Chapter Text
Bosco LeRoy is having a monumentally shitty day.
First, he wakes up late, which wasn’t a problem when it was just him, Charlie, and June, but it’s not just them anymore, it’s them and the Horsemen. The goddamn Horsemen. He might’ve put on a show of nonchalance when Atlas first appeared in their hideout, but holy shit was it hard to keep a lid on it. He’s been idolizing J. Daniel Atlas since middle school, and there he was right in front of him, offering them not only a job but a chance to do something beyond swindling egotistical crypto bros and finance jerks. The last thing he wanted to do was to come off as an overzealous kid having bitten off more than he could chew, and now that he’s been welcomed into the Eye’s ranks that pressure has increased tenfold. So, waking up late? Out of the question. He would not have Atlas or Dylan or any of the other Horsemen thinking he wasn’t taking this opportunity seriously.
Apparently, their pilfered electricity line didn’t get that memo. Bosco woke to a too-bright sun peering in through the industrial windows and a hand on his ankle shaking him roughly awake. It was Charlie, standing at the end of the couch he crashed on the night before (one of the cons of their Bushwick hideaway was the lack of bedrooms; the three of them have resorted to alternating between the couch, an air mattress, and a lumpy cot), saying frantically, “Dude, the power went out last night!”
“What?” He asks blearily, still half asleep and hoping he didn’t hear Charlie right.
“Everything is down.” June’s darting around their desks, clicking and tapping away at their desktops and lamps futilely. “Our neighbors,” she spits out. “Must have gotten their electricity bill. Put two and two together.”
“Shit.” Bosco props himself up on his elbows, and eyes suspiciously the height of the sun outside. “What time s’it?”
“It’s almost 9:00,” Charlie says, muffled as he hurriedly throws on a hoodie that Bosco is eighty-five percent sure is his. “None of our alarms went off. We gotta be outta here in like, five minutes!”
That had sent Bosco scrambling for his phone, only to find it dead and unresponsive on the milkcrate side table, which in turn sent him jumping up so fast he nearly brained himself tripping over the tangle of blankets he pushed haphazardly out of the way. The three of them were supposed to be meeting this morning with the Horsemen to go over the facts and figures for their first job together since the Vanderberg debacle, (a CEO of a pharmaceutical company has not been the altruistic philanthropist he’s purported to be, a big no-no with the Eye), and Atlas had made it clear that tardiness was not to be tolerated. Not that Bosco planned to be tardy in the first place, but J. Daniel “Control Freak” Atlas just had to remind them. Though he might have had a point in the plentiful text reminders because now Bosco’s cursing himself and his stupid phone and stupid lack of electricity, stumbling about trying to find a non-wrinkled tee-shirt and matching pair of converse just to get out the door, er, elevator, in a timely manner.
Charlie and June are equally rushing about, cramming their separate morning routines into the jumbled few minutes they have and working around the lack of power: Charlie flips off the useless coffee maker, June bemoans the inability to use her hair straightener, and Bosco rounds the island of their kitchen nook to the cabinet above the sink that has become the communal vitamin and medicine storage. There’s a thrum of disgruntlement twining around them like barbed wire. This is definitely not what he expected to wake up to this morning, none of them did, and it has soured their conjoined moods.
He never likes when the three of them aren’t on the same page. It’s like there’s a cog out of alignment. A dislocation of something he can’t name, something he’s not skilled at setting right again. He’s always been better at starting arguments than resolving them, but he’s trying to improve - for them, for the Horsemen. However, there is little he feels he can do now as the clock hand on his watch is ticking closer and closer to the tiny nine like a schoolyard taunt. Right now, he should be taking his morning meds and making sure he doesn’t look a total disaster for their first real job run-down for the Eye. He’ll figure everything else out later.
He twists the cap off and overturns the bottle only to be met with nothing. Zilch. Zero. Nada. He remembers then, of course, staring at the empty anti-anxiety med bottle that he took his last one yesterday and was supposed to refill his prescription, something he evidently never got around to doing. He grits his teeth and slams the orange plastic onto the counter harder than he should have. It’s not the end of the world, but it’s the last thing he needs right now. Skipping a day won’t kill him, but it will make him liable for a headache, and dizziness if he’s really unlucky. Which, with the way this day has started, he wouldn’t be surprised if he ends up with a bout of vertigo. He slams the cabinet, ignores the way it makes both Charlie and June jump, and steels himself for whatever other bullshit this morning is going to throw at him.
