Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

“Come the fuck on!”

Ray sighed at the yell, zipping up his well-worn hoodie and lamenting what was supposed to be a quick exit. His plan to vacate the fiery best friend's apartment was receiving the usual amount of backlash—Ray seriously considered revoking his friend card as punishment. Or maybe throwing a remote at Michael's head, whichever worked.

“You’re seriously gonna skip out on movie night again?” Michael scoffed. “It’s late as shit, fuckface. Just stay over.”

“I open the store tomorrow,” Ray shrugged, fidgeting with his black-framed glasses and fighting the yawn that threatened to spill out.

Michael groaned and rolled his eyes at the blatant dismissal, glancing over to Gavin for backup— which was purely in vain as the resident Brit wasn't paying an ounce of attention. Ray stood in the center of the living room, waiting for the auburn-haired man to stop bitching. He wanted to go home and sleep in his own bed, plus the gamer had left a pile of laundry that needed to be finished before the morning.

The nouveau riche apartment was just one of many that Michael and Gavin collectively owned; upscale, beige walls, fully furnished, cold, sleek, white marble countertops— Empty. The flat looked like it came directly out of a GoodHomes magazine, frozen in a state of readiness for tours and bids. Suffice it to say, the apartment was perfect. Ray would never tell them, but he fucking hated it.

The Puerto Rican much preferred the small hovel on the edge of the city where he lived. Sure, his place was a slightly furnished storage closet in comparison, but it was well-lived, warm, and ugly, and it felt like home. This apartment made him feel underdressed and like he should be cleaning dishes or doing other low-class, poor-person jobs. He could physically feel his credit score in this place.

“Quit. We have enough money; you can just borrow from us,” Gavin shrugged lazily, finally joining in after stretching back on the long white couch. He certainly looked comfortable, like a cat that was fat on milk and treats.

“I'm not SugarBabyRay, I don't want your guys’ money.” Ray snorted, ignoring the crawling sensation in his gut. “I'm good doing it the hard way.” Ray was perfectly content trying to fill out his bank account like a normal person—forget that he only had thirteen dollars in his checking account and four grand unpaid on his credit card.

Los Santos's minimum wage wasn't too far over the federal, and GameStop refused to pay him more than a dollar over that, even for being a key holder and such a great employee . Wow, Ray, here's an air cookie as a reward! It's just like a normal cookie but made of fucking air . He wasn't bitter or anything.

Ray tried his best not to care too much about his friends' occupations, but the life of crime gave Ray hives and made him feel just about ready to projectile vomit. Whenever Michael or Gavin spoke about their newest job or even mentioned the words heist and planning in the same sentence, Ray started to sweat, his hands got clammy, his heart rate spiked, and he felt like he would have a literal heart attack.

The certified gamer could already feel a chill going down his spine just from thinking about it. Don’t get him wrong, Ray would never rat the two out; he just couldn't do something like that himself, ya know? The life of crime just wasn't him; he was the kind of person to live a shitty everyday life and probably die of an overdose or a shooting like everyone else. Maybe he’d spice it up and get kidnapped and murdered by a trucker like the 80’s.

“Hey, who said robbing banks isn’t hard? It’s pretty fucking difficult, thank you very much,” Michael said with a wide smirk as he pointed to Ray accusingly. “Ramsey’s got us planning like crazy for this shit.” Gavin silently nodded his agreement, too enraptured in his tablet to bother responding.

“Shut up! Plausible deniability. I don’t wanna hear it!” Ray raised his voice, and if he had the energy, he would've pressed his hands over his ears and lalalalalalalala!

His stomach seized, prompting him to abscond out of the apartment as fast as possible. Ray ignored Michael’s cackling laughter in favor of slamming the heavy door shut, putting a barrier between him and the potential knowledge. His head fell back, thumping against the door as he breathed through the familiar gut-wrenching panic. He glanced around the empty white hallway, trying to find visual stimuli to ground him.

The carpet was mauve with an ugly, orange triangle pattern. The two colors would have been fine on their own, but when paired together, they made the hall look like a children's doctor's office. The walls were so perfectly white and void of signs of life, it looked like a still of a hospital. Occasionally, a random landscape painting, with the auction sticker still on the side of the frame, broke up the monotone color. Large floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking downtown Los Santos were at the end of the hallway—and oh, look at that; it's dark outside. Fuck . Ray didn’t have a car or driver's license, so he had the pleasure of walking through the most dangerous city on the West Coast at night.

For a solid minute, Ray contemplated just turning back around, tail tucked between his legs and discarding the little bit of pride he had left—uninviting apartment be damned. He knew Michael and Gavin would easily let him back in for the small payment of a lot of ribbing and teasing. The thought of hiking through Los Lantos past 10 p.m. gave the young adult a deep, sinking contending with the disgust. He could physically feel his adrenal glands pumping fight-or-flight chemicals into his bloodstream.

Ray would’ve done exactly that, retreating to the known safety of his friends, but he was on his last write-up, and he just knew that if he stayed with Michael and Gavin, he’d never get around to work in the morning.

“Fuck this,” Ray mumbled to himself and pushed off of the door and walked down the ugly hallway. “At least their complex has a working elevator,” He complained to himself, jabbing the down button.

His own apartment building’s elevator was always broken, and frankly, when it wasn’t, he didn’t trust it enough not to collapse with him in it. Ray stepped into the sleek metal lift and hit the button for the first floor. Leaning his head against the mirrored wall, Ray steeled himself for the long ride down. Michael’s apartment was on the 13th floor.

The mirror mounted in the elevator always gave Ray the creeps, and that same hideous carpet was on the ground. The building had too-bright fluorescent lights that made his temples throb, and this gaudy elevator was no exception.

Ding!

He had just begun to relax when his head snapped up, seeing floor number 12 flash on the small screen above the buttons. The young adult’s eyebrows pinched in surprise; he’d never seen another tenant of the upper floors before. Ray honestly started to think Michael and Gavin were the only ones with enough money to rent above floor 10.

The elevator doors slid open, revealing an equally surprised man with sunken brown eyes and an impressive mustache. The man wore a trim business suit, clean and freshly pressed. He even smelled expensive, with cologne wafting in after him. Ray automatically moved towards the corner, giving the man plenty of room and hoping the suit stayed far away from his hoodie-clad self. The younger male felt that empty stomach jolt of chemicals flow through his veins for what felt like the fifth time in the last hour.

Ray knew what he looked like. His worn, cheap clothes starkly contrasted with the stupid fancy brass railing he was leaning against. Ray looked like he didn’t belong anywhere near one of these expensive apartment complexes, let alone inside one. The man had a lazy smirk as he regarded Ray with a nonchalance that startled the Puerto Rican.

“Havin’ a good night?” Mustache man articulated casually.

“Huh? Oh, sure.” Ray had to clear his throat, his voice getting stuck as he avoided eye contact.

“Not tryna be a dick or whatever, but you don’t live here, do ya? The owners met everybody who rents above floor 10, and you are definitely not one of them.” The man tilted his head, looking over Ray like he was some shady ganger on the side of Downtown Boulevard.

