse us, this won't take more than a minute." He tips his hat a little before placing a hand on Slick's shoulder to guide him across the room. Before he looks away from her, though, he moves his hand down to the small of his back—a little lower than a friendly gesture—and if Slick notices, he doesn't show any sign of caring. The woman gawks for a moment before turning her attention to something else, having received the intended fake message—that this will very likely not just take one minute.
Slick stops abruptly and swivels around. "Okay, what?"
Droog gives one more glance to the woman, who's taken a seat at the booth where he'd just been sitting. "Did anything about her feel… strange to you?"
Slick's eyes narrow. "What do you mean?"
"I mean… did her intentions seem unpure?"
Slick stares.
"Of course they weren't fucking pure, we were just about to hit the sack."
Droog rolls his eyes and grumbles, rubbing at his temple. "That's not—"
"Do you have a problem with it?"
"… Pardon?"
"Do you have a problem with me hooking up?"
"No, I—"
"Because maybe you should try moving the fuck on like I'm doing."
Moving on— oh. Oh.
So he does feel that way.
"Slick." It's very hard hiding the smirk that Droog's mouth insists on displaying.
"What?"
"Look at the woman's purse. Closely."
He does, eyes squinted as she rumages through her purse again. Droog doesn't even have to look over at her to know when Slick sees the gun. His expression says it all.
"… Oh."
While it isn't uncommon for citizens to have a firearm with them, the way she's acting is suspicious. Her sideways glances at them are tinged with the slightest amount of frustration and objective. With his trained eye, Droog could very easily tell that she's not just some lady looking for a roll in the hay, and she knows exactly who Slick is.
Droog's posture relaxes a little as he shifts forward and tilts his head. "So what was that about… moving on."
Slick's eyes snap back to him. "Nothing. Shut up." But he can tell that it's very far from nothing, thanks to the involuntary twitch of his metal arm.
"You can tell me," he encourages. Despite his calm demeanor, there's a part of him that's yelling at him to stop because there shouldn't be anything between them.
"I said it's nothing." With his last word, Slick takes his right hand out of his pocket and shoves Droog back. It's a little harder than intended. He almost ends up falling to the ground and bringing a few people along with him. The display catches a few patrons' attentions. They're staring right at Slick, who's as equally as shocked as them. He recovers after a moment, rubbing his forehead and turning away. "I need some air."
Droog watches him leave out a back door, ignoring the few whispers of speculation around him.
He's not sure what he should do. His mind is reeling as he recalls the past month—all of Slick's fumbling, distancing himself, keeping their conversations to a minimum. All of it because he wanted to avoid… this.
He needs a drink.
Except he's not exactly sure he should have one. Maybe he should apologize for prodding about it. But the thought of following Slick outside into that alley only leads to interesting scenarios in his mind. So maybe he should just stay here and wait… but what if that is what he wants? Or what if he really just wanted to get some air?
Droog takes a seat at the bar, struggling to keep a straight face after realizing the things he'd just said, and the things he's imagining could happen in that dark alley. This is very unprofessional of him.
After a few minutes he decides to confront the man. It's no use sitting there while he stews in the tension. Leaving this as is will only make things worse. So he stands and waltzes out the back door to find him.
The second he does, all memory of the situation leaves his mind.
Slick is pinned to the ground, the right arm of his suit completely ripped away, his hat along with bolts from the metal limb scattered across the pavement, rendering it useless. A knife lays some ways away by the far wall. Hands clasp around his throat, his head thrown back. His eyes look as though they're focusing on Droog, but they're just blank, unseeing. He recognizes the figure straddling him immediatly.
Sn0wman.
Droog already has a pistol out and aimed at her head as he moves forward. "Get off of him."
Her head tilts up, hands unmoving. A wicked smile creeps along her features. "Or what? You'll shoot?"
His finger moves to the trigger. "Don't test me."
She just chuckles. "Fine. Shoot."
He hesitates, hovering over the trigger, watching as Slick's good arm claws at the asphalt, reaching for air. If he didn't recognize Droog before, he does now. His eyes are slightly narrowed. Words of desperation are lost in his choked windpipe.
