Fic -- Sick Day
Title: Sick Day
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: 2060
Characters: Leonard Snart, Digger Harkness, Mick Rory, Mark Mardon, James Jesse, Roscoe Dillon, Paul Gambi, Tony Gambi.
Summary: Young Tony Gambi isn't feeling well. Who'd make better caregivers than the Rogues?
Warnings: Profanity.
Notes: Len makes a rude comment about Australian English, which does not reflect the views of the writer (I like Australian dialects very much). He's just being a jerk.
Paul Gambi muttered a curse under his breath. His nephew Tony had come down with what looked like a severe case of chicken pox and had to stay out of the shop, but Paul couldn't watch him at home and keep the store open at the same time.
“Don’t worry about me, Uncle Paul,” Tony said feebly from a makeshift bed on the couch. “I know you’ve got a big client coming in today.” He was trying to seem like a tough guy as he always did, but his bravado was failing him right now.
“I can’t leave you here alone, kid,” his uncle told him with concern, but the truth was that he really did need to be at the store. He loved Tony dearly, though once again he silently cursed his no-good brother Andrew for putting him in this position because of constant stints in jail. A single man going to prison was no big deal, and Paul had done time himself. But leaving behind a child? Unforgiveable.
Suddenly Paul had an epiphany and ran to the phone. Certain numbers he knew by heart, as there was no way he’d write them down and risk them coming to the attention of the superheroes or police. It was part of his business to keep such details memorized, as well as a matter of personal pride.
“Mr. Snart..?” Paul asked when the person at the other end picked up the phone. “I have a favour to ask you.”
***
“Where’s my good mate Tony?” Digger asked as soon as he arrived, with a few other Rogues close behind.
“Here, Uncle Digger!” the boy called weakly from his sickbed, coughing a bit, and James hurried over to entertain him.
“I really appreciate this,” Paul told Len, who nodded with a slight smile.
“Don’t worry about it, though we’ll probably be calling in this favour sooner rather than later. Just look after your other client, and we’ll take good care of Tony while you’re gone.”
“Gotta go! Be a good boy, Tony!” Paul waved as he hurried out the front door, and the Rogues were left to their own devices.
Len sized up the guys who’d answered the call for babysitting duty, deciding which ones were the most responsible and capable. Definitely not Digger, while Mick’s competency could be dubious and he wasn’t sure he trusted James not to goof off for some laughs. Roscoe was a maybe, but there was no way he was going to publicly admit it, so that just left Mark.
“Hey Mardon, d’you think you can put on some chicken soup for the kid? Gambi left a few packets on the counter,” Len asked.
“Of course I can!” Mark replied airily, slightly miffed at the implication that perhaps he couldn’t. “It’ll make him healthy in no time.” He flounced off to the kitchen and immediately set about making a racket, prompting Len to regretfully think he should have done it himself or maybe asked his sister for help. At least Lisa generally kept the nonsense to a minimum.
“You ever been to Gambi’s house before?” Mick asked the others as they waited, and most shook their heads.
“Once when I did some side dealings with him,” Len replied. “But he usually keeps his personal life separate from work.”
“You blokes think there’s anything worth stealing?” Digger asked idly, careful to ensure that Tony didn’t hear him, but was met with nothing but hostile glares. Like Gambi, the Rogues mostly kept their criminal activities apart from any personal relationships, and Sam's oft-repeated mantra was Don't shit where you eat.
“Shouldn’t Mark be done with that soup by now?” Roscoe wondered after a while, but Len shrugged carelessly.
“How hard can it be to heat something on the stove?”
“I’ll check on him!” Mick volunteered with a little too much enthusiasm, but he wasn’t allowed around stoves or ovens anymore and Len shook his head no.
“Okay, so here’s the plan,” Len told the other Rogues. He’d been placed in charge because Paul knew him a bit better than the others, and considered him the most reliable. “We operate in shifts to make sure Tony’s fed and not getting into matches or whatever kids do when your back’s turned.” There was a significant look at Mick, who scowled. “Also we have to keep an eye out to make sure he doesn’t die or anything. Do kids sometimes die from the chicken pox?”
“You haven’t had it before..?” Roscoe asked with a raised eyebrow, and Len shook his head again. “Well then, the next few weeks should be very interesting.”
Mick sniffed the air with a bit of excitement. “You guys smell something burning?”