“Uh, no, no. I have some- uh, friends who live on floor 13. I couldn’t afford a place like this,” Ray laughed nervously, staring at that stupid ugly carpet. He couldn't stand still, shifting his weight from side to side as he chewed on the inside of his cheek.

“Really? And who, exactly, are these friends of yours?” His word choice and casual stature reminded Ray of those early 2000s mob boss movies; he wouldn't be surprised if the guy suddenly started speaking in a thick New York Italian accent and threatening to smash Ray's kneecaps.

Mustache Man stopped leaning against the wall and firmly pressed the emergency stop button. Ray mentally cursed the existence of such buttons, wondering why a highrise like this had one in the first place. I mean, seriously, what point do those buttons serve other than for tormenting scrawny Puerto Ricans living in low-income housing? Maintenance? No, they should need, like, a whole-ass key system for it, not just some button any Joe Schmo fuckface McGee could press!

“I don’t think it matters, does it?” Ray swallowed and pressed on his glasses, hands twitching. “That’s weird, this is weird. Uh, I need to get home. I have work at seven, and I really can’t be late.” His chest felt like it was housing a thousand angry bees or like he chugged a thousand dollars worth of extra strong coffee.

“Yeah, no. See, I own this place, and I’m gonna need you to tell me who the fuck you are.” The man spoke like a true politician, his voice steady and unwavering, paired with expertly dramatic pauses. His words sounded more like a request than a demand, but it was still apparent that there would be consequences if the request were denied— ‘You'll be sleepin’ with tha fishes if ya don’ answah ya hear?’ Ray almost snorted at his own thoughts.

“M-uh, Vincent Jones and David Free, those are my friends who live on the 13th floor, I swear.” Ray’s eyes darted all over the elevator wall as he spoke, occasionally landing on the man interrogating him. Ray’s hands twitched for something to grab onto and defend himself with. He just wanted to magically teleport home already, why hasn't that been invented yet?

“Okay, so if I call those two bags of dicks, they’ll vouch for you?” He asked with raised eyebrows, adjusting his bowtie.

Ray nodded silently, not wanting to navigate the minefield of possibly giving away information on the two criminals. The man pulled out his phone and tapped the screen quickly, glancing between the device and Ray.

“What’s your name, kid?”

“Ray,” he said quietly, feeling like he was back in high school and being chastised by his teachers for fucking up again . Leave it to Ray, fucking up everything and not doing a goddamned thing right. Shit, if he got his friends in trouble he’d really have noone.

“Jones! Hey, buddy, you know some squirrely kid named Ray? I caught him in the elevator, leaving your floor. You know how I feel about surprises, and I don’t like the type of surprise that comes in the form of a fucking body, living or dead.” Suit guy nodded along with Michael's words, and Ray itched, desperately wanting to know what was being said. The man smiled at Ray, which did little to settle the younger’s nerves. “Uh-huh. Right, okay. Thanks, buddy.” Mustache man sighed.

Ray fidgeted with his hands, scratching at his wrist. He waited for a verdict from the man who was definitely not getting the money to own this building legally. He looked around nervously again, glancing at the mirror before cringing. The lights were too fucking bright.

“Alright, it’s your lucky day, kid; they know you. Good job not giving me their real names. If I were a Fed, you could have totally gotten them arrested or killed or whatever the fuck the feds are trying to do.” The businessman smiled warmly for the first time, the look failing to disarm Ray of his previous apprehension.

“So, am I good to go?” Ray asked, shoving his hands in his pockets. His wrists were scratched raw and red.

“Sure, sure… Hey, what do you know about those two dickheads, their employment and shit?” He asked casually, sliding his hands in his pants pockets to mimic Ray.

“Uh, I’m pretty sure that’s one of those things I’m not supposed to say. What if you’re a Fed,” Ray countered.

The man snorted and nodded approvingly. “I like you, Ray. You’re spunky. I‘ve got room in the crew if you’re looking for a new job. You already know moron number one and two, and of course, now me; call me Ramsey,” he said, holding out a tattooed hand for Ray to shake.

“No thanks— wait, Geoff Ramsey? As in bank robbery, Ramsey? Like the Fake AH Crew Ramsey?” Ray’s eyes once again went wide as he word vomited in surprise.

“Ah, so they have told you.” Geoff raised his eyebrows and crossed his arms.

“No, well, I mean, yes? Uh, not- not really. I try not to listen, but they aren’t exactly fucking quiet,” Ray admits, scratching the back of his neck and avoiding eye contact. He’s heard far too much about the crew and their newest plans to rob Suntrust.

“You sure you don’t want a job?”

“Definitely sure. I won’t say anything. You can ask Michael and Gavin. I’m trustworthy, but I can’t do that shit, and I really do have work in the morning,” Ray sighed, his shoulders slumping. He just wanted to teleport home, wrap up in his blankets, and forget this conversation.

“‘Course you can! You think any of us just woke up one day and thought, hey lets rob a bank! Nah, we got fucked over, and if you’re friends with those two dickheads, that means you prolly got fucked over too, so why not?”

“I really can’t, I have to go, I have-”

“Work, yeah, yeah. Fine, but if I find out that any of my guys are compromised or my heist gets fucked… I will find you, and you will wish you were—” Geoff’s mob boss threat was conveniently cut off by the sound of Barbie Girl by Aqua.

With a sigh, Geoff whipped out his phone and answered it, hitting the button to restart the elevator as well, “Dickface, I was in the middle of threatening Michael and Gavin’s little civvie friend who knows too much. No, no, you don’t need to do anything, he’s fine, he won’t squeal.” Ramsey looked pointedly at Ray.

“The meetup has changed? Why? No, no, you tell that rat fucking bastard that if he wants to cheat me out of my money, I will get the fucking Vagabond on his stupid flat fucking ass, got it? Thank you. I’ll see you shortly,” Geoff hangs up the phone with a roll of his eyes and a ‘what can ya do.’

The rest of the elevator ride is spent in awkward silence while Ray tries his best to keep his breathing even, and Geoff scrolls on his phone, occasionally laughing at some stupid meme. As anxiety-inducing as it was, the conversation frustrated Ray. Why couldn't they just leave him alone about this shit? He doesn't wanna rob banks. Eventually, the ride comes to an end, and Ray scurries out of the suffocating metal box and walks down the street away from the building, Geoff, and the reminder of his friends’ real occupations.

Four days. Four fucking days. Four blissful, normal, crime-free days. Ray was slumped on the GameStop counter, his fingers deftly flicking and clicking on his Nintendo Switch. The store was empty, as it typically was on a weekday. Ray hadn't seen a single person, let alone a paying customer, since 2:34. It was currently 7:15 and nearing close.

The second the door chimed, Ray whipped his head up, hit the save button, locked his device, and tucked it behind the counter. He was a gamer with damn good reflexes. He also didn't want to listen to a customer complaining that he was sitting around gaming while doing nothing in an empty gaming store. That would just be horrible!

