Ain't No Rest for the Wicked
Title: Ain't No Rest for the Wicked
Characters/Pairings: Michael, Frank, Miles, Daniel, Charlotte (hints of Dan/Charlotte)
Summary: "For him, it's always death." Michael tries his luck with the freighter's science team.
Rating: PG
Spoilers: Up to 4x08.
A/N: Inspired by Minkowski's comment about being equals "as long as you play decent Hold 'Em." Title from Cage The Elephant.
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It was day 15 on the freighter, and Michael Dawson was bored out of his goddamn brain.
A little over two weeks since the coastline disappeared behind them in a blink, lost in the churning waves. Two weeks of cleaning, mopping, scrubbing and moving restlessly through the greasy, dank underbelly of the ship, avoiding eyes and questions.
He rolled the mop bucket further down the corridor, sloshing soapy water onto the walls, the floor. Gripped the handle and pushed, rusty wheels squeaking their protest, and ran through his mental checklist of cleaning tasks.
Slotting each one as done -- that was one thing he learned in construction; be thorough and go step-by-step, for as much use as it held being a glorified janitor -- Michael finally abandoned his load in a tiny storage closet, heaving the latch closed. He turned his sights on the "games room" (right next to the weapon hold for maximum irony, he thought with a dark chuckle) down the hall and maybe something to help pass the achingly slow wait, the self-induced limbo while he contemplated the crate -- Tom's crate -- tucked under his bunk.
With a sigh, Michael swung open the door --
-- and found the freighter's entire science team staring back at him.
"Oh. Hey, sorry. Didn't realize --"
He gripped the door handle, ready to back out, when a lilt of British drawl (Another one? What was this, a motherfucking colony?) stopped him.
"Oi -- Kevin, right?"
He nodded, curt, and took a step further into the room.
"Fancy a game?" The red-haired scientist -- Charlotte, maybe? -- gestured to the table, scattered with messy piles of poker chips; she, that Miles guy and the pilot, Frank, each holding a fan of cards.
"Yeah, we need a fourth," Miles spoke up, waving vaguely at the dark-haired man Michael recognized as the team's physicist, reclined on the couch and hunched over some leather-covered book. "Dan's too busy journaling about his feelings."
He smirked, shooting a quick glance at the redhead. "Or is it just 'Dan hearts Charlotte' over and over?"
There was a wave of reaction from his other team members -- Frank, a long, laboured, Jesus not again eyeroll; Daniel paused his scribbling and gazed up at the ceiling, almost imploringly, and Charlotte, who delivered a sharp kick to Miles' shin under the table.
"Hey, ow! Cool it, Ginger."
There was fire in her gaze. "Sod off, Miles."
He shot her a look in reply, the crackle of tension palpable between them. Dan, still seated in the corner, sighed and shook his head, lips twisted into something halfway between a smile and a grimace. Michael just hovered at the edge of the table, waiting for their clash of egos to play out.
It was Miles who broke the staredown, flicking his eyes up to the other man, impatient.
"So you in?"
Michael was surprised -- by the invitation, by the swell of pleasure he felt at it. He'd used to take comfort in simple, easy things like poker nights with his buddies back in NYC; beers and shit-talking and late-night pizza. (Not like before. Not since.) So it was with a bit of a start at his own movement that Michael pulled out an empty chair and swept a pile of chips towards himself.
(Been practicing my poker face for ages anyway.)
"Deal me in."
Frank nodded, sliding cards across the tabletop with a grin.
"So Kevin --" Michael settled himself into the seat and peeled the corners of his cards up from the table, eyeing them carefully. "-- I know a Yank when I hear one. Whereabouts do you hail from?"
Pocket queens, couple of junk low cards.
Miles was quick on the draw, faster to reply to Frank's question. "Kevin," he drawled, the odd inflection stopping Micheal's heart cold but passing everyone else by. "Is from the Big Apple. Right?"
"No shit!" Frank threw in his blind with panache. "My dad was born and bred in the Bronx. Helluva city."
Michael concentrated on his hand, brow furrowing a little, while Miles tossed his cards in early defeat. "Sure is. Check."
Knuckles rapping on the tabletop signaled Charlotte's agreement, and the game settled into silent concentration. His interest piqued, Daniel shifted his vantage point from the couch, perching himself closer and wrapping one wiry arm around his knee.