He can't do it. This isn't his kill. This isn't his universe to end.
Sn0wman's grin widens. "Of course." And slowly her form seems to dematerialize, right before him.
When her hands have completely vanished, Slick takes in a long, urgent breath. Droog rushes to his side as he coughs and rubs his throat. "Are you alright?"
"Does it look like I'm alright?" Slick gestures to his right arm, limp and useless at his side. "You're late."
"Not too late," he points out. He begins picking up the pieces and stuffing them in his pockets, still wary in case she shows up again.
The door swings open as Boxcars joins them, having seen Droog exit the establishment. "… Boss? What the hell happened?"
Slick is quiet.
"Sn0wman," Droog says for him. The brute's face becomes contorted with shock and fury. "Fun's over," he continues, "I'll bring Slick back to the hideout to fix his arm. You and Deuce scout the area. She couldn't have gone far."
"… Boss?"
"Just do what he says," Slick grumbles. His words are clipped. Frustrated.
Boxcars nods and returns inside to fetch Deuce while Droog helps the Crew's leader to his feet, picking up his hat as well.
They don't share so much as a glance as they walk out of the alley and reach the Crew's car. Slick gets into the passenger side while Droog starts it up. They drive the very short distance to the hideout in complete silence, Slick's head resting against the window as the streetlights cast shadows across his blank face.
He does mutter one thing, though. It's so quiet Droog almost doesn't hear it.
"I fucking missed."
The moment they get inside, Slick storms off to his room, slamming the door behind him. Even as Droog gathers the few tools he needs he can hear the loud bangs and crashes as the man defiles his room. He's angry. Angry enough to revert to the old ways of coping with it. Hopefully he doesn't break the piano this time.
"I'm coming in," Droog says, already opening the door. The light is on. His desk is turned over, the things once placed on its surface now spilled out all over the floor. One of the legs of the chair is broken off, rendering it useless. The picture of Sn0wman is ripped and crumpled in the corner. Slick sits slumped on the piano bench. The piano itself is intact.
Droog hesitates in the doorway.
"What are you waiting for? Fix it."
There isn't much rage in his voice left. Whatever frustration he had is now emptied out onto the floor with everything else. Droog sighs and steps closer, rummaging through the metal pieces in his pocket. "Can you sit higher for me?"
Slick nods, not saying a word as he reaches back to cover the keys with the piano lid, hopping up and resting his feet on the bench.
Droog gets to work. The missing right arm of Slick's suit is convenient, at least. Slick's eyes are averted as he inspects the arm and begins working the pieces back into place. The tension in the room weighs down on the taller's shoulders.
"You shouldn't beat yourself up over it," he mutters. His leader's eyes dart over to him briefly.
"Over what?"
"Over Sn0wman. You'll get another—"
"I'm over it, Droog. Just. Shut up."
He's taken aback by his retort, and when he tries to meet his gaze, Slick looks away. If that's not it then—
Oh. That would be it. Why wouldn't it be? It happened only minutes before Sn0wman showed up, and they haven't exactly talked things out. Slick is still frustrated about outing himself.
Droog says nothing. But now he realizes what the tension is, and before long the air itself feels incredibly awkward when he breathes it in.
They really need to talk this over.
He ignores it for the time being, for the sake of putting every piece into its proper place. Sn0wman knew what she was doing. Droog knows just as well, though, so it's not very long before movement is completely restored.
Something's off.
"Wait," Droog says as Slick makes a move to hop off of the piano. He complies grudgingly.
There's still a metal piece in his pocket. Droog fishes it out, wondering if maybe he'd forgotten one. But that's not possible. Slick's arm is fine. He inspects it for a moment. It's definitely not a piece he's seen before.
There are, however, a few places it may fit.
He'd always sort of wondered about them—odd little spaces in the forearm that looked incomplete. However he was told, in detail, how every piece works. The way in which it had been explained to him hid this fact so well that he never questioned that maybe, just maybe, something could fit. He'd just assumed these spaces were a part of the design; never possible spots for something that was missing.
But now he's holding a piece he's never seen, and could only conceivably have been dropped by Snowman herself. His brain tells him that he should forget about the piece, but then again he got the rest of the arm off of the enemy anyway. Curiosity wins over logic.
