Who: Drake and Kellan What: Drake wants revenge for a fire. Kellan is an arsonist. It turns out they're staying in the same motel. Where: Cheap motel on the edge of Vegas When: Recently. Warnings/Rating: Threats, language
Despite what he would have liked to advertise, Kellan was not immortal, nor was he immune to damage, and being lucky in matters of survival didn’t necessarily imply flawless survival. His door’s ability to treat even serious wounds with ease aside, it was hard to shake off a bullet to the chest, even one that had missed all the vital bits. The other ones were a little easier to deal with, but they all compounded together and made his life more miserable than it needed to be. He couldn’t do decent work like this. Especially not under the threat of blackmail and a rabid dog.
So it was back to hunkering down and hiding out, the downtime between identities settling on him and keeping him out of sight and mind. He went by fake names most of the time anyway, but a reputation was painful to lose - not that ‘Kellan’ had really picked up much of one in decent circles - so he was biding his time until he resurfaced. He’d considered Jackson again, what with those being the best ten or so years of his life, but … well, it wasn’t like there was any hurry.
At the moment the hiding place was a cheap motel well off the strip. Few questions, fewer answers, paying in cash and trying to pretend he was as normal a person as any of the other temporary residents. Kellan had grabbed it at random two weeks back, once he could move more freely, and at the moment was fighting a cramp in one leg as he stalked across the parking lot to the paint-peeling red door that lead to his room. It was too hot for a jacket but he had long sleeves on anyway, a cheap plastic bag slung around one wrist as he paused at the door to dig through his pockets for the room key.
If people thought gas prices were high, they clearly hadn’t seen what the stations were charging for a pack of cigarettes. At this rate he’d burn through all the spare cash he had on hand just on a week’s stash. It made him grimace and stare at the tarnished room key for a few long, irritated seconds.
Drake had practically spent his entire life in motels. He hadn’t had a real home since he was four, and places like this, by-the-week cash dives, were familiar. As long as there was running water and a bed, he didn’t give a damn about how run-down the place was. Food was takeout and microwavable shit that never tasted quite right, and there was booze, a lot of it, beer most of the time but sometimes the nightmares were bad, or sometimes he felt an ache of loneliness so strong he felt like blowing his brains out, and those were the times when he brought back bottles of something a lot stronger. Whiskey, mostly, cheap, but it did the trick. He was rarely fully sober; most of the time, he had at least a beer or two in him. After Rome died, he’d just stopped caring, and these days he existed for revenge and not much else.
While he wasn’t hiding, exactly, he wasn’t out making a ruckus either. He’d tracked his lead clear across the country to Las Vegas, and if the bastard who’d fucked up his life after five years of normalcy was here, he didn’t want to give him a heads up. Not yet. There was a liquor store nearby, and tonight he’d opted for a six-pack of beer; it was a good night, by his pathetic definition of good. After polishing off half, Drake stepped outside, propping the door open with his foot as he leaned against the doorframe and dug through his pockets for his cigarettes. Still had a couple left, he noted with satisfaction, but damn, no lighter. He cursed under his breath and glanced over, noticing the man paused outside the door one over from his. Talking to strangers wasn’t high on his list of favorite things, but what the hell, right?
“Hey, you got a light?” He turned away from the door and took a step closer to the guy, unlit cigarette between his fingers.
Kellan had just pushed open his door when the question came from a few feet over. He gave the figure in the other doorway a cursory glance - but the guy didn’t look noteworthy or all that dangerous (immediately, anyway), had been there for a little while anyway, and even if his paranoia was still running high and skittish after people kept digging him up he knew he hadn’t dropped ‘Kellan’ to anyone in weeks. Not that it would keep the really dedicated from finding him, but - no.
Guy wanted a light. That was a small problem, and a familiar one. Almost comforting in its simplicity.