“You forgot to refill your meds.” Charlie doesn’t so much as ask as he does state the unfortunate fact apprehensively, noticing the empty bottle Bosco tosses to the side.
“Yep.” Bosco says shortly, because if he says anymore he’s going to start barking at his friends, and they don’t deserve his ire just because he forgot to call the pharmacy. “It’s fine. I’ll call for them after.”
“No, dude, you know you’ll get a headache if you wait.” June protests, but Bosco shuts her down with a pointed look.
“I’ll be fine. Besides, we’re late enough as it is.”
“Bosco.” She presses.
“June.” He mocks.
Charlie clicks his tongue and pins Bosco with a dissecting stare. Charlie’s always been good at that, picking you apart with a single blink. It used to make Bosco squirm, unused to having someone be able to disarm him so completely, to having someone care enough to push back against his hard-broiled defenses. Now it’s an assuaging reminder that he’s got people in his corner. “Promise you’ll pick it up later?”
Bosco nods, earnest for once, and crosses his fingers this is the last of their issues for the day. But it’s like whoever’s up there pulling the strings can hear his internal commiserating and decides to have a laugh because the subway station, notoriously unreliable on a good day, is ridiculously behind schedule today. The platform is full of cranky people letting out annoyed huffs and peering around the tunnel bend hoping to catch sight of a subway train that is nowhere near their stop. He’s already on edge, anticipating Atlas’s inevitable lecture, and the proximity of all these frustrated strangers isn’t helping any. He doesn’t even care if it comes off as rude when he crosses his arms and scooches away from the crowd, purposefully situating himself between an increasingly concerned looking Charlie and June just to maintain some semblance of calm.
The subway car itself is sensory hell when it finally does arrive with squealing brakes and a noxious plume of something that smells like gasoline and old socks. The three of them hurry on, not bothering with trying to snag seats, just making sure to latch onto the first free handhold they could find. Bosco thinks Charlie says something about texting Henley that they were on their way, but the words are lost on him. He’s too focused on the way his teeth grind together as his jaw clenches, feeling every creak and crack in the enamel. He presses his shoulder against Charlie’s in a silent apology for his attitude and allows June to circle a hand loosely around his wrist. He turns all his attention to those points of contact and allows himself to detach from the grating chaos of the subway car that surrounds him.
He had hoped to settle some before their stop, but he’s shit out of luck as his heart still feels to be beating way too fast and his skin feels too tight over his bones when the subway car jolts on the tracks and the doors open with a quiet hiss. He knows, rationally, it’s just his stupid brain chemistry and out of whack nervous system reacting to all the things that have gone wrong today. There’s a difference, however, between understanding all of this logically and actually making himself believe it, but there’s no time now to unpack all of that.
He follows June and Charlie out to the platform and takes the stairs up to the street two at a time, pretending not to hear June snarking something behind his back about idiot tall boys and their idiot long legs. The walk to the Park Slope safehouse isn’t terrible. It’s an unassuming three-story brownstone that they’ve been to a handful of times, apparently one of many Eye-owned residences littered throughout the city. It’s not the first thing he would imagine when he hears the word ‘safehouse’, considering its luxurious decor, high quality tech that had Charlie nearly drooling when he first saw it, and expensive lodgings. Bosco isn’t sure whose name is on the lease but someone stocks the fridge and keeps the rooms tidy since every time they show up it remains in the same pristine, hotel-like condition.
His nose is going numb against the icy morning draft and he’s triple checking that his phone is actually charging in his pocket with the portable charging block he swiped from Charlie when the familiar steps and thick stone railings come into view. They waste no time letting themselves in, keenly aware of how delayed they are, and -
Bosco startles. Charlie squeaks. June curses.
He didn’t expect Atlas to be standing right there in the entryway, a dissatisfied frown on his face. Has he just been waiting there for them? What the fuck? He thought he would have at least a couple minutes of peace before being subjected to Atlas’s patented condescending glare of eternal judgement.