***
“So Mark’s not allowed near stoves now either…somebody tell Sam,” Len instructed as he waved his hands around to disperse the stench of burned soup.
“It smells wonderful,” Mick said with a joyous smile as he threw out the damaged pots with his thick asbestos gloves. Nobody asked why he’d brought them because nobody wanted to know.
“Gambi’ll be mad as a cut snake,” Digger declared cheerfully, enjoying the thought of Mark getting owned by a man half a foot shorter than him.
“All right, once the Australianisms start up it’s time to change the subject,” Len declared. “We’re going to have to make something else for Tony to eat. Does anyone know how to cook?”
There was silence.
“Nobody..?” Len asked with disbelief, and Roscoe raised yet another brow at him, much to Len’s extreme displeasure. He was going to shave off those things the next time the other man drank too much.
“Is there a reason you’re not volunteering instead?” Roscoe noted pointedly.
“Yeah, dammit, you know I can’t cook either. I just can’t believe that none of us assholes can do it.”
“It’s why God created microwaves,” Mark shrugged, which was actually a fairly cognizant point; it seemed likely that whoever first invented them had probably been a pathetic single man as well.
“Fine,” Len huffed. “Mick, you go to the supermarket and get some soup from the deli counter. Make sure it’s hot so we don’t even have to microwave it, because I’m starting to think we’d screw that up too.”
“Did you not hear what I just said?” Mark demanded, only for Len to let out a heavy sigh.
“Yeah, yeah, you’re a real microwave connisser.” (Roscoe raised a finger to correct his pronunciation error, but Len mimed pointing a gun at him.) “Somebody just get the damned soup before I tell Gambi you all tried to starve his nephew to death.”
***
Half an hour later found Tony weakly spooning chicken noodle soup into his mouth while most of the Rogues played cards nearby.
“How is it, Tony?” James asked fondly, ruffling the kid’s hair, and he coughed.
“It’s hot as balls!” he replied with some distaste, and half the Rogues looked shocked at his language while the others burst out laughing.
“Where’d you learn a word like that?” Mick said disapprovingly. “You’re, what, like three years old?”
“I’m seven, Uncle Mick. I heard it from Uncle Len!”
“Of course you did,” Mick said with even greater disapproval, and Len shrugged.
Digger grinned. “We should be teachin’ `im some good old Aussie Strine. That way he can swear without Gambi givin’ us shit!”
“Now you just swore in front of the kid again,” Mick sighed in exasperation, throwing his hands in the air, although most of the Rogues had stopped paying attention to him already.
“And there’s not gonna be any more Australian talk around here. We don’t want people to think he’s stupid,” Len insisted with a broad shit-eating grin, and Digger frowned. He had the distinct feeling he’d just been insulted, but couldn’t quite put a finger on how.
“Can I watch TV while I eat?” Tony asked, and a few Rogues nodded. This was a promising development for the boy, as his uncle rarely allowed him to watch television during the day and always strictly controlled the programs. The Rogues paid him no mind as he flipped on the set and began searching for…well, for anything his uncle Paul didn’t allow him to watch. And there was a lot of it.
***
The Rogues were pleasantly surprised by how easy this babysitting gig was; they hardly had to do anything, and Tony behaved very well. He’d been engrossed in television for a couple of hours and they saw nothing wrong with this.
“How you feeling, Tony?” someone would ask occasionally, and he’d simply mutter out a distracted “fine”. At one point he asked for a Coke so Mick brought him a six-pack of it, just as the Rogues would do with beer, and Tony ‘forgot’ to mention that he wasn’t allowed to drink pop except as a birthday treat. Delighted with this unexpected bounty, the boy guzzled his sugary drinks as he watched trashy daytime TV.
Meanwhile, the Rogues played their increasingly noisy game of poker in the next room.
“Drink it all in, boys!” Mark jeered as he showed off his winning hand, grinning smugly at everyone else’s irritation. He made a great show of taking his loot as Digger schemed about how to rob him of it.
“No showboating during poker,” Len grumbled even though he’d done his fair share of it. Sam was himself a champion showboat, so Len’s wannabe rule was never enforced amongst the crew.
“You scrubs are just jealous of style and skill,” Mark sniffed, only to let out a cry of pain when Digger burned his new shirt with a cigar.
“So sorry, mate,” Digger chortled merrily, covertly swiping some cash while Mark squawked about his expensive Polo.
