Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

The new guy crashes through the door of the grad student office at 1am, mouth firmly attached to some girl’s neck as she moans all sweet and breathless. Pete is standing in the middle of the room half naked, slurping instant ramen noodles out of a styrofoam cup.

In his defense, no one ever surprises him in the grad office in the middle of the night.

Although…that may be because a few too many of them have seen Pete’s naked ass and learned their lesson. It’s practically a right of passage at this point.

At least the new guy is getting his hazing out of the way early.

The girl notices first and lets out a truly bloodcurdling scream. Pete’s gotta say he’s impressed—she could be in those horror movies Tankhun likes, no problem.

It gets the guy to disengage from giving her the hickey of a lifetime, at least, as he swivels his head to identify the threat and drops subtly into a fighter’s stance. Interesting.

When he sees Pete, his face drops from serious to flabbergasted at the speed of light. Pete tends to have that effect on people.

The three of them stare at each other in silence for a few beats.

Pete would very much like to cover himself up, actually, but he’s got a mouth full of noodles and his hands are occupied by chopsticks and the ramen cup.

Well. There’s just not going to be a delicate way to do this.

He turns his back, ignoring the girl’s affronted gasp, and loudly slurps up the rest of his noodles.

“Really, dude?”

Pete ignores it. So this guy isn’t going to be his new best friend. Whatever. Pete’s good at being friendly with everyone while distracting them from noticing he’s never really been their friend.

By the time Pete finds some sweats to pull on, the girl is long gone, but the new guy—he’s Kinn’s new research assistant, Pete recalls—is still there.

Pete clears his throat and tries to make the best of it, plastering on a huge smile.

“Hi, I’m Pete.”

“What, no apology?”

“Right, sorry. No one’s ever, uh, come here for that before. Wasn’t expecting it.”

“Would you have been wearing pants if you were?”

All Pete can do is smile and shrug. He’s not a liar. 

The guy huffs an incredulous laugh, and an unwilling smile curving his lips.

“Okay. Fair enough. I’m Porsche, Dr. Theerapanyakul’s new research assistant.”

“You mean Kinn?”

“Uh, yeah, I guess. Does he let us call him that?”

“Not to his face, but there’s too many of them here to refer to them by last name.”

“Wait, what? Like…he has family at this university?”

Now it’s Pete’s turn to gape. “Have you been living under a rock? How did you even get into the program without…”

Pete trails off as Porsche’s face falls, and Pete wonders if maybe the thing with the girl was just Porsche trying to cling to something he knew in this new, confusing world of academia.

“Dude,” Porsche admits softly, “I have no idea what the fuck I’m doing here.”

He has beautiful, soft, sweet eyes and he turns their full force on Pete.

Pete’s smile this time is real. “That’s okay. You’ve got a friend to show you the ropes, now.”

Hours later they’re both sprawled on the futon, drinking the cheap beer Pete keeps stashed in the communal mini fridge.

“So wait, lemme get this straight,” Porsche slurs a little, and he must have been drunk already when he got here because he evidently used to tend bar and there’s no way he just got this tipsy on a couple cans of PBR, “Dr. Theera—Kinn,” he corrects himself, “is the son of the Dean of the College.”

“Yep,” Pete confirms, popping the ‘p’ sound.

“And his older brother…”

“Tankhun,” Pete supplies.

“…right, he used to be in Criminology but now he’s in Apparel Design and Textiles?”

“Yeah.”

“And his younger brother Kim is in Music?”

“Well, he’s actually kind of a pop star? He just consults for the music department sometimes.”

“This is the weirdest fucking family.”

“You’re telling me,” Pete mutters. He’s been here for seven years. He’s seen it all.

“But that’s it, right? No other family hiding in a dark corner somewhere?”

“Actually…”

“Oh my god,” Porsche moans dramatically, flinging an arm over his eyes and elbowing Pete in the head in the process, “don’t tell me there’s more.”

“Kinn’s uncle Gun is the Associate Dean of Finance.”

“Fuck.”

“…and his cousin Vegas is a professor in our department.”

“What?! Seriously?”

Pete gives a long-suffering sigh. “Yes.”

“So what do we call them all? I’m going to get tired of saying Dr. Theerapanyakul.”

“Get used to it. Except…”

Porsche half sits up, his interest piqued.

“What?”

“Except Vegas. He requires that students use his first name.”

“That’s…cool,” Porsche offers hesitatingly.

“Hmm,” is all Pete can offer, non-committal. He’s taken courses with Vegas, sure. And the man comes off as chill, friendly, on your side.

The gossip in the grad office, though, paints a different picture. Pete would just as happily keep his distance. He’s forced himself to do just that for years, actually, despite or maybe because of the fact that Vegas is the only professor at the entire university–maybe in the entire world–studying the very topic that makes Pete fucking drool. Still, he doesn’t want to bias Porsche unnecessarily. Who knows, maybe he and Vegas will hit it off.

Over Kinn’s dead body, he can’t help but think.

Porsche was brought in specifically as Kinn’s research assistant on his big new grant, and Kinn hates when his cousin encroaches on his research areas, his grad students, his committees, his preferred classrooms and teaching slots. Porsche might as well have a neon sign on him from the get-go: Property of Dr. Anakinn Theerapanyakul. Do Not Touch.

This will, of course, make Vegas absolutely itch with the need to leave fingerprints all over Porsche’s pretty neck.

Pete doesn’t get involved in department politics, though. He’s known for being nice and neutral, pleasant and hard-working, making an enemy of no one. He’d like to keep it that way.

So he tells Porsche none of this. He’ll figure it out shortly, anyway.

-----VEGAS-----

Ken. Fucking Ken.

Vegas lights another candle, trying to calm himself down.

He’d actually managed to woo one of Kinn’s graduate students away from him, a little. He’d at least convinced Ken to split his appointment as a research assistant for Kinn with a dual role as a teaching assistant for Vegas.

It was a brilliant plot, really, because it gave Vegas a man on the inside. If he knows the intimate details of Kinn’s most recent research project, it’ll be that much easier to sabotage. Ken could give him that knowledge.

And, okay, so Ken isn’t exactly the brightest crayon in the box. At all. 

But this was going to be just the start, the trickle that led to the flood. If he could steal one of Kinn’s grad students he could steal another. And another.

More grad students meant more help on his grants, more productivity, more publications. He would be better than Kinn, finally. He would be the obvious next choice as chair of the department, not his uppity, sniveling cousin with his pathetic excuse for ethnographic research.

But Ken is a fucking idiot.

Vegas finishes lighting the last of his candles and takes a deep, meditative breath before blowing out the match. He’s not technically allowed to have a fire source in his office on campus, much less several dozen, but technicalities have never stopped Vegas Theerapayakul.

It’s how he’s managed to excel in his field. How, as a graduate student, he skirted the Human Subjects Review for ethical research to conduct the most controversial study on sexual deviance since Alfred Kinsey.