“Yeah, sure.” He dropped his key back in his pocket and pulled out the well-worn lighter, opening it and lighting up to offer it out. It wasn’t until the flame was between them that Kellan actually looked at the other guy’s face and realized he’d seen him before. There was something familiar about his voice, too; it sounded like the owner had threatened him before, or at least made overtures to it.
The familiarity was distant, likely from a while ago. Time had probably changed them both, which was why he couldn’t put a name or place to the face. And despite how suspicious he was (desperately hoping this wasn’t someone he’d tried to burn up in the past), these days strangers were as likely to try and kill him as the vaguely familiar. With how beat-up and grim this guy looked, he could very well have been an old criminal acquaintance.
And so, despite the dangers the question posed, he went ahead and asked: “We met before?”
The voice didn’t spark recognition. Usually, it didn’t, not unless it belonged to someone pretty damn memorable. Drake would never forget Lucien’s (Ian’s, whatever) voice, for example, nor would he forget his face, but the bastard was dead and gone; he’d made sure of that. To him, this guy was just another poor sap slumming it in this shithole for reasons unknown. A poor sap who, hopefully, had a lighter on him. When the affirmative was given he moved forward, relieved, the itch of craving starting up again under his skin; booze, smokes, and violence, those were his vices.
“Thanks,” he began, holding the cigarette out to the flame, but then he got a decent look at the guy, and he stopped speaking. Whereas his voice hadn’t rang any alarm bells, his face did. He’d met this man somewhere before. Goddammit, he tried to think of where, tried to dredge up the past as his mind raced, but the pieces just wouldn’t fit together. Drake dropped his gaze to the flame, and he thought about fire, about Rome, about who had the kind of skill to make murder look like an accident. An arsonist, a good one, like the ones Lucien had employed. And then, it clicked. He just had to be certain.
His expression turned eerily calm as he took a drag of the newly-lit cigarette and exhaled in a cloud of smoke. “Yeah, I think we have. Seattle, wasn’t it?”
Nothing good had come out of Seattle. Except for the news of Lucien’s death, not one damn good thing had happened there: it had been a nonstop clusterfuck of shit going wrong, damage being dealt, and old grudges being dragged to light. Kellan had sworn the place off when he left, refusing to go back unless the price was high enough to warrant it, and so far that had worked out just fine. Until about a year ago, anyway. And until right now.
It was the way the other guy went calm that put Kellan on edge. It wasn’t a normal, relaxed sort of calm; it was a deliberate calm, one carefully designed to lay in front of deeper or worse emotions as either a shell or a curtain. He looked up, met the other guy’s eyes, and slowly clicked the lighter shut.
He hadn’t met very many new people in Seattle. Just shadows from the past, clinging to his heels and hobbling him when he tried to move. The longer he looked, the faster he thought, and then there was a recollection of a silhouetted figure with a gun pointed at his head, an agreement not to shoot him in the back if he played nice. A protective streak a mile wide for one person that even Kellan would have been loathe to kill.
Slowly, so as not to incite any untoward violence, he reached into the bag on his arm and pulled out a fresh pack of cigarettes. He was going to need a few.
“Now that you mention it.” In his condition, there was no way he’d get in the room and lock the door before something got broken. “You’re Sid’s brother, aren’t you.” Drake, that was the guy’s name. Alone? Or was Sid here, too? He wasn’t sure which would be worse.
Drake could be agonizingly patient when the situation called for it. There were times when he was rash, impulsive, and hot-headed, but sometimes his anger burned cold instead of hot, and that was when he was at his most dangerous. Once, a long time ago, he’d had some semblance of normalcy, and then it had been taken from him. Then he’d found it again, down South with Rome. Zari was in Cuba, Sid was off living his life and being normal, like he was supposed to, but he and Rome, they’d done their own thing. It was his second chance, an opportunity to do right by his younger half-brother. He’d failed Spencer. He’d failed Sid, too, in a way. But not Rome. He wouldn’t fail Rome.
