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Bosco would like to make an amendment to the saying "never meet your heroes." He thinks, frankly, that the better version of it would be "meet your heroes, on occasion, so that you can relentlessly mock them when they turn out to be assholes." It's worked out for him pretty well so far.
Granted, said heroes also pulled off the biggest heist in a decade, pulled their broken team back together so quickly and cohesively that it made his head spin, and proved beyond a shadow of a doubt just why they were the most legendary thieves and magicians of the century, so it hasn't all been bad. Getting to show them up a few times has been a blast. Watching them work once they hit their stride has been kind of incredible. Not that he's gonna tell them that, obviously. Atlas is completely insufferable, even more than he thought he'd be when he saw the footage of the Vegas show. The last thing he needs is a more inflated ego.
He's alright, though, really. Bosco won't say that to his face, because J. Daniel Atlas is the type of person who will hold that over his head until the end of time, but he looked out for them. He's not, like, great at it, but he's trying. In a very irritable, smug, condescending way, but trying nonetheless, and that counts for something. It kind of has to. No one's ever taken him and June and Charlie seriously unless they were pretending to be someone else, and despite the whole hologram-identity-theft thing, Atlas did. He made fun of them and he picked fights and he grumbled about them, called them too young, inexperienced and cocky, but he cared about what they thought and he kept them alive.
He thinks having him on their asses might have made the other Horsemen actually like them better, too. Getting to commiserate with someone about your coworker being a dick apparently transcends the generational divide.
Coworker. That's not really the right word for it, is it? He knew the Horsemen were close before they fell off the grid, but he figured they were friends, teammates, people who did crimes and magic together because it was fun. The word "family" seemed incredibly cheesy and trite when applied to the magicians and performers that Bosco has wanted to be since he could first hold a deck of cards. There was no way it was accurate. They were business partners who just happened to get along outside of work or something. They weren't like his crew, three against the world, all for one and one for all, and the way they fought when the rest of them showed up to help Atlas—it felt like that. Like they cared, but not that much.
All of that bad blood lasted about twenty-four hours. Apparently it was the four of them (six, with Dylan Shrike and Lula May, who appeared at the last second, and the Horsemen acted like it was their plan all along and Bosco's still trying to find the trick but he can't figure it out) against the world. Henley knew just what buttons to press to get Merritt to stop picking fights and Atlas snapped and snarled at all of them but still knew how Jack liked his coffee and Jack had to have worked with these people for a decade at this point but still trailed around after them like they hung the stars in the sky and Merritt's bladed words got gentler, fonder whenever he was talking to one of his team, even Atlas. People who consider each other coworkers don't do stuff like that. They wouldn't forgive each other anything, wouldn't die to keep each other safe.
They're a unit. A family. And now Bosco's crew is kind of stuck with them, since Thaddeus politely-but-firmly kicked them out of his retirement mansion and the Eye shuffled them off to some big, sprawling estate in Scotland, and said firmly that they were sticking together until they received further instructions. Bosco pointed out that this was kind of bullshit, since Dylan was in charge and he was the one providing instructions, and Atlas scoffed but made the same point about five seconds later, and Dylan just grinned unrepentantly and said he had to take care of something.
It's been about a month now. Charlie and June seem thrilled with the whole situation. Bosco finds it all terrifyingly domestic, but it's nice to get to know the people whose identities he stole for various crimes outside of life-or-death situations. He's getting used to them, little by little. Henley and Atlas clearly run the show when Dylan's not around, bickering constantly and eyeing each other with the kind of love and grief that only comes from knowing someone better than you know yourself. Merritt snipes at everyone, though he's gotten less annoyed at Bosco since they managed to pull off the most incredible trick in the history of magic itself, ribbing him with something closer to the bladed affection he treats the Horsemen with, but he's got everyone's coffee orders memorized. Jack's seemingly grown out of the stage persona of the lovable rogue, but he was the nicest to them from the start and he's continued on that streak, challenging them and asking them questions and watching them learn with unbridled delight .
June's a little disappointed about the whole "growing out of being cool" thing, though. Bosco's not sure what she expected—they're all, like, forty, or about to be forty, and there's some level of lost coolness that comes with that—but he gets it. They all looked up to the Horsemen. They've all got their favorites. His was Atlas, before he realized that he was a complete and total asshole, and Charlie looked up to Lula May and Henley Reeves, and June lit up when she talked about Jack Wilder. She was their leather-jacket wearing lockpick, the thief that scaled walls and slipped through vents and won fights no one expected her to win. He was supposed to be theirs. He's the reason she learned to do all of that, and seeing her idol turn up in a blazer and a polo shirt with buttons probably sucked.
It's fine, though. He's just as skilled, and he took June showing him up with a smile and a shrug, conceding the game easily, and Bosco can't exactly fault a guy for growing up after the team he dedicated his life to fell apart.