Lately, though, Vegas has been…floundering. There really isn’t a nicer way to put it, although obviously Vegas would never admit it out loud.

His father has been hounding him more and more.

Gun’s been stopping by his office for surprise visits. Not-so-subtly forwarding him University news blurbs about Kinn’s newest grant award. The one Ken is a research assistant on.

He takes a deep breath, massaging his temples as he leans back in his big, fancy leather office chair.

If he were more sure no one would come knocking on his door, he’d strip his ridiculously formal suit right off and chuck it in a corner.

Gun’s reminders echo in his head–if he can’t be a better academic than Kinn he should at least dress better.

He has to remind himself that he wants this. He and his father have been working towards it ever since he can remember–taking Kinn and Korn down, usurping them as the stars of the department. The stars of the whole fucking field. Since Gun took a position as Associate Dean of Finance, it’s all up to Vegas, now. (Not Macau. Never Macau. If Vegas has done one thing right in his life, it’s been keeping his little brother out of this. Macau is a freshman majoring in ‘General Studies’ while he figures out what to do with his life, and Vegas has never been prouder.)

So it doesn’t matter that he’d rather spend his time researching mega-niche criminalized acts of sexual deviance.

It doesn’t matter that his dissertation rocked the world of its extremely small and specific sub-field.

It doesn’t matter that Vegas’ plush, dark wood and burgundy office is decorated with tastefully hung and displayed BDSM paraphernalia, the majority gifted to him by his research participants.

It doesn’t matter. It doesn’t matter. It doesn’t matter.

Because that field has no funding. No prestige. Zero students would be interested in working with him.

He’d certainly never make chair of the department.

He needs to be more like Kinn. Kinn, the golden boy, who’s studying underground fighting rings serving as a front for mafia-run drug trafficking. In a move that Vegas begrudgingly admires, Kinn threw in some lip service connecting the project to opioid abuse. The grant agency loved it–opioids are hot, right now. Kinn got all the funding he asked for, with offers for more.

So drug abuse and mafia trafficking rings it is.

The only issue is that Vegas is such a fucking failure at it. He can’t seem to focus, always losing out on internal funding opportunities to Kinn. Always being upstaged. He can’t crack the code, can’t seem to figure out, why everyone else seems to be so fucking fascinated by this field.

He’s missing something. He has to be.

So he’s going to do what any self-respecting academic would do in his position. He’s going to cheat.

The second Kinn makes another (goddamnit) ground-breaking discovery, Vegas’ inside man is going to know. They’ll report it back to Vegas, and Vegas will be the first one to submit a brilliant grant proposal to study exactly…whatever it is Kinn found. Hell if Vegas can predict what it will be. That’s the whole point of a spy, after all.

Which brings him full circle back to goddamn fucking Ken.

Who barely has two brain cells to rub together and apparently insists on doing so loudly. In front of the other grad students, and, infuriatingly, in his role as grad rep at the monthly faculty meetings.

Ken is lucky Vegas doesn’t kick him out of the program, just like he did to Tawan.

As it is, Vegas once again finds himself in the market for a new TA.

-----PETE-----

“Pete!”

He looks up a bit too quickly, the room spinning slightly. Porsche stumbles back from the bathroom towards their table, ping-ponging off the booths a little as he comes.

He’s smiling, lopsided and bleary-eyed, holding his phone up for Pete to look at something.

“Pete, look, lookit this!” he slurs at full volume. Several girls at a nearby table are openly laughing at him by now, but Pete doesn’t miss the admiration in their gazes. Yeah, his friend is a hot piece of ass. He’s aware.

Unfortunately, their shared boss seems to agree with that sentiment, and it’s making Pete’s life complicated.

He doesn’t like complicated, stays well away from complicated. He’s done so successfully for years now, in fact. Right up until…

“Peeeeeete, you’re not looking!”

Pete squints, trying his best to see the text on the phone screen, but it would be a lot easier if Porsche hadn’t stopped while he’s still 4 booths away.

“Porsche…”, he starts, but Porsche is frowning at him, pouting extravagantly, and not moving an inch. Pete sighs and hefts himself up from his seat to make his way over to his friend.

The floor is sticky and disgusting, making tacky little noises as Pete peels his shoes off it with every step. This isn’t one of those fancy new bars, catering to undergrads with too much of daddy’s money and deadset on burning it on overpriced shots. Neither is it a shithole undergrad dance club with $2 pitchers and questionably stable stripper poles screwed into the dancefloor.

It’s still a shithole, mind you, but it’s a grad student shithole. The drinks are cheap but not overly sweet or disgusting. There’s no dance floor, thank god. Nobody’s going to blink an eye if you hole up in a booth eating mozzarella sticks and chugging Irish coffees while frenetically typing up your last two term papers. Hell, there’s even that one bartender who, if you aren’t careful, will launch into an impassioned speech on Schopenhauer’s pessimistic irrationality.

Pete’s pretty sure the dude’s still just pissed he flunked his oral defense four years ago, but with the gaping holes in his theoretical posturing Pete can’t even say he didn’t deserve it.

He tries not to think about that too often, though. He’s been a grad student for seven years, when the average time to completion is six.

And sure, there have been extenuating circumstances. Of course there have been.

He started his degree under Tankhun, for fuck’s sake, and that alone should guarantee him compensation for life. Still, he needs to kick his shit into gear. The program technically has a 10 year limit before he’s kicked out, according to the grad handbook.

Pete’s not sure what would happen if he actually went 10 years before defending, because no one’s ever tested it before. He doesn’t want to be the first, which means he needs to put his head down and finish his goddamn dissertation.

It would be helpful if Kinn would stop giving him every single interview he ever needs to be transcribed and coded.

It would also be helpful if Kinn would do his own research, instead of foisting it on Pete and then taking most of the credit anyway.

It would be extremely helpful if Kinn would put half as much focus on helping Pete graduate as he does on getting into Porsche’s tighty whities.

Dragging himself from his thoughts, Pete tries to focus on the phone Porsche has shoved an inch from his face. He’s not really concentrating, just skimming it so Porsche will calm down and come back to their table, but then…then the words sink in. And Pete feels all the blood drain out of his face.

“Vegas wants me to be his TA!” Porsche shouts, unnecessarily. Pete’s just read that for himself, and Porsche is also approximately half an inch from Pete’s ear. His breath smells like Jagermeister, because Porsche makes bad choices.

“What.”

It’s not really a question, but that’s never stopped Porsche before and it’s not going to now.

“I know, right?! Isn’t that cool? Vegas is so cool, did you know he rides a motorcycle? Not just any motorcycle, a Ducati.” Porsche sighs dreamily, and Pete only just manages to hold in a groan of despair. If Porsche becomes Vegas’ TA Kinn is going to be insufferable.

