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. Every time he blinked, something in the Vagabond’s movements changed, alerting him that time passed.
Ray glanced down; his arm held gingerly in the Vagabond’s gloved hands as 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 carefully wrapping it in gauze 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, his ears still feeling like they had to pop as time stopped feeling like it was marathoning past him. The mad mercenary had long since finished cleaning and dressing Ray’s wound. However, he had silently stuck to the younger’s side, scrolling on his phone and leaning against Ray’s legs. Ray’s bowling ball 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.
“Please don't tell Michael and Gavin about this,” Ray intoned sluggishly.
He knew that if the Vagabond wanted to tell them, he'd be powerless to stop the man, but Ray had hope that the crazed killer would keep 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 again.
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. “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 this whole week— hell, this entire life 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.
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 sigh and taking off his leather gloves. He casually tossed them onto the counter beside Ray and resumed tapping on the bright screen. Ray really shouldn't be freaking out about this. All that the mercenary did was remove his gloves, but 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 gloves. The younger man found himself memorizing the dips and scars on his knuckles.
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 and 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.
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 Syfy. 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 growled out, hopping down from the counter and escaping into his bedroom.
Vagabond followed the shorter man to his room, tapping on his phone in his usual silent manner. Ray chose to ignore him. The blue-eyed criminal sighed and pocketed his device, leaning against Ray's door frame and watching Ray search his dresser. Ray felt his chest rise and fall in quick puffs as he slammed the dresser drawer shut, not finding a good enough replacement for the clothes lost to Vagabond's trash bag. The brown-eyed man 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 eyes sting as his breath came in short pants. He shoved his face against the mattress and sobbed into his blanket. The bed dipped, a strong, calloused hand running 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 good in light of a damned night.
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 crusted with sleep. Soft morning light filtered into his room through the blinds, washing him in hues of red and orange, too bright for his sensitive eyes.
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 mini table had also been cleared of trash and dishes. Two blue pills and a 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 k-” Ray took in a sharp breath and let out a single laugh. “Fuck.”
Ray 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 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. 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.
To say the least, 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.
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! Thats 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. 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 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 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 cashier leaned on the 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.
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 four 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 Ray raised his hands, 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, but 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.”
“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.
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, his heart back to pounding.
“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.
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 Ghost Recon and too much Snipers Elite. All of his gun knowledge came from video games and movies.
“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 Syfy 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 smile placatingly at him until Ray shrugs. “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 Vag will wanna have a chat with them.”
“Already called Kerry.”