Except he had. And then, again, something he loved had been taken from him, and his life became hell once more.
He waited for the man (Jackson, that seemed right) to recognize him, and through the smoke he watched his expression, looking for any sign that he might be the one he’d come all this way looking for. Would he kill for a dead boss? Did Lucien matter that much to him? Ah, and there it was. Drake smiled. “Yeah, Sid’s brother,” he said. “Rome’s brother, too.” He couldn’t remember if this guy had ever met Rome, but if he knew something, he’d recognize his name, wouldn’t he? “It’s been a while. Fancy meeting you here, after all these years. Been up to anything interesting since we last crossed paths?” He was prepared for the possibility that the guy might try to bolt, and he moved just a sliver to the side, not enough to be threatening, but enough to suggest a warning, perhaps.
There was no flicker of recognition; Kellan had never met Rome, didn’t even know there was a younger brother in the family. If Sid had mentioned him at some point, it hadn’t been a memorable occasion. No, at the moment it was all careful suspicion, watching Drake to see if he started to move too fast. That slight shift was indication enough that any attempt was going to end badly. Not that he would have tried in the first place. He’d done enough running these days.
He pulled the wrap off the box and opened it up to get a cigarette out, lighting up in a single smooth movement before dropping the box back in the bag, his lighter back in his pocket. Empty-handed, still a threat but much less obvious (the gun was, for once, still in the nightstand). And then he reached out and pulled the door to his room shut to keep in the cool air. He doubted he was going to get back in there anytime soon.
“Oh, you know. Same old, same old.” Kellan gave a brief, humorless grin, never taking his eyes off Drake for a second, and let a thin trail of smoke out the corner of his mouth. “New names and faces, same bullshit. You?” It was a strange conversation to be having, and he knew most of it was probably just a prelude to something else - an attempted ass-kicking, probably - but it was preferable to an immediate attack.
Drake looked for even the faintest hint of recognition like a mangy, half-starved mutt might wait for scraps, keen-eyed and practically salivating, prepared to show teeth and snarl if denied what it wanted. Because, in all honesty, he wanted Kellan to be his man. He wanted his revenge, wanted it so badly he could taste it, bitter copper on his tongue and the feel of slick blood coating his fingers; a life for a life. It wouldn’t be quick, and he would revel in it. He’d never pretended to be a good man. But seconds ticked by, and he found nothing in the other man’s eyes that even suggested he knew who Rome was, much less was responsible for his death. Maybe this was just one hell of a coincidence.
But he wasn’t convinced, not yet. Even if he wasn’t responsible, he might know who was.
“Same old, same old,” he echoed, smiling. It was a sharp smile, too sharp to be kind, and just as humorless as Kellan’s. Not a lie, either. He’d moved around for a while, found a place to settle down, and everything had gone to hell. History just kept repeating itself. He let a few seconds of silence tick by, like he had all the time in the world, and exhaled more smoke. “So, you find any of these new names and new faces down in Kansas?”
It was a strange question, but also very pointed, and so was that smile. Kellan gave Drake a blank stare as he thought really? Kansas? Who the hell would go there? Because he stayed in big east-and-west-coast cities, more comfortable around coasts and skyscrapers than he was anywhere else, and generally passed through the more landlocked states without pausing if he could manage it. Why a question that specific? Something must have happened there, or else it wouldn’t have been added onto the question. Might even have something to do with why Drake was in Vegas, but he wasn’t about to go quite that far; Vegas was, after all, Vegas. There were ten thousand more likely reasons for him to be here, like a crippling gambling addiction.
There was something of desperation in Drake, and maybe a little bit of murder, too. A hungry look that had nothing to do with starvation. Kellan shifted his weight and leaned back a little, hands in his pockets, letting out another breath of smoke before he answered.
