Work Text:
“Are you sure you don’t want me to come with you?” Pete asked again, for the fifth or sixth time. Vegas gritted his teeth so he didn’t snap.
“Yes, I’m sure,” he said through them. “Stop asking.” Pete barely flinched before relaxing into an easy smile.
“Okay,” he said.
“You’ll have sightline from here,” Vegas said, by way of…not apology, but maybe it would help Pete feel a little better. “Don’t worry. I don’t think…” his voice wavered and he cleared his throat. “I won’t be long.”
Pete scanned him with watchful eyes that didn’t quite match his smile. “You can stay as long as you want,” he said. In his eyes Vegas read I don’t like this.
“I know I can,” he said sharply. “I wasn’t asking permission.” He turned before he could see Pete’s reaction and walked into the cemetery.
He couldn’t exactly stride away like he wanted to. He still had to walk slowly or he’d start gasping, his chest tight. You’re getting better, Pete told him, but for Vegas, beyond the fact that he was no longer horizontal in a hospital bed, it was hard to tell. He focused on keeping his steps even and steady rather than confident and powerful. How the mighty have fallen, sneered the familiar nasty voice in the back of his head. He let it wash over him without arguing. It wasn’t like he had an argument.
He didn’t have to go very far, and the family plot wasn’t exactly hard to find. And there they were, names side-by-side, closer than Vegas could remember them being. His mother, the engraving on her stone just a little less crisp in comparison to the sharp, freshly carved angles of the other name.
Vegas had been here once since his father died, but he didn’t remember it very clearly. It belonged to the blurry haze of memories that was a lot of the month after he woke up. The first time he’d left the hospital, still a wreck who couldn’t stand on his own, unsupported, for longer than 30 seconds. Drugged halfway to stupid for the pain that felt like it should’ve gone away by now. Pete had come with him, obviously, his stiff, tense presence the closest thing to a comfort Vegas had.
Even so, he remembered at one point looking at the stone and imagining his name etched on there, too, so clear he was surprised when he blinked and it vanished. The way it should be, he thought, even though he knew he wasn’t supposed to.
He’d floated through the rest, numb, and cried on Pete in the car on the way back.
It still snuck up on him, sometimes: the feeling that he’d made a mistake not following through, and Pete had made a mistake stopping him. He didn’t tell Pete about it but maybe he knew anyway. Pete seemed to have a way of knowing things when Vegas didn’t want him to.
Focus.
Vegas took a deep breath, inhaling deeply enough to feel the twinge, and lowered himself to his knees. The grass was soft under his hands, which helped pull him back from another room, his father slumped on the floor with a bullet hole between his eyes.
“Pa,” he said, and then stopped, his throat closing.
What was he doing here? What was there for him to say? He could hear his dad’s voice clear as if he was right here shouting: worthless failure, how can you show your face to me with what you’ve done? You’re nothing and you’ve come to nothing. I’m ashamed to claim you as my son. Rolling over and giving up, slink into the shadows to waste your time fucking the man I told you to kill, don’t you know he’s the main family’s creature to the bone, do you think he loves you, is that the story you’re telling yourself, I thought I raised you smarter than that but I guess you got your mother’s brain–
Vegas’s right hand twitched, but Pete would see it if he hit himself and he’d get upset about it. Better not.
“I’m sorry,” he said. It felt like talking with a sore throat but he pushed forward. “I let you down. Uncle’s as good as taken over and I couldn’t – I didn’t stop him. I’m trying to figure out what to do next but–”
Stop making excuses and tell me how you’re going to fix the problem, his dad snapped. Vegas bit the inside of his cheek.
“You’re probably not surprised,” he said, choking on a laugh. “I’m just proving you right, what you always said about me. Should I have died? Would that make you happier? If I’d shot Korn and died for it would that have been better?”
He could hear his voice rising, heating. Stupid, trying to argue with a grave. It wasn’t like he was going to get any answers.
“Pete thinks I shouldn’t be here,” Vegas said. “He didn’t say so but I can tell. He didn’t say he’s glad you’re dead but I’m pretty sure that’s true, too. I don’t know what I’d do if he did. You remember Pete. Or maybe you don’t. Macau likes him.”