“Welcome to Gamestop. How can I- Gavin?” Ray began his usual boring spiel before recognizing the beat-up man limping toward him. His eyes widened as he took in his English companion's injuries; Ray quickly rushed around the counter. Blood was pouring from Gavin's crooked nose, and his right eye was bruised and swollen. The green-eyed lad had a split lip, and Gods knew what else. “What the fuck happened?” Ray asked as he grabbed Gavin's arm and helped the bloody criminal over to the employee bathroom, where the dingy, out-of-date first aid kit sat under the sink.

“We got a bit banged up this time,” Gavin laughed weakly. Ray fussed over his friend, grabbing a few paper towels from the dispenser and wetting them lightly under the sink. The Puerto Rican's hands were steady as he breathed through his panic. The damp paper towels helped clear Gavin of most of the crusted blood that covered his various injuries, but they didn’t help the panic and pain. Ray did his best to avoid asking any questions. He felt sick and angry as he categorized all of Gavin’s injuries. Ray had never craved weed more in his entire life, but he needed to get a grip, who else was hurt?

“Gavin, where’s—” Before Ray could finish, he heard the door chime again, causing cold dread to flood his body. “Wait here and be quiet.” Ray threw away the soiled paper and steeled himself to calmly walk out of the bathroom. “Welcome to Gamestop. How can I help you today?” Ray plastered on a smile as his fingers twitched for something to protect Gavin with. He wasn’t sure what he expected. LSPD? Feds? Rival gangsters? Maybe another more horrifying option was waiting to take Ray’s friend away from him. Ray wouldn’t let anything happen to the idiot.

A man stood in the middle of the tiny store, dressed in blood-soaked black leather and a skull mask. Ray froze, staring at the man in silence. Ray’s no stranger to fear. He’s used to it by now. He’s intimate with the slow, cold spread of chemicals rushing through his organs into his bloodstream— it’s happened near constantly the past week. He knows the pins and needles, numbness that covers his fingertips as dizziness sets in. He’s comfortable with the wheezing, chest heaving hyperventilation that accompanies it. Ray is familiar with the fuzzy inkiness that coagulates from the edges of his vision. Ray expected the dread to become ice-cold fear in an instant, but that wasn’t the case.

“Uh. We have a sign on the door, no full face coverings allowed,” Ray said as calmly as he could.

The man, The Vagabond, tilted his head slowly and squared his shoulders. Ray thought he saw his eyes widen slightly through the black eyeshadow—or face paint? Black grease face paint. The Vagabond is an infamous hitman and mercenary wanted by the FIB for years now. Ray had watched, one late night, as the Vagabond led a high-speed chase through the city, collecting helicopters like ravenous fans. He had a rocket launcher, and it was kind of awesome. His apartment was close enough to the highway that he’d felt the tremors of explosions.

Ray's conversation with Ramsey days ago suddenly flashed in his head.

“Are you chill with the Fakes?” Ray blurted out, clenching his hands into fists.

The Vagabond simply nodded his head, watching Ray silently.

“Uh, wait here, shit.” Ray walked back to the employee bathroom where Gavin was pouting out his swollen lip and trying to prod it with another paper towel. “Gavin, the Vagabond is here,” Ray said with a rush of breath.

“Vaggy? Oh sweet! That means everyone else prolly made it out, too. Vaggy! Come back ‘ere! Ray’s top, I promise!” Gavin suddenly yelled out with a smile, pulling more blood from his lip.

Ray turned around, only to be right up against the Vagabond's broad chest. The masked mercenary seemed to sigh exasperatedly and shake his head at the crumpled Brit. He held a cell phone to the lad, brushing his arm past Ray. Gavin scrambled up to grab the phone and press it to his ear, nearly slipping and braining himself on the sink.

“Mi’coo?” Ray watched with pinched eyebrows as the tension slowly bled from the Brit. Gavin was happy to see Vagabond, but now he was relaxed and content with the phone. “Yeah, I’m with X-Ray right now and Vaggy. Yeah, it gave ‘im a bit of a fright. No civvies saw me. Well, yeah, no. No, he seems fine. Vaggy isn't disappeared, so I assume he’s tip-top, too. Yeah, Vaggy’ll take me to the penthouse. Alright, Love you, boi.” Gavin sighed and smiled thankfully at the masked killer.

“Everyone else okay?” Ray asked, his curiosity getting the better of him.

“All good. I got the most hurt, I guess,” Gavin laughed sheepishly and scratched the back of his neck. Ray nodded as relief flooded his body. The civilian felt a hand on his shoulder and realized he’d somehow relaxed with The Vagabond at his back.

“Do you, like, not talk or something?” Ray asked before his brain could catch up. Ray saw the killer’s shoulders shake slightly and his icy blue eyes scrunch. The Vagabond was laughing. Ray couldn’t help but smirk a bit. He actually made a psycho-contract-killer laugh. Heh, cool. 

Ray watched the two criminals meander out of his store and pile into a sleek black car worth ten times more than Ray's crumbling apartment in Downtown Los Santos. He promptly decided fuck this and closed the store down early. The other two pulled away presumably towards the penthouse.

Ray felt his body sag against the counter as the stress slowly bled from him.

“Holy shit, that was the Vagabond.”

Chapter Text

Ray sat on the floor playing his Switch as Gavin complained from his spot on the plush couch. The Puerto Rican was babysitting the Brit while Michael was out doing… business . Ray turned his brown eyes to Gavin, pouting at the large TV. The criminal was covered in mottled blue-green bruises, his wrist in a thick cast. His lip had mostly healed, but the rest of him was still rather injured. Ray rolled his eyes at the other’s grumbling.

“X-Ray? Can you get me a wo’er?” Gavin sighed for what Ray thought was the millionth time that night. He was surprised the green-eyed lad hadn't sucked in all the oxygen from the room; he was that dramatic.

“Get it yourself,” Ray said as he stood up and walked into the kitchenette to grab his friend the water. He was an asshole, sure, but not like an asshole .

“You're the right best.” Gavin beamed, making grabby hands for the chilled liquid.

“Yeah, yeah.” Ray tried to ignore the pounding in his temples, his eyes straining from the force of being awake for too long, staring at screens. Ray casually tossed the bottle at the injured Brit, landing with a thump in his lap. The gamer had been prepared to laugh at Gavin’s usual squawking, but what followed was a guilty look and deflated shoulders. Ray stood in front of the couch, waffling between sitting back on the floor and asking if Gav was okay.

“Hey Ray? Thanks for um, y’know being here for m–” Gavin started what was likely to be a mushy conversation that made Ray almost as uncomfortable as the apartment itself.

They were interrupted by the front door banging against the wall, causing the injured man to let out a very bird-like squawk and flail his arms. Ray flinched, whipping around and grabbing the knife he’d found stuck between the couch cushions earlier that day, the flick of it opening sending tingles down his spine. Michael barrelled into the apartment like a bat out of hell. The front door was still swinging when the Jersey man froze, his eyebrows raising as his eyes slowly traced towards the sharp blade in Ray's grip. The youngest lad’s heart was pounding in his ears as he felt his adrenaline plummet. A whistle broke Ray from his stupor, dropping the knife like hot coals.

“Are you sure this kid wants to stay away from our line of work?” Geoff Ramsey asked, arms crossed and eyebrows raised. The man wasn’t in his usual suit, opting for more comfortable clothes for this visit.