“Don’t think I’ve been to Kansas in a decade. More, probably.” He raised an eyebrow, half curious and half wary. “Not a hell of a lot there for someone like me. Why, you run into a fire there? I don’t start all of them, much as I wish I could.” It was an offhanded and only partly true comment, but maybe it’d clear the air a little.
This time, Drake didn’t bother pretending he wasn’t scrutinizing every word spoken, his tone of voice, and every shift of expression, intentional or not, in the other man’s face. He didn’t expect the truth, not when the truth was likely to earn him a nice, slow death. But most people had a giveaway when they lied, a tell, even if they didn’t realize it, and that was what he was looking for in Kellan. Problem was, he was either a damn good liar (entirely possible) or telling the truth. He wasn’t sure which one it was.
“Oh, I bet you wish you could.” His voice practically dripped with scorn, and he took one last drag before letting the cigarette slip from between his fingers and crushing it into the gravel with his heel. “Yeah, you could say that,” he said, and now his posture became threatening, aggressive, as he moved closer to the other man. “You know anyone who stayed loyal to Lucien after he died? Someone who wanted revenge badly enough to wait nearly five fucking years to go after it?” The pretense was gone, now, and Drake reached into his jacket, the familiar click of a gun’s safety being removed sounding from beneath the fabric. “Think long and hard before you answer,” he added. “I don’t like liars.”
Absolutely Sid’s brother, Kellan thought. Not that he’d ever doubted it. But the way Drake suddenly came closer, all murder and aggression and barely-restrained violence, reminded him a hell of a lot of the way Sid had come at him back in Seattle. Here, though, there wasn’t the danger of being half-strangled against a wall; here he could hear Drake readying a weapon and knew he’d never get the chance to get close enough to fight back. His own expression hardened from wary but moderate calm to the dangerous glare of someone who’d had to kill for a living, even if it hadn’t been permanent.
Lucien. That made it worse, and made the glare darker. Drake hadn’t outright accused him of anything yet, but the idea was obvious, and it was insulting. It was infuriating, actually. He’d gotten away from the man twice, even helped this asshole out the second time, and the subtle implication that he might still be loyal enough to get revenge for a dead man almost put him over the edge. Did he know anyone left that would do it (other than himself)? No, because fifteen years was a long time ago.
“No,” said Kellan, low and careful, keeping his ground against Drake’s movement. “I don’t. I didn’t keep up with him and his after I got away. Would have defeated the purpose of getting away.” He breathed out a thin trail of smoke, hands in his pockets, wondering if he’d be able to hit Drake in the neck before the bastard pulled his gun. “If any part of this is you not-quite-asking if it was me responsible for whatever’s got your ass chapped, you’d better think really goddamned carefully about whether or not you actually want to imply that.”
He’d already gotten shot three times in the last month and a half. What was another couple bullets to add to the collection?
The way Kellan glared at him could mean a thousand things, and Drake was far too jaded to put much stock in assistance that had happened years ago, or to trust that the other man had actually been interested in getting the hell out from under Lucien’s thumb. He could count the number of people he trusted on one hand, and this guy wasn’t one of them. “Thought you might’ve heard something,” he remarked coolly, masking his frustration with ice. He’d hit nothing but dead ends since coming to Vegas, and it was driving him crazy. Knowing he was so close, yet hopelessly without direction, was the worst kind of torment. Right then, Kellan was the first fresh lead he’d had in weeks, and he couldn’t let him just slip through his fingers. Could it be true, though, that he’d gotten away from all that and never looked back? And here he was, dredging up the past all over again. He didn’t feel bad for it. Pity, sympathy, they were emotions he barely felt these days, and even if he’d wanted to get away from Lucien, that didn’t change who he was or what he’d done.