“You’re late.”
Bosco bristles at that, and mirrors Atlas’s crossed arms. “Really? Couldn’t tell.” He earns himself a sharp elbow in the rib from Charlie for that dig, who then immediately pivots to play peacemaker with Atlas. “Yes, yes, we know. We’re really sorry -”
“Yeah!” June picks up where Charlie nervously trails off, plastering on a placating grin. “We’re really sorry. It won’t happen again -”
“Definitely won’t happen again. Right, Bosco?” Charlie prods, looking at him with a pleading, expectant stare. He says nothing, not wanting to agree to anything if Atlas is just going to be a pretentious asshole about it, but Charlie is persistent, and repeats himself a bit firmer. “Right, Bosco?”
“Right.” Answering Charlie is like pulling teeth, and on top of that, it doesn’t seem to pacify Atlas. His face betrays nothing, irritatingly void of reaction. Bosco wonders if Atlas has always been this aloof, or if it came along with the induction to the Eye. Whichever it is, it’s vexing. (And not at all comparable to his own personality, no matter what similarities Charlie and June like to point out, thank you very much).
Atlas doesn’t bother responding to them with actual, verbal words. He just hums in acknowledgement of their apologies and turns on his heel down the hallway. Bosco isn’t sure how a hum can be patronizing, but somehow, Atlas accomplishes it. The cool dismissal causes a spike of indignation. Bosco shakes his head, clenches his fists where they’re hidden under his arms. “Dick.” He mutters under his breath, but not quiet enough for Charlie to not catch.
“Are you just incapable of playing nice?”
“Yeah, I think it’s in his moral doctrine, you know? Just like leaving the cap off the toothpaste and watching weird prison documentaries.” June adds as they follow Atlas, shuffling towards the elegant dining room they know sits at the end of the hall, moving past the steep, carpeted staircase and doorways to an organized kitchen and cozy living room. “Oh! And eating those gross ketchup-flavored chips.”
“It’s not my problem that you don’t have good taste, Junie.” Bosco teases, (he loves his friends so fucking much, no one will ever know him like they do), before saying more acutely to Charlie, “And I’ll play nice when he does.”
Charlie brings his palm to his face, hand over his eyes, releasing an exasperated groan. “Seriously, I think I would rather face my sister again than deal with the two of you.”
Bosco makes an affronted sort of noise. “Rude. You think we’re as bad as a sociopathic war criminal?”
“No, you’re right.” Charlie deadpans. “You’re worse.”
-
They find the rest of the Horsemen seated around the ornate dining table, already deep into classified files they definitely shouldn’t have access to; thank you, Dylan Shrike. Henley’s hunched over a thick stack of papers with a green highlighter in one hand, a pink one in the other, and a glitter gel pen stuck behind her ear. She doesn’t even seem to notice their entrance, focused eyes moving in quick arcs across the page. She’s sans gloves today, an increasingly common occurrence it appears, as the Horsemen meld back into each other’s lives.
Jack and Merritt are working together on something, but on what specifically, Bosco can’t decipher. They’ve taken up the far end of the table with a blue building schematic, corners being held in place by jenga blocks and a single magic 8 ball. They’re drawing uneven lines between different points on the schematic with sharpie, rulers untouched beside them. Bosco wonders if Atlas has already chewed them out for that, or if that’s a yet-to-be voiced grievance.
Lula stands in front of a rolling whiteboard off to the side, intently doodling what appears to be a very detailed stick figure crime scene. The figure surrounded by red scribbles and x’ed out eyes has an arrow pointing to it marked Atlas. Bosco snorts; Lula’s quickly rising in the ranks of his favorite Horsemen.
Atlas spots it too, and stops short at the sight of it. “That doesn’t look like a list of potential entry points, Lula.”
“Holy shit, Danny!” Lula startles so suddenly and comically, marker clattering to the floor and a yelp falling from her lips. “We should put a bell on you. Can’t you walk louder?”
“No, actually, I cannot. That would defeat the purpose of the literal break-in we’re planning.”