The Vagabond nodded slowly, staring at Ray with that same intensity from the other day.

“Don't be ridiculous,” A curly-haired woman wearing a Hawaiian shirt smacked the back of Geoff's head.

“Hey,” Geoff yelped as he raised a hand to cover the spot she’d hit.

“The fuck were you gonna do with that? I have a gun,” Michael chuckled stiffly, his eyebrows scrunching with an emotion Ray refused to define.

“Micoo!” Gavin cheered, throwing his lanky limbs out in an awkward ‘dead bug’ pose. Gavin was giddy with the assumption that he was being saved from the evil clutches of boredom and thrown water bottles. Ray’s ears rang, and his vision swam as he watched Michael walk up to Gavin with a smirk before whacking him on the head. Gavin let out another bird-like squawk, “Oi, don’t hurt the goods!”

“Yeah, ya might make him dumber than he already is!” Geoff and Jack both laughed raucously.

Motion in the corner of his eye caught Ray's attention. The Vagabond had crouched down to pick up the matte black knife the gamer had dropped. Ray’s head stayed angled down– the beige rug looked almost as if it were shifting closer and further away in undulating motions over the dark brown hardwood. Ray’s gut roiled with disgust and self-hatred as his eyes tracked the knife.

The masked mercenary stood up and tilted his head, looking between the knife and Ray. He flicked open the blade, his ice-blue eyes focussed on the lad’s brown ones. He expertly tossed the blade into the air, letting it flip this way and that before catching it mid-spin out of the air. The knife wasn’t particularly large, but it was curved, serrated, and incredibly sharp. Ray had a well of blood on his thumb to prove it. The Vagabond flipped it again, before holding it, blade pointed inward, towards the civilian.

Ray swallowed around the lump in his throat. The Vagabond’s silent, cold demeanor made Ray think of bloodlust radiating from a boss in a souls-like game. The man was built , and Ray definitely didn't have a dream two nights ago starring the masked murderer and his broad shoulders—nope. Ray snapped out of it, taking the knife automatically before scrunching his eyebrows.

“This isn't mine.” He shook his head. “I found it on the couch.”

“Huh? Oh hey, that's where that went. This one is Vags. Just take it; if the big man over here wants you to have it, just take it,” Jack, the curly-haired Hawaiian shirt wearer, said with a secretive smile on her face.

“Oh…Kay?” Ray trailed off, closing the knife and slipping it into his pocket. The Vagabond turned and silently walked away, leaving Ray alone with Jack.

The gamer was quickly feeling the room close in on him with so many unfamiliar people around. He was tired and needed a shower; he’d already taken one that morning, but standing in a room alone surrounded by cascading hot water and steam sounded so good. Ray found himself staring at the Vagabonds leather jacket again before a voice brought him out of his thoughts.

“Hey Ray, you sticking around for game night?” Michael called out from his lounging position on the couch, the fiery man's arm resting on the back behind Gavin.

“Sure, I’ll kick your asses in a few games,” Ray smiled at the image in front of him.

“Oh, ho, ho! Somebody's confident,” Geoff laughed.

“Nooooo, now I’ll have to listen to Geoffrey whine about losing all night,” Gavin complained as the others laughed.

Game night had lasted around four and a half hours before Jack and Geoff eventually tapped out. The Vagabond was nowhere to be seen, though he did play a few rounds against Ray while the others cheered them on, picking sides and placing bets. 

Ray was still playing away. A controller gripped in his hands as his eyes tracked over quick movements, the light of the TV flashing in his eyes. A giggle caught his attention, and the 19-year-old glanced over his shoulder, seeing his two closest friends pressed up against each other's sides on the couch. Michael whispered something to Gavin, the source of the giggling. Ray saved and closed the game with a sigh, deciding to go before things got awkward.

Stepping into the elevator, Ray paused, his hand hovering over the lobby button. He took a deep breath, trying to calm his heart as it began to pound wildly in his chest. All of the thoughts that Ray had been avoiding that day came rushing back, adding pressure to his lungs; he’d rather go without.

What was he doing in a place like this?

Ray didn't belong in these kinds of rich buildings.

His breath came in quick pants as the elevator walls began to close in.

He’s nothing but a pathetic adult still acting like a kid. He needed to get his shit together.

What a miserable waste of oxygen–

Ray squeezed his eyes shut and wiped a hand over his face, pulling off his glasses as his body trembled.

“Fuck this,” He huffed and jabbed at the lobby button before sagging back against the wall and replacing his glasses. Ray shook his head, trying to dislodge the mounting thoughts oppressing him. After an eternity, the elevator doors opened, revealing the same normal, pristine lobby Ray refused to get used to.

The gamer quickly shoved his hands into his hoodie pockets and fast walked out of the building, down the dark streets of Los Santos. It was daunting. Just how quickly one could go from viewing luxury to squalor in the city. He was hardly three streets into his walk home, Ray had already passed by five drug deals. 

He knew his luck would run out one day. He wasn't in a videogame where he could just go back a save any time the program gave him a random negative event to overcome. This was really life, he couldn't pause it or fast travel past the dangerous mob spawns, he'd have to face the fucking music eventually.

When the sound of footsteps began to follow him, he didn't feel an ounce of anxiety. Ray was calm– a direct paradox to his earlier panic from being in a fancy elevator. Ray scoffed at his own thoughts. The man sighed, deciding not to dwell on his emotions or lack thereof. Were Gavin and Michael's jobs finally rubbing off on him?

A crunch behind him reminded Ray that he was indeed still being followed. A subtle glance in a storefront window showed a hunched figure dressed in black, similar to one of the drug dealers he’d passed by. Ray took a deep breath and quickened his pace, trying to outwalk his pursuer.

Rather than fearful, Ray was annoyed. He just wanted to go home. He didn't have time for this bullshit, he didn't have the capacity to deal with it. He had laundry to do and he needed a shower. He wanted to curl up under the blankets and play his Switch until he couldn't keep his eyes open.

Ray turned down a side street, hoping to lose the man while turning corners. The streets of Los Santos became darker and danker the further away you went from the heart of the city. The streets were the veins taking commuters and criminals to whichever bloody destination they needed. This side street, in particular, was deserted, with cold air pushing trash around Ray’s feet as he stepped. He and his pursuer were the only living movement besides a Cat that chased its mousey prize toward a storm drain.

The man suddenly grabbed Ray's shoulder, yanking him back. Ray let out a surprised yell that he cut short as he whipped around, looking the other man in his eyes. The man's eyes were wide, his pupils blown so wide Ray couldn't tell what color his irises were. The Puerto Rican felt a spark of his usual fear lighting a fire in his gut as the dealer pulled a long knife out of his jacket.

The man wasn't following Ray to rob the gamer. He was likely too high to understand his own motives.

“Who’d you fuckin’ tell, huh?” The man yelled.

“What?” Ray stumbled back, confusion lacing his features.

“You a cop or somethin’? Huh? You got a voice or what? fuckin’ answer me!” The man yelled, the hand holding the knife twitching and convulsing slightly.