“I don’t think owning a Ducati is a great reason to work for him.” In Pete’s mind’s eye he’s remembering the one glimpse he ever got into Vegas’ office. He swears he saw a ball gag framed in a shadow box hung above his desk.

“Why not?”, and ah, shit, Porsche is giving him the puppy dog eyes. Like Pete is bursting his bubble on purpose.

“Porsche, you can’t be serious. Kinn got you admitted to this program specifically to be a research assistant on his grant. He’s never going to let you TA for Vegas. Besides, they hate each other. You know that.”

“Well, yeah, but that shouldn’t mean I can’t work with them both. That’s not fair! To, like, my academic success.”

Pete rubs a hand over his face, trying to gather his patience.

“That’s how it is, though.” He tries to say it gently. Porsche is still far too idealistic, too proud and righteous in his convictions. Pete’s been here far, far too long for that. He keeps his head down and does what needs to be done, and Porsche is going to have to learn to do the same sooner or later.

“Fuck that,” Porsche exclaims, finally standing up straighter. The girls at the next table over are laughing at him again.

“Porsche…”

“No, Kinn doesn’t own me. Just because I work for him, just because his dad waived my GRE requirement, doesn’t mean he gets to tell me who I can and can’t work for! He doesn’t get to tell me what to do.” He turns his attention back to his phone, typing furiously.

Pete shifts to damage control mode. “Porsche, maybe wait to make this decision until tomorrow morning? At least schedule the email to send during regular work hours.” He makes a swipe for Porsche’s phone, but he’s too slow. Drunk Porsche is quick, the bastard.

The little ‘ding!’ of a sent email rings out from Porsche’s phone and Pete’s heart drops into his shoes.

“There!”, Porsche crows. “Sent. Let’s see how Kinn likes that.”

“Goddamn it, Porsche,” Pete mutters under his breath, and drags his friend back to their booth. He wasn’t planning on getting too drunk, but maybe it’s a good night to get wasted, after all.

—----------------

Pete is dreaming, but someone has brought him breakfast so he decides against waking up.

It’s not just a granola bar, either, it’s a whole spread. A platter stacked high with a tower of buttermilk pancakes dripping syrup, a side of crispy bacon, a bowl of fruit scooped into little orbs. There’s sausage, and biscuits with gravy, sunny side up eggs next to chorizo and salsa, french toast and a homemade blueberry muffin. Porsche even made him avocado toast, just the way Pete likes it, smothered in hot sauce.

It’d be perfect if only he’d stop trying to set the tray on Pete’s foot.

He tries to tell him to put it on the desk next to the futon, but Porsche just keeps setting it on Pete’s foot, despite his protests.

“Pete. Pete, hey, wake up. Wake up, I brought coffee?”

When Pete finally cracks an eye open, Porsche’s face crumples in relief. He’s sitting on the edge of the futon in the grad office, shaking Pete’s foot and holding a cup of burnt-smelling coffee under Pete’s nose. It’s not breakfast, not by a long shot, but Pete will take it. He’s almost out of granola bars.

He shuffles to sitting, prodding Porsche until they’re perched next to each other on the slowly decaying futon. Porsche opens his mouth to say something, but Pete holds up a finger and takes a long dreg of coffee first.

Then he puts his finger down and lets Porsche release the flood.

“Pete, I fucked up, shit, I think Kinn’s mad I said I’d TA for Vegas. What was I thinking?”

“You weren’t.”

“No shit! Why didn’t you stop me?”

Pete gives Porsche a side-eye. They both know there’s no stopping him when he’s had enough Jaegger.

“Ugh, right.”

“So what makes you think Kinn’s mad?”

“He said he needs to meet with me. This morning. Not in his office, but down here.”

They both glance around the grad student office. Kinn never comes down here. Ever. It’s dark and depressing, mismatched desks dating back to the last century pushed pell-mell against ugly beige-painted brick walls. No one spends more time down here than they have to. Well, no one except for Pete, and sometimes Big. He’s got his own little corner, with the nasty, second-hand futon and his desk. So more of his desk drawers have clothes and ramen packets in them than papers and books. So what? No one’s called him on it. Yet.

“Okay,” he tells Porsche, feeling a headache forming. “What time is he coming?”

“Umm…,” Porsche checks his watch. The one that Pete’s positive he used to see gracing Kinn’s wrist, but that just can’t be right, can it? Though, how could Porsche of all people possibly have afforded to buy one that nice? “In about 2 minutes.”

Pete barely has time to blink at him dumbly before they’re both startled by a crisp knock at the door.

“What do I do?” Porsche looks legitimately terrified, and Pete doesn’t know how to help for once.

The knock comes again, louder this time.

Porsche swallows and walks over to answer it like he’s heading to the gallows.

As Kinn steps into the office, stunning in a formal grey ombre suit, Pete remembers he’s only wearing boxers. It’s extremely clear he’s spent the night on the futon. More than one night, based on the crumbs and detritus that surround him. Shit.

Kinn, fortunately, only spares him a cursory glance before making his way over to Porsche’s assigned desk.

Pete concentrates on getting dressed and not eavesdropping, but he can’t help hearing the tone of Kinn’s voice. He’s furious, and cold with it. Porsche is stumbling over his words, apologizing and making it worse, not fixing anything at all.

When Pete detects a hint of tears in his voice, he can’t stand it any longer.

“Dr. Theerapayakul,” he starts, and Kinn turns to look at him as if he’d forgotten Pete’s existence.

“I’m speaking to Mr. Kittisawat right now, Pete.”

“I realize that, sir. However, I think I may be able to help.” Fuck. Here it goes. Kinn raises an eyebrow and gestures for him to continue.

Pete gathers his courage around him. This is for Porsche. Porsche, who doesn’t deserve any of what Kinn’s been putting him through since he arrived.

“I can TA for Dr. Vegas.”

Kinn’s other eyebrow shoots up to join the first.

Porsche’s mouth is hanging open.

There’s no reason for Pete to volunteer for this. He has a research position with Kinn–his funding is secure. He was a TA for four years under Tankhun, so he doesn’t need the experience, either. He’s a great TA, actually–he even won an award from the college. The students all love him. But he’s done with that. It takes too much time, time that he needs to spend writing. The department has tried to get him to teach again for years, and he’s refused each and every time, saying that finishing his research is more important.

Kinn knows all of this. “Why now?,” he asks, and Pete thinks about lying, for a second. Then he sighs. Honestly is probably the best policy, at this point.

“Porsche is new. He should be concentrating on his research project with you. If he takes over some of my transcription work, I’m willing to take on the TA role. It’ll be an easier lift for me than it would be for him.”

Kinn nods, not completely convinced. Porsche opens his mouth to argue, so Pete cuts him off.

“Porsche and I are friends. I don’t want him to get thrown to the wolves his first year. He’ll never recover.”

Porsche snaps his mouth shut, looking vaguely offended, but Kinn is nodding distractedly.