Droog turns the arm around, removing a plate just below the wrist.
"What the fuck are you doing?" Slick's words are harsh and impatient. It's obvious that he's anxious to get out of here—avoidance rather than confrontation. But Droog needs to see if this works. He needs to try.
He holds the removed plate between two fingers while he moves aside other bits such as wiring. If he's right about the shape of the hole, this should be the place where it fits. He shouldn't even have to use anything besides his fingers. He reaches in, Slick's intrigue just slightly bested by his frustration.
Click.
Eyes go blank. Fingers go rigid. Nerve circuits connect.
For a second Droog thinks he broke him.
"… Slick?" He slowly slides the plate back into place and moves his hands away. But there's recognition of it. Of the feel of his hands leaving Slick's. The cold metal fingers clasp around Droog's palm. And they hold themselves there, without effort or guidance. It's the first things he feels. Feels. "Is it working?"
He nods slightly, pulling his hand away and flexing his fingers, bending and twisting his elbow. He's completely fascinated by it. Understandable. Not having feeling in an arm for over a month and then suddenly having it returned is jarring.
He's about to ask how Droog fixed it, but decides against it.
"… Thanks. I guess." Slick's hand absent-mindedly wanders around every surface—along his own skin, then the piano, then back to Droog's hand, playing with the end of his sleeve and feeling the material between his fingertips. Droog does his best not to flinch.
"Mm. So I suppose you can… move on from all of this now." He's not sure why he words it that way. He's very aware of the reference to earlier. Maybe it's because he wants to clear this up, right here and now. Maybe he wants to see what he'll do.
Slick's hand freezes, then slips away from Droog's sleeve to rest on the piano lid. He does nothing. His expression is hidden beneath the rim of his hat.
It's not like either of them aren't aware of it by now. They both know. But for the sake of their status as business partners, they're remaining at the edge, not stepping forward or back.
Droog tests the waters.
He leans down and pushes Slick's chin up with a finger. There is no response, but neither is there protest, so he continues, and it's not long before he's placing a chaste kiss on the man's mouth.
He draws it out a little, staying still. It's an awkward, prolonged peck as he waits for Slick to make the next move. But he doesn't. There is no movement. There's a flutter in Droog's stomach as his mind reminds him of their kiss ages ago, encouraging him to push forward even more. Instead he pulls back, not trying to force it on him. He took the first step, and if Slick doesn't want to take the next one, that's answer enough for him.
But it's as he's pulling away that he seems to change his mind. His mouth follows Droog's, exhaling the words "fuck it" as he pulls him back in with his cold fingers on his neck.
If Droog was just testing the waters, Slick's diving right in. The strength of Slick's pull forces him to place his palms on either side of him, his tongue already darting out and forcing his mouth open. Confident fingers reach for the top button of Droog's suit, eager to start exactly where they left off.
That's really all it takes.
If there was ever any doubt in Slick's mind that Droog didn't want this as bad as he did, it's gone the moment he's kissing him hard enough that his back is flush against the piano. As Slick undoes each button, Droog's left hand slides over to his hip, fingertips brushing along his thigh, passed his knee, down his calf and to the back of his foot, slipping his shoe off in a way that defies all argument that says slipping a shoe off shouldn't be arousing. The other he removes on his own by scraping the heel against the bench. Both clatter to the floor.
At this point Droog's blazer is open, the buttons undone. The hand previously on his foot slaps Slick's away as he fumbles with his tie. He's never been too savvy with ties. Slick busies himself with unbuttoning his own suit while Droog removes the tie, throwing it to the ground along with their hats.
"Fuck, come on," Slick cusses as he catches his breath, struggling with the buttons of Droog's collared shirt, impatience taking over. Giving up rather quickly, he resorts to just ripping the damn thing open. Buttons fly. If this was any other situation Droog probably would have screamed in horror. Right now he couldn't give less of a shit.
Droog's mouth makes its way along Slick's jawline, nipping at it as he shrugs the garments off his shoulders, the other's hands roaming across his back and chest. He shivers involuntarily at the feel of cold metal drifting down his abdomen. Lower. Lower.