Ah, that’s what the schematics are for. Bosco wanders over to the table, taking a peek around the miscellaneous jenga stacks. It’s labeled Greer Health Corp, as in Archibald Greer, the prick of a CEO that’s lucky enough to be their mark. Reconnaissance, (i.e., Jack and June staking out the building and Greer’s daily routines, Charlie hacking Greer’s online planner and emails, and Bosco himself posing as a temp receptionist to get access to hard copies of company reports), has suggested a well hidden safe in Greer’s personal office, and Bosco knows Atlas is hoping it gives them a clearer idea as to what sort of illegal going-ons Greer has his grubby hands in.
Lula shrugs with an impish grin, flipping the whiteboard around to reveal what looks like a messy cross between a bullet point list and venn diagram. “Hey, you never know, sometimes you might need to be loud during a break-in.”
Atlas goes bug-eyed. It endlessly surprises Bosco how someone as clever as Atlas can so unwittingly walk into Lula’s traps. “In what situation would you ever need to be loud in a break-in?”
“I don’t know,” Lula says sardonically. “Maybe when you need a diversion? A distraction?”
“We’re breaking in in the middle of the night, who the hell are we going to have to distract - ?”
“Children.” Henley interjects sharply without looking up from her papers; Jack and Merritt aren’t even trying to hide their giggles. “Don’t make me get the 8-Ball.”
So it’s an argument resolver. That tracks, Bosco thinks. Perhaps he, Charlie, and June should invest in one. Might make their movie night quarrels easier, though he’s not sure when the next one will be without any power.
Things go smoother once they return their concentration to Greer’s dirty dealings. (And once they consult the magic 8 ball. Merritt asks it if they’ll have to create a diversion during their break-in. Apparently, all signs point to yes. Lula cheers. Atlas pouts.) The Horsemen continue on with what they were previously doing, falling seamlessly into an easy rhythm that Bosco feels uniquely privileged to witness. The five of them work in such polished conjunction, an astounding link even after a decade apart. It’s like no time has passed at all. They operate in near flawless harmony, a synchronization that rivals only their onstage presence. Atlas flips assuredly through files detailing Greer’s life before rising to CEO (to con your mark, you need to know your mark), passing wordlessly the most significant documents to Henley who collects the information with a calculating gleam to her eyes. They’ve come a long way from street magician and his assistant, Bosco thinks, but that bond is ingrained, and not to be taken lightly.
Lula and Jack are bouncing between the whiteboard and schematics to determine the concrete aspects of the actual, well, break-in. There’s a lot more to it than Bosco initially assumes, and makes sure to take mental notes for the future. Lula’s plotting out all points of entry and exit, the potential brands of safes Greer uses, the guards he employs, listing out the known security measures within the building and surrounding ones (it would do them no good to escape Greer’s office only to get caught by cameras across the street), and chattering with Jack about which route is the both the most opportune and safest. There are so many factors to consider that it makes Bosco’s head spin, but Lula and Jack are so levelheaded, so confident in their scrutiny, that it rids Bosco of some of his initial worries.
Merritt floats between the two pairs with all the jittery energy of a hyperactive dragonfly. He’s a bit of a wildcard, an underestimated threat with his uncanny ability to cold read. He’s like a thief of the mind, stealing information right out of the palm of someone’s hand the same way Jack can lift a wallet from a coat pocket. He’s working simultaneously on studying all the intricacies of Greer, reading over the roster of security guards assigned to be on shift for the night of the job, and taking notes on all the employees closest to Greer, all those that might have some information on the man. Bosco doesn’t know how he does it, keeping track of all those details, all that knowledge. But Merritt takes it all in stride, smiling all the way and still managing to crack a joke to relax the mood when Atlas gets a tad too twitchy.
The five of them are stupefying. Ceaseless. Striking. They’re the Horsemen, Guardians of the Eye and Enforcers of justice.
And they’ve, miraculously, taken a chance on three scrappy, hardheaded kids.
Bosco is almost rueful to intrude. He knows Charlie and June feel the same way, if the way they loiter around the outskirts is any indication. Though the Horsemen are nothing if not incredibly stubborn, and bring the three of them into their fold just as easily as they did when it came to exposing Veronika.