“You’re right. I can’t spare him from his research duties. And he could take over some of your transcriptions. Does that sound amenable, Mr. Pachara?”

Porsche doesn’t look like he quite trusts the two of them, like they’re conspiring against him. Sooner or later he’ll realize they’re actually conspiring for him, but that’s besides the point.

He heaves a sigh, eyes going soft and defeated. “Yeah, sure. Fine.”

“Good,” Kinn praises, and Porsche’s eyes light back up a little, and god dammit, Pete does not have time to deal with this. He’s about to be working with students again. Fuck.

And Vegas. Double fuck.

Kinn stands abruptly, turning to Pete. “You will be responsible for informing my cousin of this change. Make sure that you do so before the end of the workday today,” and then he’s gone in a swirl of grey.

Porsche fixes Pete with his best beseeching look. “Thanks,” he whispers. Pete sighs, feeling a headache coming on, and goes to make some more coffee. He’s going to need it.

-----VEGAS-----

Vegas is coming back from the faculty meeting from hell when he opens his office door to find an interloper.

Well, perhaps interloper isn’t quite the right word. Pete is his TA now, after all.

Kinn’s number one lackey, the grad student who can’t finish his fucking dissertation for the life of him, who the faculty have all silently agreed to ignore is living in the basement grad office suite. Anything to speed along his progress, at this point.

And now he’s been assigned to Vegas as Ken’s replacement. Just. Peachy.

There’s no doubt he’s a double agent; a spy for Kinn disguised as a tool Vegas can use. Vegas’ suspicions are only confirmed when Pete jumps and looks guiltily over his shoulder at Vegas when he enters. Pete had been bent in half over Vegas’ desk, craning to look at something on the computer screen.

A truly auspicious start to their relationship, indeed.

He’s got a pert little ass, at least, and Vegas will take his wins where he can get them, even if that includes briefly imagining that his new TA is currently bent over his desk for another reason entirely.

Vegas walks slowly and calmly to his desk, ignoring Pete, who’s frozen leaning a little over the desk, not quite sitting in the chair placed for these kinds of meetings.

When Vegas glances at his computer screen before putting it to sleep, and can’t help smirking a little at what Pete had been caught staring at. It may look like kinky gay torture porn, but that’s only because…well, because it is. It truly is part of his research, though. Nothing’s really NSFW when it comes to Vegas’ office, because that’s the kind of thing he specializes in. Shit, he has an entire wall dedicated to displaying the historical evolution of BDSM handcuffs. Research really can be fun sometimes–Kinsey figured that out decades ago, and if Vegas had his way he’d be out there "experimenting" with the best of them.

It’s just too bad that Gun doesn’t see it that way. He’d rather Vegas study something more…fundable.

Vegas finally turns his attention back to Pete and has to concentrate on keeping his expression neutral. His TA is still bent over, hovering a little, like he’s waiting to be invited to take a seat.

Like he’s waiting for permission.

One of the issues with Vegas’ line of research, unfortunately, is that you start seeing things that aren’t really there. Things that maybe you’d like to see, but which aren’t intended to be portrayed by the other party.

He leans back in his fancy-ass office chair, crossing his legs and adopting a casual slouch that he knows for a fact is more intimidating to students than any straight-backed stick-up-their-ass professor pastiche of the type Kinn typically plays at.

“Sit.”

Pete does so silently. At least he can follow instructions. Maybe this won’t be such a headache after all.

“Dr. Theerapayakul…”, Pete starts, and Vegas revises his opinion immediately.

“Call me Vegas,” comes out a little more sharply than he means it to.

Pete looks completely horrified, big pretty eyes widening in alarm, clearly freaked out and with a fetching blush coloring his cheeks. Vegas re-revises his opinion of how the semester will go, maybe, just a little.

“Okay, umm,” Pete’s clearly struggling with calling Vegas by his first name, flustered, before he just barrels ahead with what he’s trying to say, “I’m your new TA.”

Vegas gives him a dead-eyed stare. “Yes. I know.”

“Oh, I thought, uh, that is, Dr. Theerapanyakul, I mean Kinn, told me that I needed to be the one to tell you.”

Kinn had taken great delight in informing Vegas personally at their faculty meeting earlier, actually.

It’s clear that Pete is meant to be a substitute for who Vegas really wants. He isn’t even entirely sure why Kinn’s being so territorial around Porsche. From what he can tell, there’s nothing special about the guy aside from his startling good looks.

Porsche barely has an undergrad degree, and it’s in Hospitality; nowhere near Criminology. His CV is actually just a bartending resume, and Korn had to step in and formally waive his GRE requirement to get him accepted to the program. And, sure, he’s drop dead gorgeous, but he’s not even Kinn’s type.

The entire thing is baffling to Vegas, but that’s besides the point. If Kinn wants him that bad, and Korn wants him for Kinn that bad, then Vegas has to have him. That’s all there is to it.

And yet what he currently has is…

The big dimpled smile Pete has plastered on his face falters, a little.

…this. Wonderful.

He temples his fingers. “And how did you come to be chosen for this position?”

Pete’s smile widens again, and his voice is a bit too loud and peppy when he answers with the last thing Vegas was expecting– “I volunteered!”

What. The fuck.

The guy is clearly terrified and uncomfortable after what he saw on Vegas’ computer. And don’t think Vegas hasn’t noticed the way his big brown eyes keep flitting to Vegas’ carefully curated displays of BDSM equipment, making him blush like a mortified little virgin.

Pete’s been here for what…going on a decade? He has to know Vegas’ reputation by now. He’s probably even taken a class or two with Vegas, although Vegas really can’t be bothered to remember his students’ faces. Or names.

Why in the hell would Pete volunteer to work for him? He’s got to be ABD, right? And he wants what…more TA experience? Shouldn’t he be spending every spare second writing?

It’s fishy as hell, and so is Pete’s smile.

“I…see.” Vegas does not see. Pete dimples at him even harder.

“Well, if you volunteered you must know that I have a bit of a reputation. I assure you it is entirely earned. I expect 110% from my assistants, at all times. I know the official weekly limit for TAs is 20 hours, and I Do. Not. Care.”

Pete’s smile is slowly slipping off his face, replaced by something a little more steely than what Vegas was anticipating.

“You will be responsible for hosting office hours, here in my office, for a minimum of 6 hours per week.”

Pete blanches a little, clearly trying very hard not to look at the set of spreader bars Vegas has in a custom-built display stand in the corner. “...here?”

“Yes. I won’t have my students meeting their TA in the…graduate office.” Disdain drips from his voice, and he swears Pete actually looks a little offended.

“You will also complete all your grading and other duties for my course here in my office, where I can monitor you.”

“Sir, I don’t think that will be necessary–”

“Excuse me?”

Pete pushes on despite Vegas’ tone, “I TA’d for Dr. Tankhun for several years, I’m perfectly capable–”

Vegas scoffs loudly enough that Pete stops mid-sentence. “Tankhun and I operate very differently, you’ll come to see. You will do your work in my office. End of discussion.”