This isn't going to be stopping anytime soon.
He barely gets to tease his belt buckle before Droog's lifting him right off the piano by his hips. Slick lets out a sound of surprise as they stumble back, his knees locking around the other's waist, arms circling his neck. He starts swearing about how this definitely has no connotations about his height. Droog shuts him up by catching his lips again. He takes the few steps he needs over to the door, pushing it shut with a backwards kick before bringing them both over to the bed. They fall somewhat gracelessly onto the sheets.
The bedsheets are ripped in some places—fist-sized holes that reveal the mattress beneath. Droog can only guess what they're from. The image of Slick gripping the sheets, tight enough that they tear—what an image it is.
"You've been busy," he mutters. His voice sounds husky and wet even in a whisper.
Instead of replying, Slick bites Droog's lip and groans. His hand drifts down again—his left one this time—passing his belt in favour of cupping between his legs. There is no stopping the breathless cuss that spills out of Droog's mouth as a result. Christ he's already half-hard.
"Need a hand, Droogy?" the shorter mocks. Droog squints his eyes and swats his arm away, ducking down after a moment to bite and suck under his chin. He leans on his elbow while his other hand gets busy unbuttoning Slick's shirt the rest of the way. When he's done he moves straight to the man's belt.
Slick sucks in a breath as he feels the pull of the buckle being undone, followed by a snap and unzip. There's a moment of oh shit this is actually happening shared between the two, but it's brief, only identifiable by Slick's swift bracing grab of Droog's shoulder and the pause before the taller's fingers reach into his pants.
Oh, he's hard. Harder than Droog thought he would be. He pulls his head back to get a good look at Slick's face. His jaw is clenched, eyes nearly shut, waiting. Droog, experimentally, runs his thumb from the base to the tip of his length.
The reaction he gets is perfect. Slicks hips—or rather, his whole body—rolls with the movement, up against Droog, head tilting back as he lets out the air trapped in his lungs in a breathy little moan. When Droog does nothing to follow through, he catches his gaze again. His tongue flits between his teeth, eyes distant yet focused in a way that can only be described as hungry.
Droog's mouth is suddenly very, very dry.
"Did you want something, sir?" he teases. The struggle to keep his voice steady is obvious. Slick mumbles a phrase that he can't quite hear, urging him with another buck of his hips. Droog complies with one painfully slow stroke. "What was that?"
"I said fuck me you deaf son of a bitch." His words are strained with a mix of anger and need. If Slick was hungry before, now he's fucking starving.
Droog doesn't waste any time. He pulls back, adjusting himself as such that allows both of them to shed whatever clothes is in the way. Which is to say, their pants. Slick doesn't even bother with the unbuttoned shirt. They're in way too much of a hurry for that.
The next time their mouths meet they're pretty much tongue-fucking, Droog's pants still half-on, at his knees, but it doesn't matter because that's all he needs. He's leaning on his elbow again, Slick's good arm hooked under his with his hand clawing his shoulder blade, the other cupping the back of his head. Droog positions himself so that his cock is flush against Slick's, his fingers slithering down to grab both of them—
"No," Slick hisses, his nails digging into Droog's skin as he shifts away from his grasp, "I said fuck me holy shit is that so fucking hard to understand."
Right to the point, then. And this isn't a plea, it's an order. Despite being the one in control here, he has no choice but to comply. Not that he'd protest.
Droog slicks two of his fingers up with his own saliva, quickly reaching down, passed his shaft to prod his entrance. There's little discomfort as he slides the first finger in; he's pretty sure Slick spreads his legs a little wider in a welcoming gesture. A mumble that sounds very similar to "more" tumbles out of the shorter's mouth. Droog does as he's told, slipping the second one in. The grip on his back tightens enough to draw blood, but the sound that accompanies the motion is far from one of pain.
He scissors his fingers inside him at a steady rhythm. Slick's breathing synchronizes with each stretch, but it's not long before he loses his patience. He makes it known with a bite to the taller's lips, who doesn't need more than that to understand what he wants. Droog pulls his fingers out and lines himself up properly. He extends his arm so that his weight is leaning on his palm rather than his elbow. There's a tightness in his lower abdomen that adds to the tension they both feel permeating the air.
