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Recovery is bullshit. It’s all a load of complete, and utter garbage, and Vegas doesn’t want to do anymore of it.
When he tells the nurse in charge of his physical therapy exactly what he thinks of recovery and PT, he gets a laugh that sounds distinctly condescending in return, and his fingers itch for his gun. How dare this man laugh at him, especially when he knows Vegas isn’t exactly in a position to defend himself. He makes a mental note to have someone come to the hospital and dispatch the man at the earliest convenience. Laughing at the head of the minor family, who did this man think he—
Ah.
Vegas isn’t head of the minor family anymore. This man has no idea who Vegas is, or who his family used to be. Vegas doesn’t have guards at his disposal anymore, no one he can order to come here and take care of his business. He huffs, scratching murder off his internal checklist. Maybe when he’s feeling better, he’ll come back and take care of it himself. He’s soothed by the idea, and he doesn’t make another comment for the rest of the session.
His days at the hospital all look the same, and he hates it. It’s boring, and monotonous, and Vegas wants to rip his eyes out of his face.
He tells Pete, expecting sympathy, but all he gets in return is Pete curling up next to him on his hospital bed. Pete turns the TV mounted on the wall on and flips to a drama, one of those will they/won’t they ones that Vegas thinks are complete useless drivel. He spends the next hour yelling at the characters on the screen to just take what they want from each other by force, if they’re not going to be grown ups and communicate. Pete, for his part, spends the hour laughing and gently pointing out the similarities between their relationship and the one on TV.
Which is absolutely ridiculous, obviously. There was no miscommunication, no uncertainty, no… Hmm. Okay, so maybe Pete has a point. But Vegas refuses to concede, so he spends the second episode sulking while Pete brushes his fingers through his hair in the way Vegas likes best.
Being an invalid comes with far too many visitors, he’s decided. There’s a constant rotation of people stopping by the house, and Vegas has had enough.
They all keep bringing food, and he knows what they’re doing. They’re trying to placate him, bribe him, fatten him up into complacency. Once his guard is down, they’ll strike when Vegas is least expecting it. He tries to warn Macau, after seeing him scarf down his fourth handpie, but his brother just scoffs around a mouthful of pastry and tells him to get his head out of his ass. He tosses a handpie Vegas’s way and leaves, shaking his head. Vegas tries it, of course, because he has to know what he’s up against.
When Pete comes in after seeing Kinn and Porsche off, Vegas is licking the remnants of the pie of his fingers. He refuses to eat another one, even at Pete’s insistence, but he does dream of them that night. He’s sure it doesn’t mean anything.
The cane in his hand feels foreign, and he wants to throw up. Vegas doesn’t think those two things are related, but perhaps they are. He’ll look into it later.
Why he agreed to let Pete drag him to the main family compound, he’ll never know. Call it a moment of weakness, or a wish for normalcy. Preferably the former. Definitely the former. Now, he’s standing outside his cousins house, sweating through his shirt and trying to force his breathing to regulate. Stupid, fucking gunshot wounds. They have no business messing him up this badly. It’s downright embarrassing.
Pete stays close to his side, never pushing or rushing, just waiting. Waiting for Vegas to work up the courage to put one foot in front of the other and hobble his way up the steps to the front door. A journey he’s taken a hundred times before, but it’s never felt this… scary before. Not that he’s scared, obviously, he just doesn’t have a better word to describe the way his heart is pounding, blood rushing in his ears.
“We don’t have to do this,” Pete murmurs in his ear.
Of course, Pete has noticed his discomfort. He’s entirely too observant for his own good, always has been.
Vegas shakes his head. It’s just a house. There’s nothing to be scared of. It’s just a stupid, overly ostentatious building full of bodyguards, (hopefully) former enemies, and guns. That hasn’t changed.
“But you have,” Pete says gently, taking Vegas’s free hand in his. “And that’s okay.”
Well. Be that as it may, Vegas isn’t a coward. He pulls himself up straighter and walks up the steps with his head held high and only a slight limp in his step. He’s Vegas Theerapanyakul, for Christ’s sake. He’s been dealt more difficult hands than this. This will not be the thing that breaks him. He won’t allow it.