“Dude, I have no idea what the hell you're talking about. I’m just trying to walk home.” Ray shook his head, annoyed.

The man kept mumbling nonsense to Ray, his eyes darting back and forth as they stepped down the road. The man's jaw was clenched so hard Ray was surprised his teeth hadn't chipped. The guy kept repeating over and over that Ray would pay for telling them. Who they were, Ray had no idea.

“Come on, man, I’m not gonna say shit. Just leave me alone,” Ray said, feeling hair raising nervousness creep up his throat.

The man stepped forward. Ray stepped back. The knife glinted in the moonlight as Ray felt his annoyance and frustration combine with the fear that had returned.

The next few minutes happened in a blur.

The man lunged with the knife aimed for Ray. Ray jumped back, stumbling onto his ass. The man pounced on Ray, slicing the knife and cutting deep into Ray's arm.

Ray grappled for the man's knife, rolling them to sit on the man's chest. The man threw Ray off, the knife sliding away as he jumped on Ray again.

The man's hands wrapped around Ray's throat. His fingers digging into Ray's skin. Ray couldn't breathe. He couldn't breathe . He was so tired and annoyed and frustrated and he was damn well pissed the fuck off. 

Why him? Why couldn't Ray just have a normal night where something didn't go horribly wrong? Why does this have to happen to him?

Ray felt his fingers going numb as his vision started to fade out. He kicked and writhed under the man's assault. Ray scrambled for purchase against something, anything. He felt something metal on the concrete next to him. That black knife the Vagabond had let the gamer keep. It'd fallen from his pocket at some point during the scuffle.

Ray gripped the folded blade and pressed the release, feeling it open with a resounding thwick. If everything didn't sound like it was under water, Ray would've heard the footsteps approaching. But he didn't.

Ray had never known how easy skin could part under steel. He’s never been depressed enough to do it to himself, sticking to drowning his sorrows in video games and verbal self hatred. He was no stranger to violence, but he only knew fists and blunt objects against body and bone. The Vagabond’s knife was sharp. Too sharp pressed forward with too much force.

The animalistic drive to survive often pushed ordinary people into unordinary actions. And it was red—so much red. Ray wheezed as if he were the one being stabbed, his eyes wide under his skewed glasses, his hands stained with the red.

Ray pushed the man off of him. The intoxicated man didn't die immediately– this wasn't a movie or a game. The man whined, curling up on the ground as he bled, the drug-induced fight draining out of him. Ray stared in horror as he scrambled to his feet, knife still in hand.

“Shit… Shit, shit, shit!” Ray pocketed the knife, and with shaking hands, he pulled out his phone. He tried unlocking it, but between the shaking, the slippery blood, and the stinging of his eyes, Ray ended up locking himself out.

He stumbled back and felt something warm press up against him from behind, a long drawn out sigh thundering in Ray's ears. His fight or flight flared up again, the gamer tried to run only for gloved hands to grip his hips and pull him back. Ray froze, deer in headlights, as the newcomer spun him around. He recognized the broad shoulders and wide chest that a black and blue leather jacket clung to. A familiar skull mask and blue eyes filled his vision. The Vagabond.

The notorious hitman stared deeply at Ray, assessing the shorter man's face for a solid minute before pulling away. The Vagabond dropped his hands from the younger and stepped around him, looking down at the man bleeding out on the street. Skull Mask tilted his head at Ray, glancing between the body and the Puerto Rican.

“He uh attacked me,” Ray got out between shivers and deep breaths.

The Vagabond nodded silently. He gingerly grabbed Ray's arm, pulling it up to inspect the damage. Ray hadn't even realized he’d been bleeding himself– a long gash down his forearm that was steadily leaking red. Ray hissed on an intake of sharp air as the Vagabond poked at the wound. Ray watched as the larger man's shoulders rose and fell dramatically. Eyes bluer than the deep ocean stared into cinnamon Brown. Skull Mask pulled out his phone and tapped away before holding the device toward Ray.

“Wh- huh?” Ray stammered, confused.

“Hello? Vagabond, this is freaky. You've never called before. Where's the cleanup location?” A nasally, New England voice answered.

“Uh, I-I’m not the Vagabond. He called you and handed me the phone,” Ray said awkwardly.

The Vagabond pointed at a street sign and then at the man, still alive but bleeding sluggishly on the ground.

“Whoah,” Mr. New England said under his breath, just loud enough for Ray to hear.

“Uhh, we’re on 5th Avenue. There's a man who- should I say that?” Ray turned to the Vagabond with worried eyebrows. The Vagabond nodded. “There's a guy bleeding out.”

“He’s still alive? Kid, this is for body disposal, not a rescue.”

Ray nodded at the words, understanding what Vagabond was doing for him. “Yeah, he uh… he won't be when you get here, I think.”

“On our way, dunno who you are, but V’s never called in for someone else before, so… take that as you will. This is fuckin’ weird.” The line went dead. Ray gingerly handed the phone back to the leather clad man.

With swift efficiency, the infamous masked man pulls his own knife, stepping closer to the drugged out guy– Ray looks away, feeling nauseous. The Vagabond grabbed Ray’s arm and guided him away from the scene.

Ray allowed himself to be dragged down the street, knowing that even if he wanted, he wouldn't be able to escape the Vagabond.

Chapter Text

Ray sat on the kitchen counter surrounded by medical supplies as the Vagabond cleaned the gash in his arm. Ray’s glassy, unfocussed gaze flitted over his favorite purple jacket, which lay bloody and torn in a bag destined for a burn pit somewhere. His lived-in apartment usually held enough safety to relax the gamer, but that wasn’t the case tonight. Ray felt like he was moving in slow motion while the world ran in fast forward around him. Every time he blinked, something in the Vagabond’s movements changed, alerting him that time had passed.
Ray glanced down at his arm held gingerly in the Vagabond’s gloved hands. The mercenary worked diligently and carefully on the injury; when Ray winced, the masked killer took care to pause, slow, and soften his touch. He gently placed butterfly stitches over Ray's wound before wrapping it and pinning the white medical cloth together. The killer's ice-blue eyes flicked up occasionally into Ray's brown ones, reddened and misty as Ray stared, unseeing.

Ray sucked in a sharp breath as the world stopped marathoning past him. He moved his jaw and felt his ears pop like he was driving up Mount Chiliad. The mad mercenary had long since finished cleaning and dressing Ray’s wound. However, he had stuck silently to the younger’s side, looking down at his phone and leaning against Ray’s legs.

The heat of the Vagabond's body was what brought Ray back to reality. The man's weight pressing down on his calves as he sat on the kitchen island. Ray’s bowling ball heavy head fell to the side, observing the space. His kitchen wasn't messy, but it certainly wasn't clean, either. Unpaid overdue bills were piled on the counter, along with bags of half-eaten expired chips. He suddenly felt embarrassed by the mess.

“Please don't tell Michael and Gavin about this,” Ray intoned sluggishly.

He didn't know which part he was referring to, the murder or the mess? Eh, both. He figured the Vagabond would either keep his secret or Ray would just leave Los Santos and hide in New York or something. The gamer had hope that the mercenary wouldn't spill his secret.