“You will be!” the Weather Wizard declared in a fury, creating a strong gust of wind indoors. It blew over some beers and knocked down a few Gambi family photos and knick-knacks, leaving behind a terrible mess.
“You damned idiots!” Len shouted in frustration as James and Mick picked up some of the toppled beer cans and grimaced at the spilled lager. “This isn’t our hideout! We better clean it up before Gambi gets back!”
“Good point,” Mark replied after a few moments’ thought, and the entire group began rushing to fix the damage and hide the mess as best they could. Tony paid them no mind, as engrossed in his show as he was, and thus wasn’t able to act as an early warning system. Paul rushed in ten minutes later, cursing the Rogues angrily in a mix of English and Italian.
“The place stinks of cigars and there are beer stains on my nonna’s old table!” he raged. “Tony’s watching non appropriato talk shows about women who don’t know who their baby’s father is, and he’s polished off nearly six cans of pop! You’re the worst uncles I’ve ever seen!”
“But we do that stuff in your store all the time, and you don’t care,” Len noted with confusion, which equally mystified the others.
“That’s business!” Paul retorted indignantly. “I keep my work and home separate, and you should all learn to do the same! The way you men live is vergognoso.”
“Oi! We got a very enjoyable lifestyle,” Digger said mildly, chugging the rest of Mick’s half-finished beer. No one knew if he understood what Paul had said, and nobody cared.
“Well, get out of here, and don’t let me see any of you again for the rest of the week,” Paul scolded, ushering them towards the front door. Tony waved at them as they were herded past, having taken advantage of his uncle’s distraction to continue watching Maury.
“Does this mean you won’t finish my suit?” Mark asked as Paul tried to shut the door on them, and the other man waved his hands irritably.
“It’ll get done, I’m a man of my word and honour. But it’ll now cost you double to pay for the damages to my home.”
“You thief!” Mark yelped angrily, painfully unaware of the irony in his words, and his colleagues doubled over with laughter.
Paul gave him a disapproving look, the kind that only a member of the Rogues’ family would have the courage (and permission) to muster. “You gonna call the Flash on me?”
The others had to admit that the look on Mark’s face made the entire fiasco worth it.
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: 2060
Characters: Leonard Snart, Digger Harkness, Mick Rory, Mark Mardon, James Jesse, Roscoe Dillon, Paul Gambi, Tony Gambi.
Summary: Young Tony Gambi isn't feeling well. Who'd make better caregivers than the Rogues?
Warnings: Profanity.
Notes: Len makes a rude comment about Australian English, which does not reflect the views of the writer (I like Australian dialects very much). He's just being a jerk.
Paul Gambi muttered a curse under his breath. His nephew Tony had come down with what looked like a severe case of chicken pox and had to stay out of the shop, but Paul couldn't watch him at home and keep the store open at the same time.
“Don’t worry about me, Uncle Paul,” Tony said feebly from a makeshift bed on the couch. “I know you’ve got a big client coming in today.” He was trying to seem like a tough guy as he always did, but his bravado was failing him right now.
“I can’t leave you here alone, kid,” his uncle told him with concern, but the truth was that he really did need to be at the store. He loved Tony dearly, though once again he silently cursed his no-good brother Andrew for putting him in this position because of constant stints in jail. A single man going to prison was no big deal, and Paul had done time himself. But leaving behind a child? Unforgiveable.
Suddenly Paul had an epiphany and ran to the phone. Certain numbers he knew by heart, as there was no way he’d write them down and risk them coming to the attention of the superheroes or police. It was part of his business to keep such details memorized, as well as a matter of personal pride.
“Mr. Snart..?” Paul asked when the person at the other end picked up the phone. “I have a favour to ask you.”
***
“Where’s my good mate Tony?” Digger asked as soon as he arrived, with a few other Rogues close behind.
“Here, Uncle Digger!” the boy called weakly from his sickbed, coughing a bit, and James hurried over to entertain him.
“I really appreciate this,” Paul told Len, who nodded with a slight smile.
“Don’t worry about it, though we’ll probably be calling in this favour sooner rather than later. Just look after your other client, and we’ll take good care of Tony while you’re gone.”
“Gotta go! Be a good boy, Tony!” Paul waved as he hurried out the front door, and the Rogues were left to their own devices.