June moves soundlessly to Jack’s side, obviously intrigued by the safe research. The way her eyes light up at the sight of them takes Bosco’s breath away. She’s enthralled and passionate and adorably inquisitive, gaze roaming the whiteboard and fingers twitching towards the expo-markers. He’ll never tire of watching her do her thing, the way her brain seems to whir with possibilities, tip of her tongue poking out when she’s zoned in. Lula tosses her a pen, asks for her opinion on the difficulty of picking a wall safe versus a floor safe, and June pinks at the attention. Bosco wants to tell her she deserves all the recognition, but keeps his lips sealed; he’ll have all the time later to let her know.
Charlie makes his way to Henley and Atlas, and Bosco is no less enraptured by his mastermind’s ardor. Charlie is diligent and determined and steadfast in his endeavors. He slots effortlessly into the flow of research, jumping into the deep end and immediately getting caught up with Atlas talking about the formula of their trick. He rolls his sleeves up, (and yup, definitely Bosco’s hoodie, he recognizes the tear in the cuff from when he fumbled juggling a knife a couple months back; 13 stitches later and he’s still not allowed to help chop bananas for sundae nights), and Bosco can’t help but watch the way Charlie moves. He’s poised, guileful. He’s as mesmerizing here, in a stolen hoodie and baggy jeans as he was on that stage in Abu Dhabi.
Bosco never has felt so lucky then when he is witness to the brilliance of his family. He fears that he pales in comparison, though he knows June and Charlie would object to that thought, and that soothes the biting and barbed thing in his soul.
Merritt snags his attention with a quirk of his finger. His eyes flick between Bosco and Charlie and June with a knowing glint. Bosco fights the urge to snap at him, all too used to having the things closest to him used against him, and has to remind himself that Merritt isn’t like that, none of them are. He’ll tease Bosco to high hell, sure, but he would never belittle him, never berate him. Bosco just forgets sometimes that he’s got more people, (more Horsemen), in his corner now.
“Come on tadpole, how do you feel about combing through bank statements?”
For someone who flunked a required accounting course at Juilliard, Bosco finds the work not as tedious as he thought. It's certainly monotonous, and the words and numbers begin to blur together after a while, but it’s also like a puzzle, piecing together the checks and slips to tell the story of Greer’s spending. He finds a good groove, following the trail of Greer’s monetary movements and account numbers under Merritt’s watchful, guiding eye.
What someone spends their money on can tell you a lot about a person, Merritt advises him. Atlas, for instance, Merritt whispers conspiratorially, splurges on fancy Parisian coffee beans while using the same dented traveling mug with chipping paint that he’s had for years. Bosco furrows his brows, but Merritt explains that to him it indicates someone who appreciates comfort over mien, simple pleasures over consumerism. Greer, on the other hand, seems to only care about appearance. Bosco finds all sorts of checks written out for expensive clothing stores, top-notch skin care products, high-end interior designers, and Michelin star restaurants. He spends money on himself, for himself, and puts little, if any, back into the company. All his claims of funding charities and donating to non-profits are turning out to be flimsy falsehoods, and Bosco takes his time making sure he’s right in all of his notetaking.
He’s meticulous. Immersed. Time passes without him even realizing. He barely notices the flurry of work in his periphery, his friends and the Horsemen working just as assiduously as he is. The sun’s rays out the window begin to fade, dark clouds rolling in, just as last night’s weather report promised; Bosco wonders if there’s an umbrella somewhere around here he’ll be able to swipe before they head home. He pays no mind to it in the moment, swapping reports with Merritt and sharing his insights. At some point someone, Lula, he thinks, sneaks out to the kitchen and returns with a tray of fruits for them to pick at. Bosco goes immediately for the apple slices, and instinctually pushes the strawberries towards June, and the grapes to Charlie.
(She also brings out juice pouches with a little snickering. “Aww, Capri-Suns for the kiddies.” Merritt coos good-naturedly, and Bosco flips him the bird while sipping from the fruit-punch flavored one. Atlas rolls his eyes, but still passes Charlie and June one when prompted.)