The Vagabond sighed and tilted his head, his eyes squinting slightly as he watched the younger male. Ray bit the edge of his lip and pushed his glasses back on. How they didn't break in all that scuffle was a miracle in and of itself. As feeling returned to his body, so did emotion and the intense sense of awkwardness that permeated the air.

“Uh, do you want something to drink?” The question was stilted and clumsy. “Is that- is that what people usually offer their body disposal helpers or whatever?” Ray laughed humorlessly and adjusted his glasses for a second time.

Vagabond's shoulders trembled before he shook his head, his crystal blue eyes sparkling mirthfully. Before Ray could stop him, the larger man turned and opened the off-white fridge, revealing the whole lotta nothing available to drink… or eat. Ray felt heat rush to his face as his eyes closed against the harsh reality. Vagabond turned to glance over his shoulder, eyebrows raised in that ‘you're joking’ Kinda way.

Ray sighed and shrugged overly casually. “Guess I forgot to go grocery shopping this week.”

Vagabond took a deep breath and slowly closed the fridge door before turning to the cabinets. Ray wanted to run away and never show his face again. He wanted to walk into his bedroom, lay down, and just forget that this whole day— hell, this entire week had happened. The fucking cabinets were empty. Vagabond turned and stared at him. There were no words, raised eyebrows, or even a sigh this time. Just those blue-blue eyes peering into the darkest depths of Ray's soul. The Puerto Rican wanted to fall into his bed and never wake up, it’d be so much easier.

After what felt like an eternity of scrutiny, the Vagabond finally averted his harsh gaze, choosing to inflict his eyes upon his phone instead. He tried tapping on the screen to no avail before heaving a frustrated sigh and taking off his leather gloves. He casually tossed them onto the counter beside Ray and resumed tapping and swiping.

Ray really shouldn't be freaking out about this. All that the mercenary did was remove his damned gloves. Ray's eyes feasted on the new details, drinking them down like ambrosia. The Vagabond’s hands were calloused, pink skin a bit raw from the confinement of the leather. The younger man found himself memorizing the dips and scars on his knuckles and the way that blue veins protrude through his skin.

He was utterly transfixed. Ray almost flinched when Vagabond shoved the phone into Ray's view. Instacart. The fucking Vagabond was buying him groceries. Ray wished he didn't fight against that fucking crackhead and just let him kill him. It'd be way easier than this shit. Was that fucked up? Ray couldn't bring himself to think on that—not now. Vagabond’s skull mask stared at him blankly, daring Ray to take the offer and admit he was helpless.

Ray swallowed, staring at the cracked screen of the mercenary’s phone. It was tempting—being able to solve all of his problems with the click of a button and blood money. Ray’s rent took most of his income. He had no savings, so most of his purchases went to a constantly nearly maxed-out credit card. Ignore the phone calls begging his bank to give him another extension. His phone bill wasn’t typically all that much, but he had to buy a new one two weeks ago after Gavin accidentally threw it into a wall. Michael had offered to pay for a replacement, but…

Ray felt like he was suffocating, all the air in his lungs being stolen by some unknown alien entity sucking away his life force like some shitty 90’s Sci Fi. His nerves felt like they were on fire, the pain in his arm dulled by the raging flame in his gut and the vicious need to disappear. He was so pathetic.

“I don't need your charity,” Ray grunted, hopping down from the counter and escaping into his bedroom.

Vagabond followed the shorter man to his room, tapping rapidly on his phone in his usual silent manner. Ray chose to ignore him. The criminal rolled his eyes and pocketed his device, leaning against the door frame and watching the gamer search his dresser. Ray felt his chest rise and fall in quick puffs as he slammed the drawer shut, not finding a good enough replacement for the clothes lost to Vagabond's trash bag. Ray waffled between tasks for a few moments, wanting, needing comfy clothes but not seeing any that were the right ones. The brown eyed man opened and shut the drawers about five times before letting out a frustrated groan. Ray slid under the thick covers and threw his glasses onto the small table covered in cups and bowls, turning over to ignore the sight of the criminal standing in his doorway.

Ray was done with today. He was tired and embarrassed and way too fucking wired after literally killing someone . It was self-defense, but fuck, he hurt someone. A man is dead because of Ray . Someone's son, brother, husband, maybe even father. He'll never have the chance to go to rehab and get clean. Ray stole that from him and then complained about someone trying to buy him groceries— how fucking pathetic.

Ray curled up on his side, feeling his wide eyes sting as his breath came in short pants. He shoved his face against the mattress and sobbed into his blanket. His head was filled with self hatred, his brain fuzzy with the overencumbrance of anxiety and depression. The bed dipped. A strong, calloused hand ran through his hair. Ray just kept crying; all of his emotions from the past week became too much to dam, pouring like a river from his eyes. He didn’t understand why the Vagabond decided to help him in the first place, let alone why the man was still here offering comfort.

Eventually, the bone-deep exhaustion caught up to Ray, sending him into a dreamless sleep. Before Ray knew it, he was opening his eyes to fresh daylight and a throbbing headache; he must have cried all the salt out of his body, leaving him dehydrated and lacking electrolytes. He groaned and sat up, eyes bleary and sleep crusted. Soft morning light filtered into his room through the blinds, washing him in hues of red and orange, too bright for his sensitive pupils.

He patted the bedside table, grabbing for his glasses before freezing. His fingers brushed the edge of his glasses—only his glasses. Ray's eyes shot open as he turned, seeing the suspicious lack of dishes that had been piling up. Ray shoved the frames onto his face and turned to see that the other side table had also been cleared of trash and dishes. Two blue pills and a grape Pedialyte sat innocently on the cleared surface. Ray wanted to scream. He sighed and grabbed the pills, swallowing them with a wince. His throat was scratchy and raw from his night of shame.

Looking around his room, Ray felt indignation take root in his gut. The piles of clothes and stuff were all gone. His entertainment shelf was neatly organized with what had once covered the carpet. Neat groupings of stuff, books, knickknacks that he’d forgotten existed. Ray took a deep breath and slipped out of bed, padding out of his room to see if the rest of his apartment had been tampered with.

The entire apartment was clean—cleaner than when he first moved in. Fresh detergent and dryer sheets sat mockingly on his in-unit laundry. The living room was organized. Ray felt his blood run hot as he stomped into the kitchen. The downstairs neighbors were sure to complain, but he couldn't bring himself to care. The stove had been cleaned. Ray felt his eye twitch as he opened the fridge.

“He did fucking not.” Ray slid down the island wall and sat on the floor. His fridge was fully stocked. Eggs, milk, butter, fruits, vegetables. Fucking prepackaged quick-heat meals. Ray had never seen the fridge so full before. How the fuck did the Vagabond expect him to eat all this junk?

“I'm gonna fucking ki-” Ray took in a sharp breath and let out a single laugh. “Fuck.”

The gamer couldn’t stand being indebted to other people; it made him feel weak. He couldn't stand the thought of using other people for his own gain, no matter if they offered the help willingly. He could practically hear his dad explaining how he never needed help like that, so why does Ray? Why can’t Ray be a fucking man and do it himself, work those extra hours, and make it happen?

