All those weird feelings and that dread bouncing around in his stomach were just nerves, he told himself as Nice Guy Eddie pulled up to the bar where his father, Joe Cabot, was waiting to meet them. Long Beach Mike wasn’t there to help cover his ass, so it was Freddy’s first time truly alone undercover. Of course he was nervous. He’d be an idiot NOT to be.
Freddy knew from the second he walked in that the place was shady - it was the first time in ages that he hadn’t been carded at the door. But it was a relief, since being mistaken for a high schooler at 28 wasn’t the best way to make an impression on hardened criminals.
Eddie led him through the packed dance floor to a table in the back for introductions. As he shook Joe’s hand, the back of his mind was giddy with the thought that Ben Grimm in a suit was a fucking crime boss. Paint the dude orange and slap some blue tights on him and you’d be good to go.
“We got one more, he’s in the can,” Joe explained with a nod towards the empty seat next to Freddy. There was a half-empty beer and a pack of Chesterfields sitting on the table.
“What, my competition?” Freddy joked, trying to hide the excitement that just came out of nowhere.
“Nothin like that,” Eddie shook his head. “One of Daddy’s old friends. He’s gonna give us a second opinion on ya.” Just then, his gaze bypassed Freddy to give someone a friendly nod. “Hey.”
“Hey, looks like I got perfect timing.”
Something about the new voice behind him made Freddy’s heart skip a beat. He turned around, to see…
(You’re gonna be okay, buddy boy!) (Who’s a tough guy?) (he’s gonna be okay, I'm gonna take care of him.) (He’s a good kid.) (Joe, if you kill that man, you die next!)
The sudden cacophony of words, words he’d never heard before but FELT like memories, overloaded him until there was just one word in Freddy’s mind:
Larry.
…How the FUCK did he know this guy’s name?
But he knew, somehow he just fuckin’ knew. He’d kind of bullshat the “hit with a bucket of panic” line when he practiced Holdaway’s story, but now he really felt it, like this man had just thrown one right over him.
What he hadn’t known is that he was staring like an idiot, until Larry-or-whoever-the-hell-he-was gave him a curious squint. “We meet before or somethin’, kid?” he asked, pulling out his chair to sit beside him. He was studying Freddy with those incredible fucking eyes. They were brown, everything about this guy was brown and earthy and meat-and-potato-y, but with eyes that looked right through him. Not with suspicion, but… interest, and the kind of warmth and intelligence you wouldn’t expect from a career criminal in a hilariously tacky shirt.
Freddy knew he should’ve been shitting a brick, but somehow he felt…calmer, now that this guy was next to him. Like a security blanket fresh out the drier. “Nah, don’t think so,” he shook his head. “Just when Nice Guy said you were one of Joe’s friends, I expected somebody a lot older,” he grinned, hoping this was acceptable ball-busting for a first meeting.
The chuckles around the table came as a relief. “He’s older than he looks, kid,” Joe said, gesturing at Maybe-Larry with his pinky as he picked up his scotch. “This here’s Mr… White. Old frienda mine. White, this is…” he mulled it over for a second - “Mr. Orange.”
Orange? Ah well. Why not? “Good to meet you, Mr. White.” Freddy held out his hand.
Mr. White shook it, with a warm, strong grip. The callouses on his fingers told Freddy right away that this guy spent a lot of time with a gun in his hand. “Likewise.” He looked over Freddy again, pausing on his face thoughtfully before turning back to his friend. “So why Orange, Joe? Kid looks more like a Mr. Green to me.”
Freddy felt the back of his neck getting hot. He didn’t even know he COULD blush there. He slumped into his jacket like a scared turtle.
“We already got a Mr. Green doin’ another job with us right now,” Joe replied, oblivious. “Anyway, what the hell do you care, I brought you down here to size the kid up, not name ‘im.”
Oh, Mr. White was sizing him up, alright. His eyes barely left Freddy, even as Joe sent Eddie off to the bar to get everyone drinks.
“So, the usual for daddy… what’re you drinkin, Mr. White?”
“Eh, surprise me,” he laughed, finishing off his beer.
“You are so going to regret saying that. Orange, how bout you?”
“Um… y’know what? Surprise me, too,” he shrugged and tried to ignore the second neck-flare that White’s approving smile set off.
“As long as you realize, you two are getting the gayest fucking chick drinks on the menu.”
“Hey Eddie, hold up,” Mr. White stopped him in mid-turn and pulled a hundred-dollar bill out of his pocket. “This round’s mine.”
“Holy shit. Since when do you and Ben Franklin go out together, you cheap piece of shit?” Joe guffawed.
“Brewers won last night.” White grinned.
“Miracles do happen, I guess,” Eddie whistled, plucking the bill from White’s hand. “I’m keepin the change.”
“Like hell you are!” Mr. White called after him. Still laughing, he turned back to Freddy. “Hope you’re not as much trouble as junior, kid.”
This time, fuck the buckets, a goddamn firehose of guilt nearly knocked him out of his chair.