Len sized up the guys who’d answered the call for babysitting duty, deciding which ones were the most responsible and capable. Definitely not Digger, while Mick’s competency could be dubious and he wasn’t sure he trusted James not to goof off for some laughs. Roscoe was a maybe, but there was no way he was going to publicly admit it, so that just left Mark.
“Hey Mardon, d’you think you can put on some chicken soup for the kid? Gambi left a few packets on the counter,” Len asked.
“Of course I can!” Mark replied airily, slightly miffed at the implication that perhaps he couldn’t. “It’ll make him healthy in no time.” He flounced off to the kitchen and immediately set about making a racket, prompting Len to regretfully think he should have done it himself or maybe asked his sister for help. At least Lisa generally kept the nonsense to a minimum.
“You ever been to Gambi’s house before?” Mick asked the others as they waited, and most shook their heads.
“Once when I did some side dealings with him,” Len replied. “But he usually keeps his personal life separate from work.”
“You blokes think there’s anything worth stealing?” Digger asked idly, careful to ensure that Tony didn’t hear him, but was met with nothing but hostile glares. Like Gambi, the Rogues mostly kept their criminal activities apart from any personal relationships, and Sam's oft-repeated mantra was Don't shit where you eat.
“Shouldn’t Mark be done with that soup by now?” Roscoe wondered after a while, but Len shrugged carelessly.
“How hard can it be to heat something on the stove?”
“I’ll check on him!” Mick volunteered with a little too much enthusiasm, but he wasn’t allowed around stoves or ovens anymore and Len shook his head no.
“Okay, so here’s the plan,” Len told the other Rogues. He’d been placed in charge because Paul knew him a bit better than the others, and considered him the most reliable. “We operate in shifts to make sure Tony’s fed and not getting into matches or whatever kids do when your back’s turned.” There was a significant look at Mick, who scowled. “Also we have to keep an eye out to make sure he doesn’t die or anything. Do kids sometimes die from the chicken pox?”
“You haven’t had it before..?” Roscoe asked with a raised eyebrow, and Len shook his head again. “Well then, the next few weeks should be very interesting.”
Mick sniffed the air with a bit of excitement. “You guys smell something burning?”
***
“So Mark’s not allowed near stoves now either…somebody tell Sam,” Len instructed as he waved his hands around to disperse the stench of burned soup.
“It smells wonderful,” Mick said with a joyous smile as he threw out the damaged pots with his thick asbestos gloves. Nobody asked why he’d brought them because nobody wanted to know.
“Gambi’ll be mad as a cut snake,” Digger declared cheerfully, enjoying the thought of Mark getting owned by a man half a foot shorter than him.
“All right, once the Australianisms start up it’s time to change the subject,” Len declared. “We’re going to have to make something else for Tony to eat. Does anyone know how to cook?”
There was silence.
“Nobody..?” Len asked with disbelief, and Roscoe raised yet another brow at him, much to Len’s extreme displeasure. He was going to shave off those things the next time the other man drank too much.
“Is there a reason you’re not volunteering instead?” Roscoe noted pointedly.
“Yeah, dammit, you know I can’t cook either. I just can’t believe that none of us assholes can do it.”
“It’s why God created microwaves,” Mark shrugged, which was actually a fairly cognizant point; it seemed likely that whoever first invented them had probably been a pathetic single man as well.
“Fine,” Len huffed. “Mick, you go to the supermarket and get some soup from the deli counter. Make sure it’s hot so we don’t even have to microwave it, because I’m starting to think we’d screw that up too.”
“Did you not hear what I just said?” Mark demanded, only for Len to let out a heavy sigh.
“Yeah, yeah, you’re a real microwave connisser.” (Roscoe raised a finger to correct his pronunciation error, but Len mimed pointing a gun at him.) “Somebody just get the damned soup before I tell Gambi you all tried to starve his nephew to death.”
***
Half an hour later found Tony weakly spooning chicken noodle soup into his mouth while most of the Rogues played cards nearby.
“How is it, Tony?” James asked fondly, ruffling the kid’s hair, and he coughed.
“It’s hot as balls!” he replied with some distaste, and half the Rogues looked shocked at his language while the others burst out laughing.
“Where’d you learn a word like that?” Mick said disapprovingly. “You’re, what, like three years old?”
“I’m seven, Uncle Mick. I heard it from Uncle Len!”