There’s something missing from the puzzle of Greer’s fiscal network, Bosco finds, like a piece fallen underneath the table that takes ages to locate. Greer is spending more money than he’s bringing in. In fact, his drug company seems to be on the verge of bankruptcy, yet there is nothing in the company’s memos, emails, or reports to suggest it. Greer is working very hard to hide his dwindling prospects, putting on a crafted veneer of wealth to shareholders and acquaintances. He’s got to be getting his money from somewhere, and Bosco figures it’s got to be a very dirty, very illegal somewhere for it to be concealed so carefully.
Which is where their burglary comes into play. Greer has, so far, at least, been smart enough to not leave an online trace of the funds, forcing them to search further for the paper trail of who exactly he’s in cahoots with. (Bosco’s got money on the Irish Mob. June and Charlie have thrown their lot in with local arms dealers. Atlas reprimands them, tells them it’s unethical to speculate, but it’s also unethical to rob people. So… Irish Mob.)
“The loading dock is our best shot.” Jack says when they eventually come together to construct the plan. “Trash pick-up for the whole office building is scheduled for 9:00 p.m. Any guards around will be preoccupied by the collectors coming in and out with their trucks, and the rest of the building should be empty by that time of night. June and I can be in uniform, make our way in, but the issue then is getting to Greer’s office on the fifth floor.”
“Right, ‘cause of the door scanners.” Charlie says, pursing his lips. “I can handle the security cameras, reroute and loop the feeds, but the card scanners are trickier.”
Greer is as paranoid as he is lavish. He’s equipped his entire building with electronic RFID scanners that can only be accessed with specific employee identification cards. An employee identification card that Bosco is lucky enough to have been given while posing as the fresh eyed, bumbling receptionist.
“I can meet you in there, use my card to get you guys through without setting off any alarms.” Bosco suggests, but Atlas immediately cuts him off.
“No. That’s not going to work.” Atlas says tersely. He doesn’t even look up from the swarm of papers he’s studying, standing with his arms braced against the table. “We could try lifting one from another employee -”
“Woah,” Bosco interrupts, straightening his spine, because the fuck? Atlas didn’t even give him a chance. “And why would that not work?”
“There’s too much risk involved.” Atlas counters. “We can’t have your position at the front desk burned. What if anyone sees you? The custodians, the night guards? If any of them have any speck of intelligence they’ll put two and two together that the new temp was there after hours on the very same night their boss is robbed.”
“If anyone sees me I’ll distract them, Atlas.” He takes a little pleasure digging that in, admittedly. “But we have the guard’s schedules down to a T. If I go in through the maintenance entrance and use the stairwells the chances of anyone catching me are slim.”
“Slim, but not zero.” Atlas asserts. He’s facing Bosco head on now, brow doing that spasm it does when someone’s aggravating him. Usually Bosco is glad to be the cause of it, but with everything else that has gone to shit today, he’s not particularly in the right frame of mind to be enjoying a tit for tat with Atlas. It’s like the others can sense this, judging by how quiet they’ve gotten, a tense audience to their growing spat.
“And,” Bosco charges right on. “I can be lookout for Jack and June. So if anything does go wrong, and that’s a very big if, they’ve got someone who knows the layout of the office to get them out.”
“I don’t like it. There’s too many variables.” Atlas won’t budge, and it’s relentlessly infuriating to Bosco. All the peace he forged in the tedium of research is rapidly dispersing, his tolerance for Atlas’s obstinacy wearing dangerously thin.
“I don’t care if you don’t like it. There’s no point in stealing a whole other RFID card when we have access to a working one already.” Bosco points out. “And I would posit that there’s too many variables with even trying to. What if we’re caught with a card that’s not ours? What if the employee reports it missing?”
“My God, there’s two of them.” Lula whispers, but it doesn’t quite break the ice in the way she probably intends. If anything, it pisses Bosco off even more, being compared (again) to the guy who’s being an absolutely unyielding prick.
“Don't. Don’t do that.” Atlas bites at him. “Don’t throw my words back at me.”
Bosco shoots up from his chair, breathing harder and throwing his arms out. The sound of his chair scraping across the floor echoes like thunder in the heavy silence of the room. He refuses to look at June or Charlie, knows the fight will drain out of him the moment he does. “Then tell me why you’re being so unreasonable.”