Pete looks like he’s about to argue, but reigns himself in and only nods, short and quick. Good.

“The semester starts next week, and since the department dropped you on me last minute we’ve got a lot of catching up to do. I haven’t had time to sufficiently train you, so,” Vegas turns to a big black filing cabinet behind his desk and pulls out a massive stack of papers, dropping them on the desk in front of Pete unceremoniously, “you’d better get started.”

Pete is openly gawking at him now, like he can’t believe what he’s seeing. “I…what–you can’t possibly have papers for me to grade yet.”

“Oh, but I do. These are from last semester. I’m a very particular grader, Pete. I need you to learn my system. You’ll work on these until you can give every single one the exact percentage grade I assigned them last year.”

His TA looks like he’s regretting every single life decision that led him to this point. Perfect. Kinn won’t get away with planting a spy in his midst this easily.

“Can I at least grab some dinner quick and come back? I never ate lunch and this grading might take me a minute.”

Good to know the guy has a sarcastic streak.

“No.”

Pete looks at him like he can’t believe his ears. “But I–”

“I already said no. Now get working.”

For a second Vegas thinks he’s going to argue, but then that steely resolve is back in his expression. Pete pulls the first paper off the stack and grabs a pen.

-----PETE-----

Working for Vegas is fucking torture.

If Porsche didn’t basically grovel at Pete’s feet in gratitude every time he saw him lately, it might not be worth it.

The bastard makes Pete work in his office so he can watch his every move, providing a constant commentary of critiques and criticisms. He’d made Pete re-grade that first stack of papers 5 times, with no breaks for a meal or even a sip of water.

He’s constantly telling Pete to do his work again, do it better, use a different rubric, sort it reverse alphabetically, translate the students’ assignments into French for some godforsaken reason.

And all of that, as annoying and clearly malevolent as it is, is nothing compared to the simple fact of being forced to exist in Vegas’ office for hours upon hours every week.

It’s too red, too dark, too claustrophobic, and there are far too many candles for comfort (the annual mandatory University Fire Safety Training specifically states that candles are not allowed in personal offices but Pete isn’t about to wade into that particular argument).

It’s also completely covered in lovingly cared for displays of BDSM sex paraphernalia. Plus, it’s got Vegas in it.

Pete’s fucking lucky he hasn’t popped a boner in there yet. He supposes in a roundabout way he has Vegas to thank for that–he’s so overworked and exhausted it’d be a miracle to get it up even under the best of circumstances.

Not that Pete didn’t think about the potential…complications of working for Vegas. Of course he knows the kind of thing Vegas studies. Of course he does. In Pete’s dream world, he studies that, too. In the most secret recesses of his mind, he’s Vegas’ prodigy. They co-author a book together, and it propels Pete into notoriety and academic glory, maybe even a tenure-track position at an R2.

Or a community college lecturer gig. He’s not too picky.

Unfortunately, there are clearly so very, very many reasons that cannot happen. First and foremost of which is that Pete’s half-done dissertation is on digitally tracking IP addresses to apprehend international drug smugglers (yawn, but whatever gets him graduated at this point).

Still, it doesn’t mean Pete’s immune to sitting in an office surrounded by all the things that make him go soft and a little bleary-eyed while at the same time making every single hair on his body stand to attention, like he’s just waiting to be touched.

He has to take special care not to look too long at the handcuff display. He forgot once and found his eyes fluttering closed, mouth dropping open a little, before he remembered himself.

And yeah, Vegas is a grade A bastard that is currently hell bent on making Pete’s life a living nightmare but, like, he’s also fucking hot. Not even just regular hot. Scary hot. Carved from marble, kissed by Aphrodite, blessed by the devil, designed specifically to make Pete weak in the knees, hot.

The fact that he’s a professor, that he’s mean, and that for all intents and purposes he’s currently Pete’s boss only makes him hotter, because Pete’s that particular kind of fucked up.

It’s just not fair. Porsche owes him for life.

Currently, Pete is on a coffee run. For Vegas. He’s specifically been told he’s not allowed to purchase anything for himself, even with his own money. The line is so long that he’s absolutely going to end up walking into class late, carrying the most ridiculous frappachino in the world.

He’s pretty sure Vegas ordered it just so Pete has to carry it around while resisting licking the whipped cream off the top.

Pete isn’t very well-fed on the best of days–the hazards of a grad student budget–but he’s been particularly hungry lately. Vegas always seems to make him work over mealtimes, and the idea of a break to eat is laughable.

When he finally makes it to the lecture hall, oversized frappuccino in hand, he’s more than 20 minutes late. Every single student in the room turns in their seat to look at him as he enters, seats squeaking under the weight of so many shifting bodies, their eyes following him as he walks down the long aisle to the front of the room.

Pete wishes he could melt into the floor, frappuchino and all.

He sits down as quietly as he can in a seat in the front row, peeling out of his coat and getting his laptop out while balancing the drink on his desk. Vegas instructs the students to discuss their current topic amongst themselves, bringing on a cacophony of chattering noise, before making his way over.

Pete is sweaty, messy, uncomfortable, and annoyed. Vegas slinks up in his dumb velvet shirt (dumb, so dumb, really just…dumb. Definitely not anything else.) and grabs the frappe and takes a long slurp from the straw, smacking his lips at the end.

Pete wants to strangle him by his beautiful, elegant neck.

Then Vegas reaches into the little domed cap and plucks the cherry out by the stem, hanging it just in front of Pete’s face. Pete stares, completely unable to come up with what Vegas wants him to do.

“You can have the cherry,” he says instead of something even remotely human, like, oh, maybe, thank you?

The cherry dangles in front of his face, like he’s a dog being teased with a treat.

Vegas smiles dangerously.

Pete takes the cherry.

And honestly, fuck this guy. Just because he can, Pete pops the entire thing in his mouth, stem and all, which makes Vegas raise a judgemental eyebrow before he turns and goes back to the lectern.

It’s a good cherry, but the sweet syrupiness only peaks Pete’s hunger instead of abating it. His stomach growls.

Pete waits a minute until he knows he’s in Vegas’ line of sight, then casually plucks a perfect little cherry stem knot from between his lips.

The very slight stutter in Vegas’ voice as he continues lecturing is worth it. He probably thinks Pete’s being gross and juvenile, but he’s the one sending his graduate assistant TA to order him a frappuccino during class.

The lecture is interminably long and boring; when you’ve been in grad school seven years, an intro course in your area of study just isn’t going to enthrall you.

Plus, Vegas drones.

The man clearly thinks that he’s captivating his audience, speaking low and slow as he saunters around the room, carrying his dumb little clicker so he can advance the PowerPoints remotely.

His use of the laser pointer can only be called immoderate.

Vegas obviously means it to be scintillating, talking with a sincere seriousness that suggests he’s delivering the secrets of the universe and the students should be falling at his feet in gobsmacked awe.