Whatever. Bosco shrugs, stretching his arms up above his head and swinging his legs over the side of the couch, sprawling out with no small amount of relish. He never quite realized that he was taller than the four most famous thieves in the world, but it's a point of pride now, mostly because Atlas clearly hates it. He hasn't even tried to take a spot on the other end of it, instead perching on the arm of a plush chair that Henley usually favors and spinning the TV remote between his fingers. None of my business. She'll get over it, and they'll be thick as thieves or something. Ha. Thick as thieves. I should work that into the next show script. Wonder how Dylan feels about puns—
There's a furious, echoing yell from the upper floors, closer to a roar than anything else, and Bosco jolts upright, the cushions bouncing with the movement. Atlas glances sideways at him, the corner of his mouth twisting up into a self-satisfied smile, and irritation flares, scraping at the inside of his throat. "What are you looking at?"
That smirk only widens, a Cheshire-cat grin that's somehow worse and better than his stage smiles. "You think an upside-down room is a parlor trick, but this gets you to freak out," he says, exiting the episode of Psych that Bosco was in the middle of and flipping through a series of crime shows instead, still flipping the remote between his fingers like an asshole. "It's a miracle you ever made it to the stage, honestly."
"Yeah, man, forgive me for being a little jumpy after the lady who runs the international bank for organized crime almost killed us all," Bosco grits out, pressing himself against the cushions until he can almost feel the wooden back of it against his skin. "What, you're just completely immune to sudden screams? You calcified emotionally from decades of assholery—"
"Oh, so you're rhyming now?"
"Go to hell." Not his finest comeback, but fuck it, he's rattled. "Does this just happen with you guys? You're not even a little bit worried about that?"
"Not particularly," Atlas says, but Bosco watches his eyes dart up towards the ceiling. Ha. That's something. "You'll get used to it."
"Hard pass," he mutters. He'd rather not get used to random, wordless yelling at all hours of the day, thanks. Thank God his team is normal. Mostly. They're not this weird, at least.
Footsteps thunder overhead, and Bosco watches Atlas stiffen, his gaze tracking the sound; hysterical laughter echoes, followed by a second set of footsteps hurtling towards the staircase at the far end of the house. There's a thud, and the sound of something (someone?) skidding across the floor, before both sets of footsteps pick back up again. Bosco leans over and flicks a speck of dust toward Atlas. "You sure you're not worried about it?"
"Shut up."
"You sound kind of worried about it."
"Shut up."
"Wonder which of your friends is freaking out," he drawls, and Atlas's eye twitches visibly, his gaze fixed resolutely on the TV. It's a valiant attempt to ignore him, but he bets it's not gonna last. J. Daniel Atlas isn't exactly known for his patience. "C'mon, you gotta be able to tell them apart at this point, right? It's kind of embarrassing if you can't." He's pretty sure it's either Jack or Merritt. Henley Reeves doesn't scream unless she's pretending to be eaten alive by piranhas, and Lula doesn't really sound all that angry when she yells. Dylan isn't here, so it's definitely not him, and it's not Charlie or June. He wouldn't still be sitting here if they sounded that upset.
Atlas's gaze slides toward him, a muscle in his jaw twitching next. Huh. Wonder if I can get his eye twitch at the same time. "Whatever Jack's upset about is his problem. And whoever's running."
"How do you know it's Jack?"
"How would you know if it was Charlie or June?"
Bosco makes a face, and Atlas grins at him, his annoyance seemingly fading in the face of getting to be smug and irritating and frustratingly correct. He's spared from having to deal with it, though, because the second set of footsteps stampedes down the stairs and Merritt bolts into the room, moving quicker than he's ever seen him. Atlas's expression goes blank, startled. Bosco thinks his own face might be doing the same thing, which is enough to make him scrunch his nose as the world's greatest mentalist practically doubles over, wheezing. Or laughing. He's not sure which. It might be both. "You guys are so weird."
Atlas points at him without sparing him a glance, hand twisting in a gesture that probably means shut up, because I'm not gonna say it out loud three times in a row. Bosco swallows the urge to stick his tongue out at him, because he's pretty sure he's the only one who loses if he does that. He'll never live it down, ever. "You know I have to ask, right?" he says, eyeing him the way someone eyes a particularly bedraggled stray cat, caught between concern and pity and a little bit of disgust. "And you know you're gonna lose whatever fight you just picked?"
Merritt, still doubled over, holds a hand out imperiously. It doesn't do much to fix the whole bedraggled stray cat vibe he has going on, crumpled blue hat included. Bosco watches him push himself upright, his face red from exertion, his grin as easy and indolent as ever. There's an odd, almost immortal quality to him, honestly; Bosco's pretty sure he's barely changed at all in the last fifteen years. "Only if Jack catches me," he says grandly, before frowning as the sound of feet skidding across the floor above them grows louder. "Which, tragically, may be imminent, but I guess the least I can do is let you in on my true greatest trick—"
Atlas tilts his head, mouth pressed in a thin line. "Are you gonna do it before he throws you off the balcony?"