Ray tried to feel grateful, he really did—but the Vagabond touched his stuff. He’d moved everything around, and now Ray didn't know up from down. His carefully crafted doom piles were methodically cleaned, and his system destroyed. Ray sat on the floor and kicked the fridge closed before letting his head fall back onto the cabinet.

He tried to go back to normal. He tried to forget about the Vagabond’s charity. He returned to his mind-numbing job at GameStop and continued the closing shifts since the three other cashiers refused. He tried to forget about that man. Ray wasn’t scared about the LSPD knocking on his door; he knew better than that— the vagabond was incredibly resourceful, and his bodies were only found if he wanted them to be. Everyone who lived in Los Santos knew this to be true.

Despite the fear the knife instilled in him, Ray kept it safely secured in the winter coat that mysteriously showed up at his doorstep. The gifts kept coming like dead rats from a cat. Every few days, Ray would go to leave his apartment and stumble over a package or two, making his eyes twitch in irritation. At first, Ray refused to open the boxes until groceries appeared alongside them. The thought of wasting perishables made Ray recoil in guilt.

The first few packages were new hoodies to replace his lost one—the same color but thicker and of higher quality, which Ray was terrified to google the price for. They still weren't the right ones though. The next set of boxes had discs of games and movies similar to what Ray already had on his shelves. Those almost made Ray laugh; I mean, who buys physical discs anymore?

Ray sighed and rubbed his eyes blearily as he walked up the stairs to his apartment. One of his coworkers called out two days in a row, so he opened and closed the store. Fun fact: People only legally needed one day off a week and one unpaid thirty-minute break every eight hours of consecutive work. GameStop wasn’t exactly busy, but standing with nothing for eight hours straight was somehow more exhausting than if he were actively moving and doing.

He was fucking tired. Ray turned the corner into the hall and sighed, pressing his hands to his face and groaning. In front of his door was a week's worth of groceries that he would now have to spend time putting away. He just wanted to come home and pass out; he barely had the energy to game anymore. The effort it took to turn on his Xbox multiplied exponentially in the past few days, and Ray just couldn’t bring himself to text the lads back. Unread texts glared at him from his home screen; that tiny red number grew along with his shame.

Ray unlocked his door and dragged the bags in, putting what needed to be in the freezer in that bottom drawer and the rest in the fridge. He collapsed face-first onto his couch and turned on the TV. The news flashed another Fake AH Heist. Security cameras had caught the Vagabond strutting through a hallway, holding a semiautomatic pistol. The gamer rolled his eyes at the reporter's dramatics, describing him as a ruthless, bloodthirsty maniac. The dude bought Ray groceries and goodies once a week.

Ray felt his phone vibrate and brought it up to his face. His glasses were pressed awkwardly into his cheek from the couch, but he could still make out Michael's name on the caller ID.

“Hey bitch, are you done ignoring us,” the criminal's boisterous voice called out loud into the phone. “Gavin wanted to—”

“Is the Vagabond there?” Ray cut him off.

“What?” Michael laughed. “He’s asking for Vagabitch,” Michael’s voice was quieter, probably facing away from the phone as he spoke. “Whoa hey! That's my phone asshole!”

The following silence clued Ray into who had taken the device from the Jersey man.

“Stop with the fucking handouts, man. I just wanna come home from work and sleep. Not put a mountain of fucking groceries away.”

Silence. Ray didn’t know what he expected, so he hung up. His point had been made. The following week, Ray got home, feeling just as dead inside and avoiding Michael’s questioning text messages and Gavin’s begging for a game night. Ray paused habitually and glanced down, freezing as he took in the lack of boxes or bags cluttering his doorstep.

The man almost felt disappointed that the Vagabond had finally listened to him. Why the masked mercenary felt the need to dump food on him would forever remain a mystery. Ray walked in and face-planted onto his couch just as he had the day before, and the day before that, and the day before that, and the week before that, and—you get it. The nights were quickly blending together.

He sighed as his stomach growled, having skipped breakfast and lunch. When was the last time he ate? What day was it again? He’d eaten the last of the quick meals on Tuesday. Ray clicked on his phone and cringed at the brightness. It was Thursday.

Ray groaned and grumbled as he dragged himself off the couch and into the messy kitchen, searching for leftovers he knew he didn’t have. The door swung open to reveal a fridge stocked with food that Ray had no recollection of putting away. Typically, Ray would just shove everything into the refrigerator still in their bags, not caring if cereal or other non-fridge items ended up inside. But the fridge was organized perfectly, rows of food items meticulously placed in order by size and some other grouping the brown-eyed man couldn't understand.

He slammed the door closed and took a deep breath before walking to his bedroom and going to sleep, his appetite gone. He didn’t care the Vagabond had somehow broken into his apartment, but now he was even putting the groceries away for Ray. The brown eyed man became suddenly very happy his father wasn’t around to see how pathetic he must be for a psychopathic mercenary to do his house chores. Ugh.

Ray felt like trash—pure, unadulterated trash—the kind you’d see sludging down a storm drain after a heavy rainfall cleared out the streets. Ray’s atoms were tired. He wanted to just spontaneously combust, but even death sounded like too big of an effort. He couldn't sleep for longer than three to four hours a night; the sound of tortured wheezing and the image of blood kept his eyes wide open. If Ray believed in hell, this would be it.

The gamer leaned on the cashier's counter and stared at the black screen of his switch. It was a habit to bring the mini console, but he hadn’t played it in days. He turned it on a few times during his shift only to watch as it blinked into sleep mode. None of the games caught his attention. Ray was still avoiding Michael and Gavin. He was terrified they’d take one look at him and just know . Ray felt unclean in a way no shower would satisfy. He was pretty sure Vagabond had been checking on him, but the only evidence he had was the hairstanding feeling of being watched and the groceries in his fridge.

A chime sounded out from the glass doors at the front of the GameStop. Ray’s usually quick response was sluggish and robotic. Before the lad could even properly raise his head and greet the customer, there was a gun shoved into his face. Ray wanted to weep. Not from fear but the genuine bone-deep annoyance this situation caused.

“Dude, this is a GameStop, how much money do you think we have?” Ray broke the silence, taking in the small group.

There were three of them wearing yellow bandanas, which almost made Ray chuckle. Banana bandanas would be a funny name for a gang. The heavy-set man in front of Ray glared and shoved the gun against his cheek.

“Shut the fuck up wise guy and put the fucking money in the bag!”

Ray flinched as the cold metal bit into his face. Self-preservation finally kicked in, and the gamer raised his hands. He stepped over to the register and typed his employee number onto the touchscreen. As depressed as he’d been feeling, he didn’t actually want to die. His heart pounded in his chest, and he could feel the blood rush through his veins.

“Hey Guido, we shouldn't be here, man, " A short, stocky woman huffed from the doorway. She had never fully entered the store, something outside had caught her attention.

“The fuck are you talking about?” The man turned, clicking his tongue and brushing his greasy hair out of his face. Ray paused, not yet opening the drawer, watching the odd exchange.

