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Nick stood at the kitchen counter listening to the hum of the microwave as his mug spun around in lazy circles, the cheap smell of instant coffee wafting around the tiny interior of his quaint little kitchen.
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The microwave sputtered for a moment and he sighed, dropping his head down onto his folded arms that rested on the white vinyl countertop. The corners were peeling and Nick pulled at them with tired fingers. He was... exhausted. Sleep did not come easy to him last night, especially not with the knowledge that his probable death was imminent.
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He guessed the fact that the Vixens -- or at least Dorian -- were watching him was supposed to make him feel better. It did not. There was, oddly enough, nothing comforting about someone watching you sleep: he felt vaguely like he had a stalker, someone watching him sleep and go about his business from outside his window. He cast a wary glance at the blinds he'd closed moments earlier and hefted a sigh before running his fingers through his hair.
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He pulled open the microwave door before the timer ended, the clock teetering on the one second mark, and placed his mug on the counter, fingertips already burning against the ceramic with World's Best Dad printed on it. Miranda had bought it for Kevin one Father's Day and he'd promptly handed it over to Nick to use. Kevin didn't drink coffee, he was a morning person on his own accord -- even if Nick couldn't quite comprehend how. He worked late shifts that sometimes stretched into the night at a car repair shop just on the outskirts of Sweetport and had to drive an hour to get there meaning he had to wake up earlier than most.
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Sometimes Kevin was just way too damn cheery for his own good.
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He wrapped his hands around his mug and had lazily turned for the bananas that were sitting beside the toaster when his phone buzzed on the kitchen table. He turned, abandoning his breakfast, and picked up the phone, grinning when he saw Marco's name pop up on the screen.
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Marco C.
| checkn in 2 make sure ur still alive swpr
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Sweeper
Nope. I'm not. Vixen strung me up like a |
Christmas tree and I died. |
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Marco C.
| kinky
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Nick was in the process of typing out a long and defensive message about how he hated Marco with every fiber in his body when he was interrupted by the idiots caller ID popping up on his screen.
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When he answered the phone and put it on speaker as he was privy to the tail end of Marco's cackling laughter.
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"I hate you," Nick said as he leaned against the counter and brought his mug up to his lips to take a long and brooding sip.
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"You love me," Marco objected, voice crackling through the speaker. "You set yourself up for that."
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Nick sighed. "I did."
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"Sorry, you know the rules."
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"There are no rules saying you have to imagine a dude typing me up in compromising positions, Marco." He heard a gag. Payback.
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"If I wasn't imagining it then, I am now. I didn't know you could go that red, Sweeper."
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"Oh my fucking God, please stop." Nick should have seen it coming -- Marco had the mouth of a bath-house whore even if he did have the demeanor of a cherub who could do no wrong.
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Marco laughed into the phone and in the background Nick could hear the rustling of blankets.
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"Why are you awake," he asked because truthfully there was no reason for either of them to be awake at ten in the morning on a Saturday.
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Marco yawned into the receiver. "Believe or not, I actually felt like being productive today."
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"Peevee woke you up on her way to Sam's didn't she."
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"I still don't know why I can't call her that."
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It was Nick's turn to laugh as he sat his mug down and scrubbed his eyes with the palms of his hands, blinking through the colorful little splotches that momentarily took over his vision and painted themselves on the grey backsplash of the kitchen wall.
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"She likes me, I thought she already told you that." Nick let his fingertips circle the rim of his coffee cup.
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He heard Marco grumble something before he said: "I really hope you don't start dating my sister. That would be the weird thing. Or maybe not. If you get married then you can be my brother-in-law." Nick grabbed a skillet from the cabinet.
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"I'm not going to date or marry your sister."
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"Good," he said and Nick could here the smile in his words, "Why are you awake?"
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"I couldn't sleep."
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"Why?"
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Nick sighed and tilted his head to the side, stifling a groan as it cracked. "That stupid fucking Vixen has been getting on my nerves."