Merritt's smile just widens. He looks smug, too. All of them look smug half the time. It's probably a magician thing. He should work on being less smug, because he gets enough flack for being like Atlas as it is. "You know, Danny, I think trying to pick up on the context clues here should really be enough—"
"Merritt."
Merritt barks a laugh, bright and sharp, even as the sound of someone running down the stairs bounces off the walls of the manor. His eyes glint a little as he raises his hands placatingly, completely undercutting the implied surrender. "You know my signature trick used to be hypnotizing someone over the phone, yeah?"
Atlas. blinks at him, before his mouth twists with distaste. "I'm gonna let him chuck you off the balcony."
"It wasn't anything bad," Merritt protests, though he seems pretty resigned to his fate, given the lack of running. "I just gave him a call after I got the card, made sure I wasn't the only one invited to this shindig, told him I wasn't sure I was still up to running with the rest of you." He tips his hat mockingly towards Bosco. He scowls at him, and then quickly tries to smooth his face into something more neutral when he sees Atlas do the same thing. "Jack, ever generous, offered to let me try to hypnotize him to prove that I still had it. So I did. Which is why he's been dressing like a shady real estate agent for the last month."
What.
Daniel blinks, looking significantly more nonplussed than anyone really should after being told that their friend hypnotized another friend into wearing weird blazers and button-down shirts despite every recorded appearance showing someone who barely tolerated wearing a suit onstage. Bosco's pretty sure he looks the opposite of nonplussed. He's pretty sure his jaw is on the floor, actually, because the thought of it is so absurd and vaguely terrifying that his brain is short circuiting. He can actually feel it fizzling out, the thoughts sparking and twisting and his synapses charring beyond recognition. It's just insane. He's not a stranger to playing tricks on his team and they've gotten him back for it a dozen times, but that's another level entirely. To shrug off a month's worth of hypnosis as a prank—
Is that what it's like to really be at their level? he wonders as Atlas pushes himself off of the arm of the couch with an aggrieved sigh, as Jack comes careening through the doorway, the look on his face downright murderous. Something like that would take us months of practice, and to them it's a game. It's something that you argue over and fight about because someone made you dress stupidly for a few weeks. It's nothing. It's a footnote.
June's gonna be happy, though. Looks like Jack's brief pause in his quest to find and punch Merritt McKinney had a lot to do with throwing away whatever polo shirt he was wearing and replacing it with something a lot more reminiscent of the London show a decade ago. She'll probably be relieved, considering that she told him to dump ice on her head if she ever started dressing business-casual. Guess turning thirty-whatever doesn't mean you lose your edge. Getting hypnotized by your mentalist teammate does, though. He'll have to watch out for that.
Bosco's eighth-grade science class showed a video of wolves hunting, once, circling their prey with powerful, loping strides once it was too worn out to run anymore. Bosco didn't tend to pay much attention in eighth-grade science, mostly because he was thirteen and already trying to memorize card tricks and watching clips of the Horsemen on mute behind his textbook, but he remembers it distinctly. It was methodical, deliberate. He'd heard the term apex predator before, but it made a lot more sense watching that video than it did looking at diagrams and reading a secondhand biology book.
Watching Jack approach Merritt feels a lot like watching that video again. Which is weird. He knows he can fight. He's seen him do it. It just—didn't compute, really, that he could be intense. He's usually the nice one.
This is kind of intimidating, though. Bosco swallows the urge to press himself back against the couch and hope that no one sees him, sprawling across as much of the couch as possible. Atlas's eyes dart towards him for a moment, his brow creasing, before he exhales sharply. "You know, some of us are actually trying to do things other than manage…" he gestures aimlessly towards Jack, who pauses, and Merritt, whose grin just widens. "Whatever this is. Can you deal with this, like, anywhere else?"
"Yeah, man." Jack's tone is light, cold, the thinnest layer of ice across a still lake. "Let me just grab Merritt. I'll get outta your hair."
Merritt raises a hand. "In all fairness, you did let me do it—"
Jack bares his teeth. It's almost a smile, except for all the ways that it's really, really not. It's also a lot scarier without the ill-fitting blazers. "You made me dress worse than Danny, Merritt."
"Well, you were imitating him in every other possible way." Merritt shrugs languorously, entirely unbothered by the possibility of certain death. "I figured I'd just help out before the big show. See if you could get your mojo back."
"My mojo was fine, dude, you made it worse—"
"Why am I getting dragged into this?" Atlas interjects. "And why are you still here?"
"Oh, ouch, cold, Atlas, just when I thought we were finally friends—"
"You dress like a Psychology 101 TA, dude, we all know it—"
"Please, you got that one from Lula, you've never even seen the inside of a lecture hall—"
Bosco fishes his phone out of his pocket, drawing his legs toward his chest, and opens up his perpetual groupchat with Charlie and June. I am rapidly becoming a child of divorce, he sends. Save me.
Charlie, the traitor, just texts back about six laughing emojis. June likes his message and doesn't say a word. Bosco groans and drags the knit throw blanket off the back of the couch, pulling it over his face as the bickering grows louder.
This is his life now, apparently. Guess it could be worse.