Pete can see at least six people who have fallen asleep, not to mention the astonishing number buying shoes on their laptops instead of paying attention.

Despite all of this, Vegas has pretty good course reviews. Pete checked. The majority can be summed up as “boring as fuck and a sadistic grader, but he’s also fucking gorgeous so #worthit.”

His chili pepper rating is through the roof.

Students. Sigh.

Pete is a grad student, and is therefore above such things. Obviously.

His ire only grows when they’re back in Vegas’ office later, after class, with a stack of papers a mile high to grade, and Vegas spends the first twenty minutes lighting all his candles.

Pete’s fine with working hard as a TA, he really is, but he expects at least a gesture towards effort on his employer’s part. Plus, there is the fire hazard to consider. Pete takes his yearly mandatory fire safety training seriously, alright?

He’s saved by his phone buzzing in his pocket, the familiar pattern indicating he has a text from his grandma.

She’s asking whether he’s planning on coming to visit her this weekend. And Pete would love nothing more than to do just that, bobbing around in the community pool with her and all her old lady friends, telling dirty jokes and sipping pina coladas they smuggled in, but…

Pete glances quickly up to where Vegas is finishing lighting the last few candles, then turns his back and fires off a quick response.

Sorry, I’ve got a new TA position that’s eating me alive. I should be free next weekend though!

The little bubble indicating she’s typing pops up, disappears, and pops up again before her response finally comes through.

You know what TA stands for don’t you?

Pete is halfway to typing out uhhh Teaching Assistant? When his phone buzzes with…

Tits and Ass!

Pete closes his eyes and doesn’t even try to fight his ridiculous smile. The pool ladies are going to love that one. He can imagine his grandma’s chortle like she’s right there next to him. His thumbs fly over the keyboard with the first funny response he can think of, he hits send, and then he nearly jumps right out of his skin as a hand descends on his shoulder.

Vegas is right up behind him, way closer than he should be. He always seems to sneak up on Pete, catching him off guard in a way Pete never usually is. His grip on Pete’s shoulder is just on the wrong side of most people’s “too tight”, but unfortunately it’s just beginning to be on the side of Pete’s “yes please harder”.

“Ready to get started?” Vegas barely has to whisper, he’s so close. Pete chokes on the air a little, because of all those damn candles, probably. “Or are you doing something more…important?”

“No, Dr.—, I mean Vega—, I mean…,” Pete trails off, feeling his ears burning, hand clutching his phone so hard it’s going to leave a red imprint on his palm.

Vegas’ low chuckle makes a shiver run up his spine. From how creepy it is.

“Pete, Pete, Pete. I’ve told you, you can just call me Vegas.”

Pete squeezes his eyes shut and tries to calm his breathing. Vegas tightens his grip.

“And please, no texting grandma during work hours.” He pauses, the silence significant and loaded. “That’s not what I hired you for. Now get to work.”

And then Vegas is gone with a whisper of air, back safely on the other side of the massive, ornate wood desk and his anachronistic Apple Pro Display XPR dual monitors. Because of course Vegas is that person.

Pete takes a few deep breaths to calm himself, trying not to think about what he texted his grandma after she told him TA stands for Tits and Ass. The conversation Vegas clearly saw over his shoulder.

Maybe that’s why he hired me.

Yeah, Pete’s not going to survive this semester.

-----VEGAS-----

Pete is utter shit as a spy, but, to Vegas’ eternal surprise, he’s…adequate as a TA.

Okay, fine, he’s fucking phenomenal. Where has Kinn been hiding this guy? And right, yes, technically Pete’s been ‘hiding’ right under Vegas’ nose, but Vegas maintains that it is not in his job description to know who every student is just by looking at them.

Besides, Pete seems highly invested in his charade. The goofy smiles, which can come off as naive and a little ditzy, seem to actually be a front Pete’s putting up.

He’s much, much more interesting underneath the mask.

And the thing is, Vegas never would have known if not for Pete being his TA.

Because, externally, Pete hasn’t changed that much. He’s still all vacant grins, carefully constructed social distance and naivete, cute little dimples standing out, his air of wide-eyed virginity nearly cloying.

Unfortunately for Pete’s act, Vegas now has access to his inner dialogue. He didn’t mean to, necessarily. Ordering Pete to provide extensive comments on every single student assignment for their unit on sexual deviance was supposed to be just another thankless, time-consuming task to punish Pete for taking Porsche’s place.

Instead, it’s become Vegas’ own personal obsession.

Pete is brutal. He eviscerates student’s arguments, sometimes bloody and sharp like a knife, sometimes clean and deadly like a bullet. Sure, he wraps it in gentle language–it’s why students still love him, that and the dimples–but Vegas can see through it. He can see inside, through the jagged edges, because as it turns out, Pete’s wounds are remarkably like his own.

It makes him furious.

Because Pete is a genius. He has a mastery over theories that speaks to decades of study. He knows the literature intimately, has clearly read not only the classics but also the backlog, the minutiae, Vegas’ own work, even the really weird stuff from the low impact journals. Pete drops it all casually into his comments to students as if it’s nothing, as if this is something everyone knows. It’s not. Vegas has never met someone who’s views so closely complement his own.

And Pete is working for Kinn. He’s not even studying sexual deviance and crime, shit, Vegas looked up his dissertation proposal defense in the department’s files and it’s on goddamn IP address tracking.

It’s such a waste.

(Does Pete think his passion–Vegas’ passion–isn’t worth studying? Is it just a fun little side project for him? Does he not take it seriously, does he find it lacking in rigor, is he disgusted by his own fascination, is he disgusted by Vegas’–)

Vegas pushes him harder, and it has nothing to do with any of this. He’s just getting back at Kinn.

And if Pete is looking a little thinner these days, a little paler, if he has dark smudges under his eyes and has to steady himself upon standing like he’s lightheaded from the exertion, well. That’s Pete’s own fault now, isn’t it?

In truth, Vegas wouldn’t say he’s happier lately, not really, but he’s certainly more entertained than he’s been in a long time.

It almost makes him forget, right until his father comes barging into his office at EOD on Friday, red in the face and spitting mad.

Oh, right. Vegas’ grant proposal.

The one he submitted for federal funding at the NHS. Against Gun’s explicit wishes and instructions. The one Vegas was casually thinking (dreaminghopingpraying) might be funded and allow him to take that first, shining step towards out-performing Kinn. To doing it Vegas’ way, within his own area of expertise, instead of bending to his father’s will and trying to perform a poor mimicry of Kinn’s own success.

That one.

He’d almost forgotten.

Someone must have snitched, because it’s clear from the get-go that Gun knows about it. He slams Vegas’ office door open without even knocking, as if Vegas isn’t an associate professor here, as if he didn’t finally make it, as if he’s still just a child begging for daddy’s approval.