“Oh, I’m unreasonable?” Atlas has the gall to laugh. It’s derisive and mocking and makes Bosco sneer.
“Yeah, I would count not listening to reason as being unreasonable!”
“Alright, maybe we should try cooling it -” Merritt cuts in cautiously, but it’s a lost cause because Bosco is just so done with today.
“No, I want Atlas to explain why we shouldn’t just use my card.”
Atlas’s voice goes stony, final. “I’ve already said, there’s too much risk.”
“I’m not buying that.” Bosco spits. He’s crossed over from irritated straight to livid. He can feel his heart rate speeding up, nostrils flaring, voice rising. He feels a bit like flash paper then; brittle and paper-thin, one flick away from erupting in an incensed explosion. “What’s the real reason, huh? Why are you so against me helping? What is -”
Oh. The words get caught in his throat. A thought hits him then, and it makes something acidic and resentful churns in his gut. “What, do you really not trust me? After everything I’ve done to prove myself, you still don’t think I can handle it?”
It’s the only reason Bosco can think of in the heat of the moment for Atlas being so stalwart. He’s had no problems so far letting Charlie in on the planning, didn’t have a single protest against June’s involvement, it was just him, just Bosco that he’s had an issue with. The familiar tang of disappointment settles uncomfortable on his tongue and lodges hard in his throat. He’s done everything that Atlas has asked of him during the Vanderberg debacle. He played his part perfectly as Schreiber, as a climate change protester, as a goddamn racecar driver leading Interpol on a wild goose chase. He was part of the trio that both tricked the Four Horsemen and brought them back together again.
And yet, after all that’s gone down, Atlas still doesn’t trust him, doesn’t think he’s capable, and doesn’t even respect him enough to tell it to him straight. Heat pricks behind his eyes, cheeks flushing beyond his control, and no, absolutely not, he will not start crying here, in front of any of them. Fuck that.
“Fuck this.” He hisses, and misses the way Atlas’s eyes widen, just barely, at the curse. “You don’t want my help? Fine. I’m outta here.”
He’s got enough wherewithal left in the haze of anger to remember to snag his jacket from the back of his chair and stuff his phone in his back pocket before storming out. And yeah, maybe it comes off as a bit petulant, but he doesn’t particularly care at the time. He’s got no interest in sticking around to hear whatever pathetic rebuttal Atlas might have, or what explanation the rest of the Horsemen might build in their leader’s defense. It’s easy to ignore their smattering of protests at his abrupt departure, but not as much to ignore the clattering of footsteps that he knows intrinsically are Charlie and June chasing after him, imploring -
“Bosco, stop -”
“Please, wait -”
He stops just short of the front door, flaring temper sputtering out at the sound of their distress; he’s never been able to deny them anything. He turns on his heel slowly, reluctantly. The two of them stand there shoulder to shoulder, or as best they can with the height difference. June’s lower lip is caught between her teeth, a tell-tale sign of her nerves. Charlie’s fidgeting with his hands, digging his thumb in the meat of his opposite palm with a force that looks painful. Bosco hates that he’s the cause of it, and hates that he can’t do anything to fix it, because the longer he stays stuck here, the more he feels like a rabbit struggling in a trap.
“I need to get out of here.” There’s probably more he should say, something to alleviate their anxieties, but his weak plea of escape is all he can manage. “Don’t ask me to stay, please.” He entreats, because if they ask, he’ll do it, and then no one will be happy.
June looks at Charlie. Bosco looks at him too. He doesn’t know when, but somewhere between meeting him at Tannen’s Magic Shop and revealing Veronika to be the snake she is, Charlie’s word has become deciding.
“Just,” Charlie starts, voice small but composed. “Just text us, alright? Go home, take a breather, eat something other than a handful of apple slices, whatever you need, but keep us in the loop.”
Bosco nods woodenly, relief heavy on his shoulders. He wants out, and Charlie is mercifully giving him the okay. “You know I will.” Before he can leave though, June jumps at him, hands fisting the collar of his brown leather jacket, dragging him down to her level to press her lips soundly to his cheek. He can feel the sticky smudge of her lip gloss smearing across his skin and doesn’t wipe it off as he clears out of the brownstone.