He doesn't wait for the order this time.
The breath Slick was holding slowly escapes as Droog pushes in. He brings his knees up higher. At the halfway point his metal hand snaps to the sheets and grabs at them desperately. Droog feels Slick's body steadily relaxing when he thinks he's all the way in, but with that extra half-inch he tenses up again, finishing his exhale with a nearly unintelligible mutter of his name. "Diamonds."
He starts up a slow pace immediatly. Now both of his hands are stretched out, fingers at the top edge of the bed so that his torso glides against Slick's with each thrust. The friction is enough to drive him up the wall—fuck he's so tight—and every part of him is screaming to just screw him into the mattress, but he draws it out instead.
Slick is swearing under his breath, fingertips dragging across Droog's back, moving his hips at a different rhythm to try and get him going but to no avail. Orders spew from his mouth, unanswered.
He gets desperate. His rhythm falls into place with Droog's, hoping maybe that will encourage him to speed up. But it doesn't. However now he's not fighting it, his mind concentrating on the feel of his cock sliding in and out, the sound of skin against skin. Just the anticipation of something faster is enough to get him off. Slick's orders become less harsh and more needy, until at one point the word "please" slips in between swearing and panting and then he's fucking begging for it.
Despite Droog's will to keep the pace slow, it's not very long before the quickened snap of his hips becomes unconscious. Slick's mouth is right at the side of his head and every little mewl feels like it's in his brain, shooting down his spine, forcing him to thrust faster, and faster, and harder. He buries his face into the pillow and moans out his name as he gives into it. His left hand dives down to stroke Slick through it because he's already so close and there's no way of stopping. But Slick's metal digits are already there, having moved only seconds before. Instead Droog's palm cups the back of the other's knee, pushing him up to the point that the small of his back is no longer on the mattress.
Whatever was left of their awareness of reality is gone in favour of losing themselves in the moment. If Deuce and Boxcars are back they don't care, and they probably wouldn't be able to hear them anyway over the creaking of the bed and smash of the headboard against the wall. Blood streaks across Droog's back from the scratches, joined shortly by bites along his neck and shoulder as Slick tries to suppress the moans of complete abandon. Droog's nails dig into Slick's thigh while he babbles breathlessly into the sheets. It's hot and needy and eratic, the sounds they're making escalating with each other until eventually they meet at the top.
The combined feeling of his restored arm on his cock, blood beneath his hands and teeth and Droog hitting just the right spot inside of him is enough to send Slick careening over the edge first. His entire body locks up, tense and shivering and overwhelmed with pleasure as he comes between them. Droog follows seconds later, plunging deep inside his clenched muscles and releasing with a few more half-hearted thrusts. They collapse into an exhausted heap.
It takes them a minute or two to collect themselves. The white slowly fades from their vision. Breathing becomes steady. Thoughts click together. Briefly their minds drift back to the earlier happenings of this night, but then they're gone, just like that. They're too calm and satisfied to care.
Droog nuzzles the side of Slick's head. "So, about moving on…"
Slick grunts, moving away from the affectionate touch. "Get off, I can't fucking breathe."
"Charming." He does as he's told, slipping out of him—Slick unsuccessfully trying to stifle a huff at that feeling—and shifting to lie beside him. Slick promptly turns so he's on his left side, facing away. Droog reaches over and grabs the covers, lying in a heap likely since the morning, pulling it over both of their waists.
"… Are you staying?"
Little throbs of pain remind Droog of the scratches and bites, blood now staining the bed. "Until I have to clean this up," he sighs, and his hand places itself on Slick's side. Like that's the natural thing to do. Like it's supposed to be there.
"Well clean it up, then. It's a fucking mess." His words are cruel, yet he's reaching back with his robotic arm and grabbing Droog's fingers. Maybe it was to push them off at first, but instead he's pulling him in, just a little. Just enough that he can run the cold metal against his skin, feel the contrast between the two. There's still a fascination there, with feeling.