He moved to twist his ring but of course it wasn’t there. Vegas stared at the place on his finger where it should be. Would be, if it weren’t…
“What would you want me to do, anyway,” he said. “Kill Porsche? It’s not like that’d put me back in control. There’s nothing I can do, it was over by the time I woke up and now I’m just – whatever Porsche wants me to be, I guess. I don’t know what that is yet. Maybe it’s nothing.”
More excuses. Vegas could almost feel his cheek sting.
“You’re dead,” he said to the ground. “You’re dead and I don’t know what I’m supposed to do now.”
Like some kind of switch flipped, that started him crying. He hadn’t at the funeral, hadn’t when he’d first gone into his dad’s room that still felt like he’d just stepped out of it. Not about this, anyway. Not about his dad being dead, gone, and the last thing Vegas had done was fail him again, and that was always going to be the last thing he’d done, forever.
And then there were the times his chest would clench up with fear thinking shit, I’m going to get it for this followed by the sickening relief when he remembered that he wouldn’t. They don’t hit us because we suck, Pete said, and a part of Vegas knew he was right and the rest of him couldn’t stop thinking but if I’d just done better, been better, been more what he wanted, it could’ve been different.
Vegas could recognize it was pathetic. He couldn’t let it go. He was kneeling next to his dad’s body pointing a gun at his uncle and waiting for someone to shoot. Thinking I could pull the trigger but it wouldn’t change a thing. Kinn still wins and you have nothing left.
“Fuck,” he said. “Fuck. I’m sorry. I’m sorry, I’m–”
“Vegas,” said Pete’s voice, and Vegas dropped his chin toward his chest and almost screamed.
“I thought I told you to stay back,” he said. His voice sounded wet and wobbly but it wasn’t like Pete hadn’t seen him worse.
“I know,” Pete said. He didn’t offer any excuses, just stood there quietly behind his right shoulder. Vegas focused on trying to catch his breath and get himself back under control; he almost had it when Pete said quietly, “I’m sorry.”
Vegas’s shoulders locked up. “You’re glad he’s dead,” he accused, saying out loud what he knew was true. Pete hesitated, not denying it, and anger clawed at his throat. Vegas twisted around to snarl up at him. “What, he was a threat to your precious main family and I’m not–”
Pete’s expression hardened. “He was a threat to you,” he said, suddenly sharp. Vegas jerked back. He’d never thought of it in those terms. His dad wasn’t a threat, not to him, anyway, sure, he’d hurt Vegas but that didn’t make him…
He thought of Macau. The times he’d tried to get between his dad’s anger and Macau, to shield him and keep him safe as much as he could. Protecting him from danger but the danger was their father.
“You’re right,” Pete said. “I am glad he’s dead. I could protect you from a lot of things but not him.” Pete’s face fell a little. “You wouldn’t have let me, and he wouldn’t have stopped hurting you.”
Vegas shuddered. He wanted to hit Pete, could feel himself doing it, the way he’d stand up and use the full pivot for momentum, backhand him hard enough his teeth would cut into the inside of his cheek. How dare you, he wanted to scream, how fucking dare you, but then he thought about who said I wanted to be your son, how good it’d felt to say for just a second, barely even that.
Because Pete was right. He tried to just – hold that, for a moment. Pete was right. He never would’ve been good enough. There would never have been anything he could do that would make his Pa proud enough to stop it. Maybe for a little while, but eventually it’d happen again, the way it had for years. He could earn scraps of approval, bask in the glow of feeling like his father loved him or even wanted him, but something always went wrong eventually. They don’t beat us because we suck.
If he was still here then Pete probably wouldn’t be. Was that what it was? He had to trade one for the other?
His stomach hurt. He turned back toward the grave and swiped his arm across his eyes.
“You think I’m stupid,” Vegas said.
“I don’t think you’re stupid,” Pete said.
“I probably am, though,” Vegas said. “Pathetic.”
“I don’t think you’re that, either.” Vegas scoffed and he heard Pete shift. “I mean it.”
“You shouldn’t.”
“That’s not up to you,” Pete said more firmly. Vegas couldn’t tell if he wanted to laugh or start crying again. He stood up instead, pushing himself up to his feet. Staring at the letters engraved on the headstone. At least nobody had tried to put beloved father on there. Fuck.
He rolled his neck in a slow circle and then cracked it to one side.
“This was pointless,” Vegas said. “I don’t know what I thought would happen. What I thought I would get out of it.”