-
The overcast skyline greets him the moment he steps outside, a gust of frigid winds shocking his system. The sun he woke up to earlier in the day has disappeared, replaced with dreary clouds that suggest an imminent downpour. It’s a pretty good reflection of his current level of positivity. He’s not overly familiar with this area of the city, but he’s got his bearings and Charlie’s words echoing in his ears. Go home, take a breather, eat something other than a handful of apple slices. It’s something to steer him, something to focus on other than Atlas unfairly benching him.
A breeze brushes through his loose curls as he keeps his head down, eyes tracing the disjointed lines and cracks in the pavement. Muscle memory takes over; he doesn’t look at the street signs or acknowledge any passersby, just puts one foot in front of the other. Inhales. Exhales. Home first. He can handle that. There’s no electricity but there is the ridiculously oversized beanbag June bought a couple months back and his treasured weighted blanket. He can hide there for a while, recuperate, and fend off the headache growing between his temples. (June was right, she always is.)
He’s just got to make it to the subway station without looking like a blubbering idiot. He swipes roughly at his watery eyes and pretends he doesn’t hate himself for letting this affect him so thoroughly. He’s good at what he does. He knows he’s skilled, intelligent. He has rightfully earned his place in the Eye, but knowing that J. Daniel Atlas doesn’t agree burns like he’s just been doused in hot oil.
It’s J. Daniel Atlas, after all. Leader of the Horsemen, renowned illusionist and accomplished magician, favored by the Eye, handpicked by Dylan Shrike. Any magician worth their salt knows his name. The guy is legendary. His abilities are awe-inspiring, his conviction impregnable. He’s a figurehead in the community, a pillar that Bosco has been looking up to since he was a little kid, practicing card tricks in the bathroom mirror until he got it right, until he could do it flawlessly, until he could do it just like Atlas.
So sue him for marching off, but he’s already had a shitty day and finding out his childhood hero doesn’t have a shred of faith in his talents, in him, is a devastating, shattering blow. And on top of all of that, he doesn’t even know what egregious thing he’s done to warrant such a distrust. Sure, he can be a bit cocky. An acquired taste, June has teased before, but our favorite, Charlie says. But so what? Just because he veers towards arrogance more often than humility doesn’t mean he isn’t competent. He wracks his brain as he walks, chewing on the inside of his cheek until he tastes tinges of copper, but he comes up with nothing. He hasn’t got the faintest idea as to what he did to offend Atlas so much.
A jeering voice in the back of his mind whispers that he’s just not cut out for the Eye, that his simply being is the whole problem. Blood rushes in his ears, blunt nails digging crescents into the flesh of his palms. He wants to scream. He wants to hit something. Someone. Preferably Atlas. He wants to take something whole and tear it apart so that he doesn’t implode and do it to himself.
(He supposes there’s a reason why people say to never meet your heroes.)
Something icy and wet falls onto the bridge of his nose. Then his brow, then drips down the back of his neck. Thunder rumbles ominously overhead, a drizzle breaking free from the ashen clouds that shroud the skyscrapers. Fucking great. The rain is quick to dampen his hair, his jacket, sliding down in cold rivulets down his face and arms. He quickens his pace, ducking around thin crowds of people and under storefront awnings until the subway entrance finally comes into view, a green beacon on a busy corner.
Looking back on it, he’s not sure what it is that causes him to lose his balance. Maybe it’s the puddle of water collecting on the first steps of the stairs descending into the underground, slick and muddy on the dirty concrete. Maybe it’s his shoelaces, loose and flopping since the morning when he tied them in a haste. Maybe it’s the distraction of his phone beginning to vibrate in his pocket, and the prodding question of which Horsemen is bothering to try contacting him.
Maybe it’s all three. Maybe it’s none. But somehow, some way, he goes weightless. The grimy tile is suddenly much, much closer, and he’s tumbling uncontrollably, he’s falling, body thudding down the steps before he even has a chance to realize what’s happening, and -
His head collides with the floor with a sick, resounding crack, and everything goes very, scarily dark.