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"How so?" A door shut on the other end of the speaker and he could just imagine Marco shuffling out of his bedroom to burn his way through half a loaf of white bread. He pitied Lily for having to put up with his inability to make toast.
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Nick picked up his mug and made his way across the kitchen through the doorway and into the living room, talking as he went. "Nothing notable really, minus him wanting me to meet his boss. Apparently it's a woman so I'm just a little more terrified."
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"Lady boss -- Vixen makes sense now." Nick laughed at that, tucking his legs beneath him as he dropped onto the couch. "You're not going are you? I don't think you should, it's a good way to get killed and I don't plan on going to your funeral -- shit, that would be depressing."
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"It would. Everyone would cry because I'm just… so cool. What color suit do you think they'd put me in?"
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"Black. Definitely black. Makes you look sharp but you're also dead so black."
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Nick hummed into his mug. "Point taken. I want a really cool funeral. Make everyone wear party hats that aren't black."
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"Nick."
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"Cabeza."
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"You didn't answer my question."
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"Marco, buddy, do I seem like the type to waltz into a gang hideout and talk to their boss like they've just asked me over for tea and biscuits? Also, I'm pretty sure Dorian is british or some type of pompous because I swear he just has that air -- also his name is fucking Dorian." Nick drummed his fingers against the arm of the couch, staring thoughtfully at the ceiling fan for a moment. "I do wonder what the boss is like though."
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Marco made a choking noise on the other end and Nick hoped he wouldn't have to hear his friend die over the phone. "Sweeper. Nick. Nick-a-boy. Don't even think about it. If you so much as step foot in the direction of that crazy son of a bitches house I will throw my shoe at you."
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"I'm so glad you love me so," Nick said blandly.
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"I'm saying this because I do love you dude! What the hell type of brother would I be if I let you walk head first into your death?" His friend paused for emphasis before saying: "A shit one, that's what!"
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"Well," Nick said, sitting his mug down with a thump, "It is a good thing you are not my brother." A wince. That was not what he had meant to say. "Marco I-"
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"Yeah, yeah, I know, you didn't mean it. It's fine."
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"Marco, I'm serious. You know that you're the closest thing I got to a real brother, don't let my ability to be the biggest asshole convince you otherwise. God, why can't I just keep my fat mouth shut. I'm going to pay that damn Vixen to clock me next time I open my mouth to say something smartass."
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A moment of silence and then, a laugh. "At least you admit it."
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"Fuck you," Nick said without venom and hung up, rolling his eyes all the while. Marco was the one and only welcome nuisance in his life. He hoped it would fucking stay that way.
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Not much later, when he was in the process of rinsing out his mug, there was a knock on the door. He crossed the room, drying his hands on his t-shirt and wondering who the hell was knocking on his door so early in the morning. He didn't remember Miranda or Kevin mentioning anything about visitors and he most definitely had not been left a note about it.
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When he opened the door Dorian smiled at him from the porch, hands shoved into his pockets, a navy blue sweater wrapped around the bottom half of his face.
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"What do you want and why do you look suspicious?"
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Dorian scoffed. "I don't look suspicious, I'm cold."
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"My ass, get in here before the neighbors think you're some kind of quick fuck waiting on my doorstep for round two." Nick turns and leaves his door open for Dorian to follow after him -- or not, he'd prefer he didn't.
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Dorian closed the door behind him when he entered the house, shrugging out of his coat and laying it on the small two person table tucked against the wall.
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"Has anyone told you that you're incredibly vulgar? Because you are. Extremely."
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"Yes, I'm aware. It's something I'm quite proud of," Nick deadpans as he lifts himself up to sit on the edge of the counter, feet dangling.. Nick watches as Dorian looks around the small kitchen, eyes wandering from the table to the framed photo hanging above it to the oven and then, finally, to Nick. Nick leans back and raises an eyebrow. "So?"
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"So?" Dorian has the nerve to act as if he didn't just do a mentally tally of everything in Nick's kitchen.
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"Whatcha think? Not that I care -- because I dont." He really didn't.