FILL: "Kobayashi Maru" 2/? (time loop, TW: death, suicide, homophobia)
All those weird feelings and that dread bouncing around in his stomach were just nerves, he told himself as Nice Guy Eddie pulled up to the bar where his father, Joe Cabot, was waiting to meet them. Long Beach Mike wasn’t there to help cover his ass, so it was Freddy’s first time truly alone undercover. Of course he was nervous. He’d be an idiot NOT to be.
Freddy knew from the second he walked in that the place was shady - it was the first time in ages that he hadn’t been carded at the door. But it was a relief, since being mistaken for a high schooler at 28 wasn’t the best way to make an impression on hardened criminals.
Eddie led him through the packed dance floor to a table in the back for introductions. As he shook Joe’s hand, the back of his mind was giddy with the thought that Ben Grimm in a suit was a fucking crime boss. Paint the dude orange and slap some blue tights on him and you’d be good to go.
“We got one more, he’s in the can,” Joe explained with a nod towards the empty seat next to Freddy. There was a half-empty beer and a pack of Chesterfields sitting on the table.
“What, my competition?” Freddy joked, trying to hide the excitement that just came out of nowhere.
“Nothin like that,” Eddie shook his head. “One of Daddy’s old friends. He’s gonna give us a second opinion on ya.” Just then, his gaze bypassed Freddy to give someone a friendly nod. “Hey.”
“Hey, looks like I got perfect timing.”
Something about the new voice behind him made Freddy’s heart skip a beat. He turned around, to see…
(You’re gonna be okay, buddy boy!)
(Who’s a tough guy?)
(he’s gonna be okay, I'm gonna take care of him.)
(He’s a good kid.)
(Joe, if you kill that man, you die next!)
The sudden cacophony of words, words he’d never heard before but FELT like memories, overloaded him until there was just one word in Freddy’s mind:
Larry.
…How the FUCK did he know this guy’s name?
But he knew, somehow he just fuckin’ knew. He’d kind of bullshat the “hit with a bucket of panic” line when he practiced Holdaway’s story, but now he really felt it, like this man had just thrown one right over him.
What he hadn’t known is that he was staring like an idiot, until Larry-or-whoever-the-hell-he-was gave him a curious squint. “We meet before or somethin’, kid?” he asked, pulling out his chair to sit beside him. He was studying Freddy with those incredible fucking eyes. They were brown, everything about this guy was brown and earthy and meat-and-potato-y, but with eyes that looked right through him. Not with suspicion, but… interest, and the kind of warmth and intelligence you wouldn’t expect from a career criminal in a hilariously tacky shirt.
Freddy knew he should’ve been shitting a brick, but somehow he felt…calmer, now that this guy was next to him. Like a security blanket fresh out the drier. “Nah, don’t think so,” he shook his head. “Just when Nice Guy said you were one of Joe’s friends, I expected somebody a lot older,” he grinned, hoping this was acceptable ball-busting for a first meeting.
The chuckles around the table came as a relief. “He’s older than he looks, kid,” Joe said, gesturing at Maybe-Larry with his pinky as he picked up his scotch. “This here’s Mr… White. Old frienda mine. White, this is…” he mulled it over for a second - “Mr. Orange.”
Orange? Ah well. Why not? “Good to meet you, Mr. White.” Freddy held out his hand.
Mr. White shook it, with a warm, strong grip. The callouses on his fingers told Freddy right away that this guy spent a lot of time with a gun in his hand. “Likewise.” He looked over Freddy again, pausing on his face thoughtfully before turning back to his friend. “So why Orange, Joe? Kid looks more like a Mr. Green to me.”
Freddy felt the back of his neck getting hot. He didn’t even know he COULD blush there. He slumped into his jacket like a scared turtle.
“We already got a Mr. Green doin’ another job with us right now,” Joe replied, oblivious. “Anyway, what the hell do you care, I brought you down here to size the kid up, not name ‘im.”
Oh, Mr. White was sizing him up, alright. His eyes barely left Freddy, even as Joe sent Eddie off to the bar to get everyone drinks.
“So, the usual for daddy… what’re you drinkin, Mr. White?”
“Eh, surprise me,” he laughed, finishing off his beer.
“You are so going to regret saying that. Orange, how bout you?”
“Um… y’know what? Surprise me, too,” he shrugged and tried to ignore the second neck-flare that White’s approving smile set off.
“As long as you realize, you two are getting the gayest fucking chick drinks on the menu.”
“Hey Eddie, hold up,” Mr. White stopped him in mid-turn and pulled a hundred-dollar bill out of his pocket. “This round’s mine.”
“Holy shit. Since when do you and Ben Franklin go out together, you cheap piece of shit?” Joe guffawed.
“Brewers won last night.” White grinned.
“Miracles do happen, I guess,” Eddie whistled, plucking the bill from White’s hand. “I’m keepin the change.”
“Like hell you are!” Mr. White called after him. Still laughing, he turned back to Freddy. “Hope you’re not as much trouble as junior, kid.”
This time, fuck the buckets, a goddamn firehose of guilt nearly knocked him out of his chair.