He laughed, then, at the other man’s thinly veiled threat, and it was the laugh of a man who believed he had nothing left to lose and really just didn’t give a shit anymore. “Your old pal Lucien is a sore subject, huh?” The laughter stopped abruptly, and he cocked his head to the side, as though considering whether or not he was even worth wasting a bullet on. “Someone set my goddamn garage on fire. It was a good one, too. Even the big bad authorities thought it was an accident. I managed to track whoever it was as far as Vegas, and now here you are. Hell of a coincidence,” he said, because why the hell should he bother lying or beating around the truth? It was no secret that Lucien had fucked with him and Sid countless times in the past. “So yeah, this is me not quite asking.”
That was a decent reason to suspect him, Kellan thought. If he wasn’t himself, he’d be on Drake’s side. But the accusation - not that he might have burned down a garage, but that he’d done it for a dead man - still made him seethe. He tried to avoid gritting his teeth around the cigarette, then sighed sharply and took it out of his mouth.
There had to be more to it. Nobody got this pissed off and vengeful over a fucking garage, even if it was the only thing they had.
“No. I didn’t burn down your garage,” Kellan finally said, trying to keep his voice level and not quite managing to excise all the irritation from it. “I don’t know when that happened, but I’ve been stuck in Vegas for over a year now. Mostly been drinking.” And fucking things up. Not that he’d admit it to most people. “I haven’t been to Kansas in a decade, I wouldn’t take up an offer to burn down a goddamned garage out there, and I sure as hell wouldn’t do it to get revenge for a dead man I hated.” Feared was the more appropriate word, but he wasn’t going to admit that, either. “I didn’t know shit about Lucien’s crew when you killed him, but a guy like that didn’t collect loyalty through respect, which is what gets you revenge. Ten to one everyone left behind was grateful to you two. Part of me was. I didn’t have any plans on fucking you two up; was kind of hoping I’d never see either of you again.”
Kellan was right; coming all this way and doing what he’d done, walking the razor’s edge as he was now, for some burned-down garage would just be damn stupid. There was, of course, more, but Drake was reluctant to divulge the full truth to a man he could barely call an acquaintance, much less a friend. There would be no need for explanations when he found the person he was looking for, since they better than anyone would know the repercussions of the fire they’d started. But instead of tracking down his target, all he’d managed to find was a guy who’d worked for Lucien years ago and had apparently gotten the hell out of Dodge as soon as the bastard was dead.
“Almost a year ago,” he said, of when the fire had happened. His words had a sort of disconnect to them, like he wasn’t actually thinking about what he was saying or what any of it meant. Or, at least, he was trying not to. There were two types of anger when it came to him; the cool, calculating type, and the fiery impulsiveness that raged out of control and was terribly unpredictable. All of this, the fire, Rome, Lucien, was edging him closer and closer to the latter. Drake listened, but none of it soothed the building anger inside him, and he shook his head, because someone had to have remained loyal enough to Lucien to track him to goddamn Kansas and fuck up his life again. “Not everyone,” he snapped. “This wasn’t a fucking coincidence. It wasn’t an accident. It was revenge, payback, and since Lucien is dead, someone decided to do his dirty work for him.” He slid the gun out from his jacket, but he didn’t pull the trigger; it was more of a threat at this point anyway. “Think long and hard. You’re sure you don’t know anyone who might’ve stayed loyal to the bastard even after he died?”
“No, I don’t. It’s been almost fifteen years since I worked for him, Drake, and he went through people faster than I go through buildings; there’s a good chance he picked up some lunatic bastard just like him somewhere along the way, after I got out.”
The gun was a concern, but Kellan only kept an eye on it, rather than lashing out in response or moving back to look for cover. Would Drake shoot him for not telling him what he wanted to hear? Possibly, even if he had seemed like the slightly saner one before. Time changed people, though, and this kind of hatred and vengeance would do the trick every time. Kellan was pissed off and insulted and more than a little ready to deck someone but he held back. Why … maybe sympathy, awful as the idea was, or the fact that this was Sid’s brother, or the fact that apparently Lucien still had remnants in the world and they’d left another dark mark on someone who probably didn’t deserve it. He let his shoulders drop.