“This joint is tagged, bro. Fakes type shit,” She kicked the bottom of the doorframe. A small spray-painted smiley face and dynamite was on the outer wall near the sidewalk. Ray had almost forgotten that Gavin had put it there months ago. Michael had made an offhand comment about how the dynamite looked awful but told the Brit not to fix it.

“This ain’t the fuckin’ Fakes territory,” the lanky man between Guido and the woman rolled his eyes and snorted.

Guido sniffed and momentarily ran his hand over his face as Ray watched the other two argue. While the three were distracted, Ray grabbed his phone under the counter and subtly swiped, hitting his emergency contact. The call went through to Michael’s number, only ringing twice. The lanky man and the woman argued as they moved through the store, getting into each other's faces.

“We shouldn’t be here. The Fakes are with the Vagabond now, dude.”

“I say we still rob the fuckin’ place, this ain’t their terf and they ain’t gonna know who did it if we cap this kid,” Lanky dude said.

“Tony you’re such a fucking moron. Guido, come on don’t entertain this. Lets just leave.”

“Kill the kid, take the money.”

“Do I get a vote?” Ray raised his hand.

“Shut up!” the lanky guy and stocky chick yelled simultaneously.

“Give us the fucking cash and we’ll be on our way. Whats your name— Ray, you’re life ain’t worth the cash in that register. Just give it to us and we’ll fuck right off,” Guido said, reading Ray’s nametag and waving his pistol around.

Ray pressed the necessary buttons, and the drawer popped open with a loud Ding! Guido threw a backpack onto the counter and looked around anxiously. Ray started to pull the cash out, knowing his boss was gonna be pissed. He hoped to everything that Michael had answered that call and was on his way— Ray really didn’t wanna lose his job just because the place got robbed. His boss took it out of his paycheck the last time a customer stole a game. Illegal sure, but… effort.

Ray’s rescue did not, in fact, come from Michael, Gavin, or even the Vagabond. Hearing a gasp at the front of the store, Ray glanced up to see Geoff Ramsey in a full tux and bow tie walk in. His sunken eyes were paired with a lazy smile as he glanced between the three would-be robbers. Geoff sighed and adjusted his cufflinks, tattoos peeking out from underneath. Guido froze, his hand shaking as he looked between Ray and Geoff.

“Ray, how’ve you been, buddy?” Geoff asked affably, walking between Guido and the other two.

“Uh, you know. Could be better.” Ray shrugged.

“That's nice.” Geoff casually nodded and pulled out brass knuckles, slipping them onto his tattooed fingers.

The crew leader turned, centered his stance, rocked his hand back, swung with his hips, and nailed the lanky guy in the face. Blood burst from the guy's nose as his head snapped back, and he stumbled. Ray’s eyes widened, watching this take place.

“You broke my fuckin’ nose!” The lanky guy whimpered, his hand on his face, trying to stop the blood flow. His long, thin nose was noticeably crooked, bruises already forming under his eyes.

“And I’ll break your fucking kneecaps if you don't apologize to Ray right now,” Geoff said with a smile.

Ahhh, finally the kneecaps thing.

Ramsey stood with his back towards Ray and Guido, ignoring the supposed leader of the three’s little makeshift crew. Guido turned and swung his arm up, pointing the gun at the Fake AH crew leader. The next few moments moved in slow motion for Ray. His eyes widened as he reached out and grabbed the pistol from Guido's sweaty, shaking grip— there wasn't even a grapple for it. Ray smoothly swiped the gun and pointed it at Guido's cheek like he’d done to Ray earlier.

Geoff glanced over lazily and snorted. His smile turned shark-like as his honey eyes darkened in mirth. Geoff punched the lanky guy in the gut, bowing him over and shoving him onto the floor. The stocky chick tried to run, only for her escape to be blocked by a Hawaiian shirt and a voluminous perm. Jack waved at the other woman with a smile, making her freeze and curse under her breath. Once he was finished with the lanky guy, Geoff turned to Guido, flecks of blood dusting his cheeks from the pummeling he’d just dished out.

“I-I’m sorry, Mr. Ramsey. We didn’t know this place had the Fake’s protection, I swear on my mothers life.” Guido trembled, his wide eyes darting between Ray, Geoff, and Jack.

“Guido, pal. Let’s have a conversation.” Geoff wrapped his arm around Guido’s shoulder, making the larger man flinch and suck in a terrified breath. “I want to believe you, Guido, I really fucking do. But, your lady there told you this place was marked, and your man wanted to kill my friend. I don’t like it when people threaten my friends Guido. And I really don’t like it when they lie to me afterwords,” Geoff tutted and shook his head condescendingly.

“I’m sorry, really, Mr. Ramsey. It was our mistake. We won’t ever come near here again.”

“No, no you wont. See, the thing is Guido— the fucking Vagabond has a boner for this kid the size of fucking texas and you-” Geoff bopped Guido on the nose. “just pointed a gun at him. You really should’ve listened to your lady.” The crew leader sighed and shook his head remorsefully.

“Don’t worry, hon, you're good to go. Make sure everyone knows not to fuck with us again.” Jack smiled and moved out of the way, letting the woman run. “Ray, good work,” Jack chuckled, seeing Ray still holding Guido’s pistol. His hands were steady with practiced ease from countless hours of way too many videogames.

“V’s on his way. He and the two morons were up in Blaine County when Michael got your call,” Jack said helpfully, causing Guido to let out a panicked gasp.

Ray felt his body decompress like a Sci Fi antigravity chamber—tension he didn't realize he was holding dissolved at the news. The Vagabond was on his way, and Michael and Gavin sent the cavalry while they were too far to help. He felt touched that his friends cared so much for him despite his recent moodiness and avoidance. Ray would deal with those sappy emotions later when he could. Vagabond was on his way.

“Ray, you are seriously a fucking magnet for trouble,” Geoff laughed, turning to face the Puerto Rican. Guido tried to speak, only for Geoff to smash his face into the counter. “Sorry about the mess, buddy.”

“It’s, uh, fine,” Ray stumbled over his words, unable to look Geoff in the eyes for longer than a moment. It was like the crew leader could see straight through him, X-ray vision showing all of Ray’s secrets and insecurities.

“Why don’t you close up the store early and come back to the penthouse, buddy?” Geoff said, letting Guido’s now unconscious body drop to the floor.

“What’s gonna happen to these two?” Ray cringed as he asked. He probably didn’t want to know the answer to that question. Geoff and Jack just smiled placatingly at him until Ray shrugged. “Nevermind. Yeah, sure.” Ray flicked the safety on and set the pistol on the bloodied counter.

“You should keep it; take it with you in case this happens again,” Jack said as she approached the two men.

“Jackie, you’re gonna give the kid a heart attack.” Geoff snorted at Ray’s wide-eyed expression. The spiffy crew leader leaned down, using Guido’s shirt to wipe the blood from his brass knuckles before pocketing the illegal weapon.

“Fair enough.” Jack shrugged. “You take him back to the penthouse, I’ll take care of these two chuckleheads.”

“Take them to the warehouse, I’m sure V will wanna have a chat with them.”

“Already called Kerry.”