They talk harshly towards each other compared to the softness of the moment. Actions have always spoken louder than words.
"Not right now, Slick." Droog watches their fingers, keeping his own slack so Slick can do what he pleases. He can literally snap them off with one wrong move, but somehow Droog's not worried. A funny thing, trust.
The shorter says nothing, focused on their fingers like a child with a new toy. He squeezes them, traces them, even twines them together a couple times. It's oddly tender, but that's how he always seems to end these sorts of things with Droog. From rough snogging to rough sex, it's like he's apologizing. Like always.
"Jack."
"… Hm?"
His voice is even quieter this time. "Just call me Jack."
Droog hasn't heard that name in years. He nearly forgot about it. 'Slick' has always been just a nickname to spite Sn0wman, since the name refers to frogs. It's become so much who he is—the hate, the revenge. The anger.
But tonight, now, he's not Slick. He's tired. For one night he's willing to let it go. For one night, he wants peace.
Droog takes his hand away from the cold metal and reaches for his left one, scooting a little closer. He closes his eyes.
"Okay. Jack."
Tick. Tock.
It's early morning the next day, and Slick is already on the prowl. Deuce and Boxcars didn't return from scouting, as far as he knows. Either they came back late and left early, or they were out all night. He wouldn't worry about it, but considering the circumstances, he can't just look it over.
He returns to the alley behind The Black Maria. There is no further signs of skirmish. His knife still lays untouched on the pavement. He picks it up and stuffs it in his pocket.
He scouts the area nearby looking for clues, but there's nothing to hint at where they've gone. An hour, wasted. If there wasn't a scuffle then maybe they really did just spend the rest of the night out on the town. But he can't help fight a dark pit at the bottom of his stomach. If Sn0wman's involved, it's never this easy. Something is going to happen, and it's going to happen soon.
The sun is beginning to rise, streelights turning off. It's time to head back, before anyone sees his arm—he never did pick out a new suit. On the way, though, he hesitates at a storefront. It's some cheap dollar store. A silly thought crosses his mind.
He breaks in and steals an eyepatch.
It was Droog's idea. He couldn't tell if he was being serious, since they were both half-asleep when he said it. He mumbled about how he should get an eyepatch, it would suit him. So now he has one.
It's a joke. He's not actually going to wear the fucking thing. Why would he do that? He's not a pirate. He'll put it on to humour the guy but that's it.
He's not willing to say it out loud, but he's a lot calmer today than he's been in a very long time. Yeah he's gotten laid before. Plenty, in fact. But something was definitely different. A month of sexual tension aside, there was something different.
Maybe it was just… Droog.
Wow, that's sappy. He grumbles as he takes off his hat to slip the eyepatch on, not acknowledging the little jump in his chest as he turns the corner towards the hideout.
But just like that the world is crashing down, mercilessly.
Smoke rises from the asphalt. From the manhole cover.
Slick's not even aware that he's running, it's just happening. He's going with instinct, falling to the pavement, shaking as he removes the cover, and then there's smoke wafting up, overwhelming his senses but only momentarily. For a second he thinks he has tunnel vision, but he's just staring down into the ground, down the shaft and into the gray. Light flickers against the rungs of the ladder.
Fire. Fire.
"Droog!" his voice is half-angry, half-desperate. For some reason his legs are frozen in place, he can't move. He won't move until he hears something, anything.
There is no response.
He nearly stumbles all the way down the ladder. The smoke clears as he descends, all of it having drifted to the ceiling and out the hole. Once his foot touches floor, he swivels around, eyes darting around the gloom. This is definitely not a kitchen fire.
The table that once sat at the centre of the hideout is broken, half of the pieces feeding the flame in the far corner. At first he thinks maybe Droog finally fucking snapped and he's tearing the place apart. But that can't be it. It can't be.
And, as he discovers a moment later, it's not.
The rest of the table is wedged in his doorway, and underneath it is a shoe. A shoe attached to a a pair of pants. A pair of pants attached to a torso.
"Droog? Hey!" Slick calls out, darting over, grabbing him by the calf and sliding him out from under the ruined furniture. "Hey, come on, get up, get up. Stop— stop bleeding, what the fuck." He's not even aware of what that means. What the blood means. What the giant cut across his throat means.