“If whoever this is is anything like him, they’ll probably find you. At the least opportune time,” he added with a scowl. “For you, anyway. Look - I’m sorry, but I can’t help. Probably couldn’t even help if it was twenty years ago. It wasn’t just a garage, was it?” The question was tacked onto the end of the sentence fast, before he could reconsider and stop himself - he wanted to know, because someone was probably dead. Not Sid, though. If it had been Sid, there wouldn’t have been any hesitation after the recognition. He’d already be bleeding out.
Sanity was something Drake had slowly lost hold of since Rome’s death. Without anyone around to keep him grounded, since both Zari and Sid were far away, living their own lives, it had become all too easy to slip closer and closer to the edge. There was no one to pull him back, so what did it matter? Maybe he was going crazy. Maybe he already was crazy. So long as he had enough sanity left to kill the bastard that had come back to fuck up his life, he didn’t care about his own well-being. As much as he wanted to shut out what Kellan was saying, he saw the logic in it. Whoever was still loyal to a dead man could be someone he’d never met, someone who looked just like anyone else he might pass on the street. It was fortunate, then, that he didn’t trust anyone, not even kindly strangers who looked like sweet, harmless little things who’d never hurt a soul.
He’d always had a trigger finger, and the temptation to just shoot for the hell of it was definitely present, but he managed to quell the urge. No use in putting a bullet in this guy and having to deal with the consequences when it wouldn’t accomplish anything, and maybe, just maybe, Kellan might hear something. “Oh, I want them to find me,” he said, sliding the gun back into his jacket and pushing the safety back into place. “I’m fucking counting on it. There is no least opportune time, not with me. I’ve been ready since the day my garage burned down.” His expression darkened when he asked if it was more than just a garage, and he stepped back, away, no longer inhabiting the other man’s space. Booze. He needed more booze. “No, it wasn’t,” was all he said, and he wasn’t spilling any more than that.
Glad to hear that, Kellan thought, watching with more than a little relief as Drake put the gun away and moved back. He didn’t drop his guard - and Drake still looked ready to kill - but now there was less tension in the air. No less killing intent, but it was the kind you picked up around certain types of people all the time. Seemed a little depressing that even from the grave, Lucien could ruin lives and turn people into weapons of vengeance.
He didn’t press on the subject when Drake didn’t elaborate. Someone was probably dead. Arson was one thing; murder by fire, another altogether.
“Try when you’re taking a piss,” he said dryly, tapping the ash off the end of his cigarette and taking another drag. “Good luck finding ‘em. I’d say give me a call if you need some help, since I wouldn’t mind taking down his leftovers, but I feel like that’s not going to happen.” There was a crazy sort of determined in Drake, or so Kellan thought he could tell. Didn’t bode well for wanting or needing assistance. He opened his door again and turned to go in, his side to Drake, one eye still locked on him in case the gun made another reappearance.
Kellan was a smart man. Pushing for more information would likely have gotten him a bullet somewhere, depending on how much thought he gave to aim in the split second before he pulled the trigger. But most of his frenzied rage had faded to a dull ache, with left Drake with the desire for alcohol, and a lot of it, which would lead him right into a black hole of oblivion before he woke up to a bitch of a hangover. He laughed at the other man’s dry humor, though the sound itself was hollow and empty; there wasn’t much he found funny these days. “They can try,” he said. As for asking for help, he didn’t respond, since he was pretty sure he wouldn’t have the time to call Kellan up for help if he got himself in a situation that warranted it. And, really, this was his revenge, no one’s else’s. He’d get it himself, one way or another.
He smiled when the other man turned to retreat back into his room, though it was more like a grimace, something old and knowing and none too kind. “See you ‘round,” he said over his shoulder, and then he turned his back and disappeared into his own room, the door slamming shut with a click as it locked behind him.