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The spot between Dorian's eyebrows pinches and he heaves a sigh. "It's small. I feel like I'm going to knock over something."
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"It's not that small," Nick says, rolling his eyes.
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"Easy for you to say," Dorian grumbled and Nick narrowed his eyes.
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"I hope that wasn't a short joke because I can kick you out."
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Dorian held up his hands placatingly and grinned. "Hold your horses, partner. It was a friendly short joke."
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"Give me one reason I shouldn't stab you with a steak knife. Think fast."
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"I'm protecting you? That's a good reason right?"
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Nick rolled his eyes but did not make any immediate movements towards the knife block a few feet away on the counter. He didn't need them anyways -- he had his pocket knife tucked into the pocket of his faded grey sweats. He'd taken it to carrying it around when he first moved to Sweetport -- it had taken him what felt like ages to get his hands on it though -- and he nearly always had it on or near him at all times. It was comforting to know that he had a way to fight back with something other than his fists: they don't always work and where they fail, a sharp knife would sure do a better job.
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Nick hopped down from the counter and shuffles away, back towards his bedroom. Dorian follows. "Why are you here, exactly?"
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Dorian let Nick stew in the silent response to the question for a moment before huffing. "I got cold waiting outside on your neighbors roof. It's the middle of winter and I don't own a winter coat "
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"You… you were on my neighbors fucking roof? For how long?" Nick stared at Dorian like he'd grown three heads. The idiot stared back at him like he couldn't understand why Nick was so shocked.
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"Most of the night? I had a blanket but an associate of mine stole it when he switched shifts with me around three."
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Nick pinched the bridge of his nose and leaned against his dresser, one arm crossed over his chest. He could feel a headache pinching at the muscles at his nape. "Dorian, it dropped below twenty last night."
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"I know. That's why I said it got cold." Dorian narrowed his eyes and leaned against the closet door. "Are you listening or are you just being difficult?"
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Nick sighed and looked towards the ceiling, asking God for the will to resist knocking a gang member on his ass. "No, Dorian, I am not being difficult. Take a moment to wonder why I might be shocked to find out that you sat on my neighbors roof all night in the middle of winter "
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Dorian pursed his lips. Nick was reminded that Dorian was not like his other friends -- one way being that he was not friends with any other gang members that he knew about. He also didn't know how it was possible to keep being a gang member a secret so he was confident in his assumption. It didn't help that his other friends were rather meek and didn't do much in terms of extracurriculars that included guns, blood, and murder. Unless video games counted but he sincerely didn't think so.
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"I have a job, Nicholas."
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"Nick," he corrected. "And I get that. I get you've got a job -- even if that job is being apart of a gang, jesus christ -- but you won't have a job when you get pnemonia or hypothermia -- whatever that fuck it is -- and die." Dorian blinked and Nick flipped his palm towards the ceiling like he was waiting for Dorian to place a response in his hand. When he said nothing, Nick shook his head and stretched his arms outward with a relaxed expression. "Corpses can't get paychecks, Everleigh."
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"You'd be surprised," Dorian said after a moment of silence. Nick had the sudden urge to pop him in the back of the head with his fist.
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"You ruined it. I was supposed to sound cool and you ruined it with that horrible joke."
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"Wasn't a joke," Dorian said though he grinned like it was. "Sometimes you gotta pretend people are alive until you can get your story together."
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Nick rubbed his face, noting to himself that it was entirely too early to be discussing gang operations. "You probably shouldn't be telling me your foxy secrets. Who knows what I'll do with them."
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Dorian rolled his eyes. "Yeah, because you have so many connections. Besides, you're technically one of us now."
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"I am not," Nick said, expression going from tired and exasperated to hard and serious. "I don't know where you got that idea but I'm not a Vixen."
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"Ah, but you are a Fox." Nick glared and Dorian simply stood with his arms crossed, a stupid smug look on his face. For a moment, Nick thought of his father. His father had been, undeniably, terrifying. Nick noted that it was not his father's gang affiliations that made him scary, even though it was a great factor, but it was the fact that Nick had never once seen the man show any emotion other than murderous glee and malice. Looking at Dorian with his half smile and the relaxed slump of his shoulders, Nick realized that he was unlike the picture of gang members he'd painted.