“Of course you did,” Mick said with even greater disapproval, and Len shrugged.
Digger grinned. “We should be teachin’ `im some good old Aussie Strine. That way he can swear without Gambi givin’ us shit!”
“Now you just swore in front of the kid again,” Mick sighed in exasperation, throwing his hands in the air, although most of the Rogues had stopped paying attention to him already.
“And there’s not gonna be any more Australian talk around here. We don’t want people to think he’s stupid,” Len insisted with a broad shit-eating grin, and Digger frowned. He had the distinct feeling he’d just been insulted, but couldn’t quite put a finger on how.
“Can I watch TV while I eat?” Tony asked, and a few Rogues nodded. This was a promising development for the boy, as his uncle rarely allowed him to watch television during the day and always strictly controlled the programs. The Rogues paid him no mind as he flipped on the set and began searching for…well, for anything his uncle Paul didn’t allow him to watch. And there was a lot of it.
***
The Rogues were pleasantly surprised by how easy this babysitting gig was; they hardly had to do anything, and Tony behaved very well. He’d been engrossed in television for a couple of hours and they saw nothing wrong with this.
“How you feeling, Tony?” someone would ask occasionally, and he’d simply mutter out a distracted “fine”. At one point he asked for a Coke so Mick brought him a six-pack of it, just as the Rogues would do with beer, and Tony ‘forgot’ to mention that he wasn’t allowed to drink pop except as a birthday treat. Delighted with this unexpected bounty, the boy guzzled his sugary drinks as he watched trashy daytime TV.
Meanwhile, the Rogues played their increasingly noisy game of poker in the next room.
“Drink it all in, boys!” Mark jeered as he showed off his winning hand, grinning smugly at everyone else’s irritation. He made a great show of taking his loot as Digger schemed about how to rob him of it.
“No showboating during poker,” Len grumbled even though he’d done his fair share of it. Sam was himself a champion showboat, so Len’s wannabe rule was never enforced amongst the crew.
“You scrubs are just jealous of style and skill,” Mark sniffed, only to let out a cry of pain when Digger burned his new shirt with a cigar.
“So sorry, mate,” Digger chortled merrily, covertly swiping some cash while Mark squawked about his expensive Polo.
“You will be!” the Weather Wizard declared in a fury, creating a strong gust of wind indoors. It blew over some beers and knocked down a few Gambi family photos and knick-knacks, leaving behind a terrible mess.
“You damned idiots!” Len shouted in frustration as James and Mick picked up some of the toppled beer cans and grimaced at the spilled lager. “This isn’t our hideout! We better clean it up before Gambi gets back!”
“Good point,” Mark replied after a few moments’ thought, and the entire group began rushing to fix the damage and hide the mess as best they could. Tony paid them no mind, as engrossed in his show as he was, and thus wasn’t able to act as an early warning system. Paul rushed in ten minutes later, cursing the Rogues angrily in a mix of English and Italian.
“The place stinks of cigars and there are beer stains on my nonna’s old table!” he raged. “Tony’s watching non appropriato talk shows about women who don’t know who their baby’s father is, and he’s polished off nearly six cans of pop! You’re the worst uncles I’ve ever seen!”
“But we do that stuff in your store all the time, and you don’t care,” Len noted with confusion, which equally mystified the others.
“That’s business!” Paul retorted indignantly. “I keep my work and home separate, and you should all learn to do the same! The way you men live is vergognoso.”
“Oi! We got a very enjoyable lifestyle,” Digger said mildly, chugging the rest of Mick’s half-finished beer. No one knew if he understood what Paul had said, and nobody cared.
“Well, get out of here, and don’t let me see any of you again for the rest of the week,” Paul scolded, ushering them towards the front door. Tony waved at them as they were herded past, having taken advantage of his uncle’s distraction to continue watching Maury.
“Does this mean you won’t finish my suit?” Mark asked as Paul tried to shut the door on them, and the other man waved his hands irritably.
“It’ll get done, I’m a man of my word and honour. But it’ll now cost you double to pay for the damages to my home.”
“You thief!” Mark yelped angrily, painfully unaware of the irony in his words, and his colleagues doubled over with laughter.
Paul gave him a disapproving look, the kind that only a member of the Rogues’ family would have the courage (and permission) to muster. “You gonna call the Flash on me?”
The others had to admit that the look on Mark’s face made the entire fiasco worth it.