Vegas hates that he stands up from his desk and smooths his hands over the wrinkles in his suit. He hates the jump of fear into his throat, loathes the fact that even greater than the fear is the gasping desire for validation that leaves him breathless and lightheaded.

Gun is up in his face in half a second, behind his desk and in his space, spittle flying out and speckling Vegas’ face as he yells.

“You fucking little shit, you thought you could go behind my back? You thought I wouldn’t find out?”

“Pa, calm down, I didn’t go behind your back, I just–”

“You didn’t? You didn’t? Then why the fuck did I not know about this, huh? Why did I have to find out through my fucking secretary that you’re still submitting this pathetic drivel to nationally renowned institutions.”

Vegas blanches, holds still, his stomach in a free fall. He hopes he can still save this. He knows he cannot.

“You think they want something like this? Something disgusting and depraved, you really think they’re ever going to fund that?” Gun takes a few forced breaths, clearly willing himself to calm down. His next words are ice cold.

“If it was just your personal life, I could turn a blind eye. My son, the fucking sex freak. I could live with that embarrassment. But this? Advertising it to the world? You’re making the department look bad. You’re making us a laughing stock.”

“Pa, that’s not–I submitted a Letter of Intent and they invited me to submit a full–”

Just like that, the blistering fury is back. “I DON’T CARE WHO FUCKING INVITED YOU! I have made myself clear, time and time again, that you are not to engage in this ridiculous farce any longer. That you’re still persisting speaks negatively of you as my son and as my colleague.”

Finally, Gun withdraws a few steps away. It means the worst is coming, but it’s also almost over.

“I just can’t believe that you’d still do this to me, to us, after I pulled so many strings to get you this job in the first place,” and fuck, how can Vegas still feel guilty, he knows his father’s not right, he knows it…”I thought I beat that out of you a long time ago.”

Vegas thinks he might pass out. The blood running through his veins is ice, chilling him to the core.

“I’m doing this for us, son. For you. I want you to succeed, and it’s not going to happen if you keep following these flights of fancy. Do you understand?”

Anyone who just walked in would think that Gun is actually sincere. His voice is calm again. Soft. Dangerous.

“I understand.”

“Good”.

The click of the door latch closing as Gun leaves, shooting a backward glance and a smile at his eldest son, barely registers over the sound of Vegas’ own screaming head as tears finally break free and fall down his cheeks.

Dashing them away, he tries desperately, intentionally, to redirect his devastation.

What can he draw on, what always makes him feel better? He knows there’s something, but his panicking, adrenaline high brain can’t land on it. It’s ratcheting up his anxiety to a fever pitch, and is his vision getting blurry? Can he breathe? He’s not sure he can breathe, he feels his chest going up and down but it still seems like he’s not getting enough air–

Casting around for something, anything to latch onto, Vegas’ eyes land on the stack of papers he and Pete had half-finished grading earlier in the evening.

His terror, his devastation, his heartbreak all dissolve away, compressing into a sharp knife’s edge.

Pete. This is all his fault.

If he hadn’t left those comments in the margins of student papers, Vegas might never have submitted the grant proposal in the first place. Those comments were what reminded him of his passion, what made him think that maybe what he’s proposing is interesting, valid, special.

They’re responsible for Gun’s fury. Pete is responsible.

He grabs the top few off the stack and heads down to the basement, mind suddenly alight with singular purpose. He just needs to hurt Pete, the way he’s been hurt. If he passes the hurt along, maybe he can survive another week like this. He brushes the thought away. That’s not what this is about. Pete messed up, he left papers ungraded, he’s spending too much time giving in-depth feedback when he should be focused on slapping a grade on each one and moving on.

The fact that the lights are off in the stairwell as Vegas’ footfalls fly down barely slows him at all. The lights are also off in the basement corridor leading to the grad office, but that doesn’t necessarily mean Pete isn’t there.

Pete is always around, somewhere.

Suddenly, Vegas turns a corner, and that somewhere is right up against his chest.

He smacks directly into Pete in the dark. Student papers go flying.

It’s all the excuse Vegas needs.

“What the fuck are you doing wandering around down here with the lights off?” He snaps. “You didn’t finish grading, you can’t leave for the day yet.”

It’s hard to see Pete’s face in the dark, and he isn’t saying anything. He’s just got his palms pressed to Vegas’ chest, but he’s not putting any more distance between them. It’s more like he’s trying to hold himself upright.

His hands feel weirdly cold. One thumb has slipped past Vegas’ collar to rest on bare skin, and it’s like an ice cube.

So cold it almost burns.

“What’s wrong with you?” Vegas says, cruelly. “Pick up these papers and head up to my office. We need to get this finished. And don’t tell me you haven’t eaten dinner. We don’t have time for that.”

Pete remains silent, swaying a little on his feet. Vegas opens his mouth to spit fire at his lack of response when all at once, without warning, Pete tips forward and rests the crown of his head on Vegas’ shoulder, hands moving to grasp Vegas’ biceps in a death grip.

His entire body freezes, not knowing what to do.

Pete still hasn’t said a word, but he shakes his head against Vegas’ shoulder a little and his grip on Vegas’ arms tightens. His breathing sounds weird, high and reedy and too fast.

“Pete?”

He doesn’t respond, there in the dark basement, just huffs out a breath and clutches Vegas tighter.

“Are you…” Vegas finds that all his anger has dissipated, leaving something cold and akin to fear in its wake, “Pete, are you okay?”

Pete makes a terrible, scared, hurt little noise, and Vegas realizes his hands have risen to flutter, indecisive, above Pete’s waist. Like he’s wondering if he should hold him. That’s ridiculous, right? Why would he want to hold his TA, of all people?

It turns out it’s not that ridiculous, because all at once Pete gives a soft gasp and then collapses his full body weight straight down like his strings have been cut.

Vegas only catches him, albeit with a lot of effort and a grunt of surprise, because he was almost about to hold him anyway.

“Pete?! Hey, hey, are you okay?”

It’s clear that he’s not. He’s not supporting himself at all, and his head is lolling at an awkward angle half on Vegas’ arm. He’s passed out.

For a few long moments, Vegas just stands there. In the dark. Holding his unconscious teaching assistant in his arms.

It’s almost…peaceful? Although Pete is heavier than he looks. He must be hiding a good deal of muscle under that slim exterior.

Then Pete groans, shifting a little, and Vegas springs into action.

He can’t exactly get Pete into a bridal carry from this angle, and while he’s loath to admit it, he’s not strong enough to heft him up in a fireman’s hold. The awkward, dragging shuffle he ends up with would be mortifying if there were anyone here to see him. Well, anyone who was mostly conscious, at least.

As it is, by the time he gets Pete into the grad office and lowered none too gracefully onto the futon, both their clothes are all mussed up. Pete is missing a shoe. His hair, where it’s fanned out against the back of the futon, is a rumpled mess.