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The picture he had painted was not a pretty one. It was inspired mostly by the portrayal of gangsters on TV and his first-hand experiences. In other words the painting was nothing but dark oils, blood, and torture methods that would probably be considered war crimes.
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"Whatever," Nick growled, ignoring the triumphant smile that spread on Dorian's face, "Think whatever the hell you want, just fuck off and get your lunatic ass out of my house. I'm leaving."
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Dorian's smile turned into a deep frown. "Actually, there is something else."
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"What." Nick could feel the muscles in his neck and back tensing. Dorian chewed on his lip for a second and Nick snapped out: "Don't just leave me hanging like a fucking circus act gone wrong, c'mon spit it out dick head."
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"Your father," Dorian said, kicking his heel against the wall. Nick didn't have the senses to tell him not to leave scuff marks on his walls. "He's got bail. It's easy to guess he'll be out in the next twenty-four hours."
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Nick felt his stomach roll and knew that if he had eaten breakfast it would have ended up on the floor. He swayed and placed his hand flat against his dresser to steady himself in spite of the terror that was running through his veins as quick as blood. "How?" It was only one word but it still sounded as hollow Nick's thoughts. The only thing running through his mind was run, fucking get out, you're going to die and that was hardly a thought he was willing to feed.
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Dorian took a step towards him but stopped short when Nick stuck out a hand. He wasn't sure if he'd be able to handle someone touching him or just even being close to him at the moment. His pocket knife was feeling awfully comforting. Dorian returned to his previous position, just with an added tension as he watched Nick like he was a bomb.
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He cleared his throat. "We suspect some strings were pulled. Evidence disappeared, got tampered with and stolen. The blame was placed on someone else, another agent -- someone we assume took the fall. My colleagues also think we've got a few pay-offs in the police department down in Cali."
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"Oh great," Nick groaned, dropping his head against the dresser. His legs were feeling awfully weak but he did his best to keep standing -- now was not the time to roll over and have a quick panic attack on the floor. He'd stash whatever panic he was feeling in his chest and save it for later. "Your crooked cops have twisted even further, that's promising. What? Did you guys stop paying them or some shit? They get tired of Foxes chewing up their shoes? Go to the other set of murderous lunatics that wouldn't mind filling their bank accounts as long as they can get away with whatever shady shit they keep pulling out of their asses like it the fucking dark ages?"
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Dorian stiffened, his eyes narrowing. "I don't give a fuck how scared you are, don't talk about my family like that."
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"Family," Nick said and felt himself come a little loose. He laughed, a humorless sound that made his shoulders shake. "Yeah, family, some good that shit is. What, you all got some blood oath or something? I bet you all have this really fucked up initiation process. God I should have just let you bleed out on the street." Nick stood up straight and grabbed a fistful of hairing, pulling just hard enough that it hurt. "Oh my god, I'm going to fucking die. That's just golden."
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"Nick," Dorian said, holding out a hand, "calm the hell down. I get you're afraid but-"
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Nick snapped his head towards Dorian and snarled. "I am not afraid. Fuck you." He fisted his hands up at his side, nails biting into the flesh of his palms.
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"Okay. Okay, you're not afraid."
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"I'm not." His voice came out cracked as the tension drained from his body. He dropped down onto the side of the bed and rested his head in his hands. "I promised."
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His mother had made him promise that he'd never show fear. She'd grabbed him by the arm and dragged him into the library, a fiery look in her eye.
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You must promise me something, Nicholas. You will never show fear. He wants you to be afraid, he takes pleasure in seeing you cry. Do not. Promise me.
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He'd tried to protest, to say that it was impossible to be unafraid of someone like his father but she'd gripped his jaw so hard that she'd left bruises on his face after. He'd been six at the time, all tiny fingers and jumbled sentences and he was deathly afraid of being hurt so he swallowed down whatever words he had sitting on his tongue and nodded so hard that he swore his head would've snapped off. He made a promise.