He presses his palms against the cut, trying to scoop up the gore between trembling fingers and push it back in. Droog blood doesn't belong on the floor, are you fucking stupid? "Fuck, fuck, stop it. Snap out of it, you piece of shit." There's blood all over his skin, staining Droog's suit as he grabs the cloth and pulls him up, shaking him, but his neck bends in a funny way and no, this isn't fucking funny anymore. Why is it suddenly so hard to breathe?
"Droog, get up or I'll fucking kill you." Slick's left hand goes up to cup the back of his head, forcing Droog to look at him. But there's nothing. There's nothing but Droog's blank eyes staring somewhere between his shoulder and the end of eternity.
It clicks.
There's a rage building in Slick's gut that he doesn't recognize as he's holding what he now sees as a body. Not a person. Not Droog. There's betrayal there but something more, and it's overwhelming and he hates it and hates that he wasn't here and hates this dead corpse that he wants to crush between his claws but he doesn't.
He just holds it, like a child, grimacing, swearing. There's something in his eyes as he realizes this is just like the vault, with Droog holding him, saying he'll be okay, wiping the blood from his mouth. But now it's the other way around and Slick's too late.
He's too fucking late.
His metal hand reaches up, thumb trying to copy the little motion Droog always did for him. He wipes at his mouth but all it does is spread the blood even more.
"You actually made me care about you, you son of a bitch."
"How touching."
It's like razors on his spine. His entire being goes rigid. He turns, slow, full of rage, and when he meets the gaze of the green-suited brute, he spits his name.
"Matchsticks."
The Felt sneers. "In the flesh."
"But I—"
"You killed me, I know. In your past. That's my future. You should really read up on your time travelling handbook, Slick." He's much more nonchalant than Slick remembers. He's so busy glaring at the man that it takes him a second to notice that he's cleaning a bloodied knife.
Slick places Droog's body down, rising to his feet. The heat of the fire is nothing compared to the fury that envelopes him.
"You did this."
"Mhmm. And I killed the other two as well. I'm very thorough."
"Fuck you." He's already reaching into his deck of cards.
"You won't want to be doing that. You know I don't die here. And besides, I can tell you what you want to know, which is where Lord English is."
Slick, despite himself, stops what he's doing. "… What?"
Matchsticks ponders that. "Well, I can tell you where to find the man that will guide you to Lord English. Sn0wman will be there too, of course."
And then he's off, on a tangent, explaining every detail before Slick has any chance to react. When he finishes, the Crew leader is at a loss.
"… Why?"
"Why? Simple, Slick." He catches his gaze again. "Sn0wman told me to."
The world is blank as the pieces fall into place.
"Sn0wman's the one who told me to travel back and tell Droog where to meet me. I told him how to create that arm of yours. Sn0wman's the one that dropped that missing piece of your arm, which also happens to be a tracking device that led me straight to your hideout. Sn0wman's the one that said to take everyone out except you."
No.
"Face it, Slick. Sn0wman took your arm and then gave it back. It's her property."
No.
"She gave you the world, and then snatched it away, just like that."
No.
"There is no escape for you. You are her naive puppet, and you can't cut the strings because they're made of diamond thread."
Slick's polite retort is a swing of the alternate-timeline crowbar, which he'd had hidden in his war chest. There's an obvious surprise in Matchsticks's expression. He retreats towards the fire.
"Goodbye, Slick. I'll see you later. Or earlier. It all depends."
He falls back, flames licking at his suit until he completely evaporates and melds with the smoke whisping out of the hideout.
Slick is left with nothing.
The crowbar nearly bends in his grasp. So there's no longer anything in the world for him. Fine. He doesn't have anything to lose.
Matchsticks will be first. He doesn't care if it creates some time paradox. He'll beat him to death with the crowbar, extra for his Crew. For Droog. Then onto Clover. Then Lord English. He'll save Sn0wman for last.
And by last he means last. Last anything. Because it's all going down. He'll burn it.
He'll burn it all to the ground.
A/N: Hope you enjoyed! ConCrit would be fantastic~