It looks for all the world like Vegas has been up to something significantly more pleasurable than dragging the surprisingly heavy, unconscious body of his teaching assistant down the hall.

He wonders, for a brief, sick moment, what it would be like to lean down and kiss Pete, right where his soft pink lips are parted in the moonlight. He looks so…delicate. It makes Vegas want to smudge him up a bit.

There are so many reasons he can’t be thinking that sort of thing that the shock of it jolts him back into action.

He locates a mini fridge in the corner and, making sure Pete’s not about to slump over and hit his head or something, he quickly dashes over to find a bottle of water. Sadly, the fridge seems to contain, exclusively and without exception, cans of PBR. Shuffling things around a little, he miraculously manages to unearth a single half-empty blue Gatorade from the depths.

When he closes the fridge door he suddenly feels blinded all over again, eyes slowly readjusting to the dark. He’d turn on a light, but here in the grad offices they’re all horrifying halogen overheads, the kind that buzz and flicker and suck the moisture right out of your eyes.

So Vegas just shuffles blindly back to the futon, cursing when he bangs his shin on something. What this office really needs is some good old-fashioned candles.

Finally he manages to feel his way to sitting next to Pete who, thank god, hasn’t fallen over and seems to be breathing evenly.

Unfortunately, now that he’s gotten this far, he’s not sure what to do. Try to wake Pete up? Let him be? Force feed him electric blue Gatorade? How would that even work? Mouth-to-mouth?

He’s still mired in the possibilities when Pete’s voice, all rough around the edges, breaks the silence.

“V-Vegas? What happened? Where are we?”

Vegas chalks the thrilling little jolt of adrenaline he experiences up to Pete startling him. It’s definitely not the way he just said Vegas’ name–his first name–in that voice. Certainly not the way that Pete seems to trust him to answer these questions. To take care of him.

No, nothing like that at all.

That nothing is taken to new levels when his eyes adjust further and he can finally pick Pete’s features out in the darkness; his hazy, half-lidded eyes looking at Vegas all open and trusting.

He’s done literally nothing to deserve that trust, but all at once he wishes he had.

“You–you’re okay. Just relax. We’re in the grad office–you fainted.”

Pete’s face squishes up in adorable confusion. “Huh?”

“I ran into you in the hall and you passed out.” He conveniently skips right over the part where he had to drag Pete’s dead weight all the way in here.

Pete’s evidently still a little out of it, blinking in confusion and licking his lips. He’s developed a flop sweat on his forehead, making his unruly hair stick to it wetly.

Vegas takes the chance to open the Gatorade, holding it for Pete to take.

“Here, drink this. It should help.”

To his credit Pete tries–he really does. His entire arm shakes as he reaches for the bottle, so badly that Vegas is sure he’ll never manage it himself, at least without spilling.

Seems like Pete needs someone else to be in charge at the moment. Fortunately, that’s something Vegas knows how to do.

He pushes Pete’s hand away, so easily it’s worrisome. “I’ve got it,” he says, infusing it with authority. “You lay back.”

Pete swallows, then nods, biting his lip.

“Okay.”

It’s easiest if Vegas steadies Pete’s head with a hand on his jaw, thumb resting on his cheek bone. He guides the bottle to Pete’s lips and tips it slowly, allowing Pete to take a few small sips.

“Good job. That’s it, you’ll start to feel better now.”

Pete closes his eyes and nods, again. His forehead is still sweaty. He seems to be drifting, so Vegas calls him back.

“Do you faint often? Have you been feeling sick lately?”

Forcing his eyes open with what seems like a Herculean effort, Pete contemplates Vegas and the question at the same time.

“No–not really.”

There’s clearly something he’s holding back, something he’s not telling Vegas. That just won’t do.

“Pete.” His tone brooks no argument.

“I…”, Pete folds all at once, like a house of cards. “I haven’t been eating much. It’s been making me dizzy and light-headed.”

Trust a dummy like Pete to forget something as simple as eating.

“Well why haven’t you–”

Then Vegas catches the incredulous look Pete is throwing at him and it hits him all at once. Oh, right. Pete hasn’t been eating because of him. Because Vegas never lets them break for meals, never offers to order something for them both, occupies so much of Pete’s time and energy he barely has a spare second.

He’s been pushing Pete to the brink. He shouldn’t be so surprised he finally broke.

He wonders for a moment if that’s really the only reason, and the answer comes to him in the form of the room they’re sitting in. It’s a poorly kept secret that Pete’s been living down here. Perhaps—perhaps Kinn isn’t paying him enough to get his own apartment.

To buy enough food. To keep Pete fed up like he should be.

The thought lights a fire in Vegas’ gut. That’s his TA they’re talking about. Pete is his responsibility, and the thought of him going hungry–not just a little, but enough to fucking pass out–well, it’s unconsciousable.

Within seconds he’s up and rooting around in the drawers of the nearest desk, using his phone as a flashlight and ignoring Pete’s weak squawks of protest.

The first drawer is shirts and pants, mostly black. The second is underwear and socks, and what looks like it could be a bottle of lube. Vegas shuts that one almost too quickly to pass it off as casual.

Finally, in the third, he locates a stash of what appear to be expired granola bars.

He fishes out the least offensive looking one and goes back to the futon.

It doesn’t seem quite right to just hand it to Pete, what with how shaky he’s looking, so Vegas unwraps it first and breaks off a smaller piece, holding it up to Pete’s lips while the other man watches him warily.

To his surprise, Pete firmly presses his mouth closed when Vegas presses, dry granola bar met with stubborn resistance. What the hell? Pete is clearly starving.

“Eat,” he says, using the tone he uses in class to make his students break out in a cold sweat, shifting uncomfortably in their seats.

Pete shakes his head, lips remaining firmly closed.

“Pete, you need to eat something.”

“No.”

“No? Why the hell not? You just passed out, need I remind you?”

“It’s stale.”

Of all the reasons he could have given, that isn’t one Vegas was anticipating.

“I don’t care if it’s stale. You need to eat. That’s an order.”

“Well I care, and I’m not eating it. I’m not even hungry.”

“You need to eat something.”

“Why do you care?”

The question catches Vegas off guard, leaving him reeling a bit. Why does he care?

“I can’t have my TA incapacitated. You’re incompetent enough as it is without being unconscious, too.” It rings false, justification falling painfully flat between them.

“Well, I’m not eating it. It’s disgusting.”

Vegas feels his resolve harden. “Fine.”

Pete doesn’t look surprised at his capitulation, just…resigned. Does he really think so little of Vegas?

Yeah. Yeah, he does–because Vegas hasn’t given him even the smallest reason to think otherwise. Fuck.

He doesn’t say where he’s going when he abruptly gets up, leaving Pete in the dark on the futon with an uneaten granola bar, still shaking and weak.

He’ll show Pete. He’ll show Kinn. No one–but no one–fucks with Vegas’ TA. Not even that TA himself.