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Funnily enough, he also had a foster father long ago that had told him not to be afraid. Nick had woken himself up from a nightmare screaming bloody murder, his father's eyes still seeded into his vision.
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Nick, kiddo, calm down. You're okay, you're fine, just breathe. Don't be afraid, whatever happened won't get you here, okay? Breathe kiddo.
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That man, despite being six foot under in some town in Washington, was one of Nick's most loved foster parents. Miranda and Kevin were the greatest and he did love them but the man, Samson, had been the first of many at the age of ten. And the many were not always good.
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Nick shivered. The many often were very, very bad. He could count the number of abusive foster homes he'd been placed in on one hand but they were memorable enough. Some were simply a lonely type of abusive, foster parents who could care less about what he got up to -- that alone got him into plenty of trouble. Others were… well, he had learned the rules of the house the hard way.
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There was one home that he had a particularly hard time being in. A foster brother in particular had been especially… inappropriate.
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C'mon little Nicky, big brother won't hurt you. I'll be nice.
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Nick clamped a hand over his mouth as the memory of hands slipping underneath his shirt and nails digging in the flesh of his hips shuttered over his vision. He'd barely been thirteen then, still fresh into his teen years. It was not a warm welcome. A groan rolled up out of Nick's chest and he resisted the urge to curl into himself like a child.
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"Nick. Nick, are you listening? You'll be fine, I'm here to protect you, okay?" Dorian was speaking and Nick was doing his damnedest to listen but he felt like his skin had been rubbed raw with sandpaper. All his nerve endings were on fire and he felt cold and sweaty all at the same time: like he had the flu. A very aggressive case of spontaneous influenza.
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He took a breath.
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"Nick?"
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"Oscar Wilde."
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"You back with me? I kinda need you here."
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Nick did his best to smile. "I didn't know you were so dependent on me already. Next thing I know you'll be asking me to marry you."
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*Doubt it. Glad to have you back, soldier." Nick laughed, quiet albeit but a laugh all the same.
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"Okay, sergeant. Or commander?" He went to stand and Dorian offered him a hand. Nick shooed it away with a flick of his wrist and ran a hand back through his black hair. "God, I hate the mafia."
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"Mafia?" Dorian looked perplexed and nothing short of amused. "You believe the whole mafia thing?" Nick stared. Dorian tried not to laugh. "Nick, we're not tied to the mafia -- we're our own group entirely."
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"That's not any more reassuring other than the fact that I don't have to meet scary, cigar smoking italians." Nick could feel his body bouncing back: his pulse was steadying and his stomach no longer felt like it had been carved out with a meat cleaver. Memories were reburied and panic was stuffed down into a rucksack. Later this would come to bite him in the ass but now he needed to focus.
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Now was the time for business.
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"What do we do?"
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"We?"
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"Yes, we. I'm the one being hunted, not you. I'm not gonna sit here with my thumbs up my damn ass waiting for someone to put a cap in my skull. So, that being said, we."
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"Okay, we. If you want to be any type of involved you have to meet the boss."
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Nick sighed. "I was hoping she'd just decide that I was too boring for her tastes."
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"Trust me, you are far from boring, Nicholas Warren."
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"It's Nick, asshole. If I have to correct you again I'm kicking you out."
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Dorian grinned, wide and mischievous. "Well then, Nick, why don't we get a move on? Lady boss isn't gonna wait all day for the likes of you. Let's get going."
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Nick's eyebrows pinched together in confusion but he reached for a pair of jeans from his laundry all the same. "You have a car?"
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"A bike."
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"Oh goodie," Nick said sarcastically. "I do hope you know how to ride it at least, I'm not gonna shift gears for you." He placed a hand on Dorian's shoulder and guided him towards the door so he could get dressed without an audience.
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"You ride?"
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"Not anymore. Out." He shoved Dorian out the door and shut the door in his face before he could say anything else. Nick had to get ready.
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