“Closure?” Pete said, like he’d heard people say the word but was a little dubious of the concept. Vegas’s mouth twisted.
“Sure. Maybe. I should’ve known better.” He took a deep breath in and let it out slowly. “Let’s just go.”
“Wait,” Pete said. Vegas turned toward him, but Pete was staring at the headstone, his mouth twisted in a frown, and he didn’t immediately say anything else.
“If you’re trying to win a staring contest,” Vegas said finally, keeping his voice dry. Pete shook his head jerkily.
“He doesn’t own you,” Pete said abruptly. Vegas’s eyebrows rose. “You’re not – you’re your own person. Not just – what your dad thought of you. Can you remember that? He’s here and you’re not and that’s good, so…” Pete faltered. Vegas fixed him with a hard stare, but Pete took a breath and then met it. “So leave him here. Okay?”
“Did you leave yours?” Vegas snapped. The look Pete gave him was somewhere between tired and reproachful.
“We weren’t talking about me.”
“We could be,” Vegas said, pressing. “Couldn’t we? How fast did you go from your dad’s dog to the main family’s and look at that, now it’s me–”
Pete flinched and Vegas’s voice died, choked out like the traitor it was. He was. There were lines he wasn’t supposed to cross and Vegas hated how bad he was at stopping at them.
“It’s not the same,” Pete said, though there was a little strain in his voice, and Vegas thought it almost turned into a question. He ground the heels of his hands into his eyes.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “I shouldn’t’ve…you’re right. We weren’t talking about you and clearly I shouldn’t.”
“It’s fine,” Pete said, because of course he did. Vegas bit back the you’d say that, wouldn’t you and held his tongue, looking away from him. Pete’s fingertips brushed Vegas’s and he didn’t pull away.
“Let’s just leave before I say something else stupid,” he said, exhausted and miserable. This time Pete didn’t argue. They started back to the car in silence, Pete close as his shadow.
“Is your dad still alive?” Vegas asked quietly. Pete’s stride hitched a little.
“No,” he said. Vegas couldn’t read his tone. He waited, just in case Pete was going to offer more, but Pete could wait out a very long silence when he didn’t want to talk.
He knew it was risky. He asked anyway. “When did he die?”
“A while ago,” Pete said. He seemed to be thinking about something, and this time Vegas waited longer to see if he’d come out with it. Finally he said, “I killed him. Actually.”
Vegas stopped in his tracks. “You – what?” he said.
“It was an accident,” Pete said, his voice startlingly even. “I wasn’t thinking I was going to…” He laughed a little, but self-conscious more than like he thought it was funny. “But that doesn’t mean I didn’t do it.”
“You didn’t say anything about that when you were talking about him before,” Vegas said. Pete shrugged.
“Why would I?” he said. “It’s not what you needed to hear.” That weirdly stung. Made a part of Vegas recoil and think is that all you were doing, telling me what I needed to hear so I’d, but he didn’t even know where that question would end. “You’d’ve probably just thought I was telling you to kill your dad.”
Vegas’s stomach lurched uneasily. Pete probably wasn’t wrong about that. And he might’ve assumed it was some kind of mind game, or attempt to turn him on his own family, or…who he fuck even knew. He’d been a little crazy then, and stuck in his own head too much of the time, bored and spinning his wheels and trying to figure out what the fuck he was doing with the prisoner he was secretly keeping.
“I’m sorry,” he said, his throat closing. Pete gave him an odd look.
“For what?”
Everything. He knew Pete wouldn’t like that. “For asking,” he said. Pete shook his head.
“Don’t apologize. It’s really fine.”
Vegas wondered unhappily if Pete would even tell him if it wasn’t. If he would know when he pushed too far. When he fucked up too much for Pete to take and he walked away, and what he’d do then. Why try, he heard in his dad’s voice, when all you ever do is fail?
He shivered, and didn’t look back. Not that it mattered. His dad was ashes and Vegas still felt him there. He doesn’t own you, Pete said, but he didn’t understand how much Vegas was his father, in every rotten corner of his soul.
Leave him here, Pete said. but Vegas didn’t know how he was supposed to do that. His dad would always be there, in Vegas’s hands and Vegas’s head, the way he thought and moved and even breathed, maybe. Like he was hardly even dead at all, not as long as Vegas was alive.
No matter how much he wanted to, he couldn’t walk away from himself.
He would always be his father’s son.