"Raise 200." Frank flipped his chips into the centre, joining the other plastic pieces; a melee of colour. "So what were you up to in New York before joining our merry little crew, Kevin?"
"Check. I was, uh ... between gigs."
(Or is wallowing in guilt and self-pity a full-time job?)
Miles sniggered a little, slouching back in his seat with arms crossed; Charlotte simply quirked an eyebrow, questioning. "Check for me as well."
Scrubbing at his beard, Frank barked out a laugh, short and loud. "Fair enough." He flipped over the fifth card, neatly placing the river next to its companions. "Let's see 'em."
A flurry of activity; the players looked surprised, cheered and smug in turn.
"Well I'll be damned!" Frank threw up his hands in defeat. "Jesus Charlotte, where'd you pull those cards from?"
Michael pushed his chips towards the redhead; an offer she eagerly accepted, pulling a cocky shrug as she fanned out her four of a kind, all kings. With a little victory cheer, Dan leaned forward and squeezed her shoulder, the pair exchanging bright smiles that didn't get past Michael, that pulled his mind back to before, to sand and waves and a little garden so meticulously tended.
Eager to keep the game moving, Frank gathered the cards and pressed the deck in front of his teammate. "Alright Miles, your deal."
There was a sneer, barely perceptible, in Frank's direction; balking at any guidance. Watching the exchange, Michael felt a twinge of ... empathy, maybe, for the other man, clearly on the fringes of an already out-there group. That sudden, boiling flash of emotion was irrational, sure, but he got it; knew the press of expectations, the weight of leadership from another. Easy to get boxed in, cornered, have your hand forced. (Even now, Michael could still feel the cool steel in his palm; the kickback of the gun and the biting smell as it fired again and again. Yeah -- he sure as hell understood.)
As Miles shuffled the cards, Frank nodded at Daniel, once again skimming through his journal with pen poised over the flipping pages. "Dan, you sure? Don't wanna jump in?"
"Ah, no -- no. Thanks anyway." Daniel tilted his head and twitched his fingers in a gesture of reply, smiling helplessly. "No good at cards."
Swinging around in her chair, Charlotte egged him on. "C'mon Dan. Maybe it'll help, yeah?"
Help? Michael mused, taking in the tug of worry that crossed the scientist's face. More than just a bad bluffer, I guess.
Finally -- with almost an air of resignation -- Daniel unfolded himself from the couch and moved to remaining chair, between Charlotte and Miles.
"So." Charlotte regarded Michael as she flicked through her cards, settling blinds. "Have you spent much time on the water? The rest of us are just getting our sea legs, really."
Smirking, Miles added his bid. "Getting better acquainted with the puke buckets, more like it."
Michael laughed, almost hesitating at the sound. "Couple of longer trips --" (Their eyes, burning holes of disdain, despair into him, broken and gagged on the dock. Walt's gasp -- only a child, but how quickly they, he, forgot -- at the guns and the blood. The price of their passage.) "-- but nah. Pretty new to it still."
Charlotte nodded, seemingly satisfied, the pretense of friendly conversation dropped. There was a flash behind her steely eyes, and Miles' words came flooding back -- his unceremonious greeting to the freighter. ("Don't worry. Eighty per cent of the people on this boat are lying about something.")
The game continued in relative silence, punctuated only by exclamations from Frank on odd good hands, grunts of frustration from Miles. Less than an hour later, though, and Daniel -- their reluctant, late addition -- had cleaned them all out.
"I thought you were crap at cards, Dan." It was a statement more than a question, grumbled as Frank shoveled his chips towards the younger man.
Dan shrugged, shoulders limp, unhappy at the attention. "The remembering, I'm ... not so good at. But it's all, uh, percentages and probabilities, otherwise."
There was something a little wounded in his voice. Frank softened, his eyes dropping to the table then back up to Daniel in a more gentle look, fused with good humour. "Well, it's our own fault for gettin' a math whiz to join in, right?"
Sighing, Dan drummed his fingers against the cheap plastic of the tabletop. "Yeah. I guess."
"Well --" Miles pushed himself away from the table, breaking the quiet moment and glancing at his watch. "-- as much as I love the quality time, we've got weapons training in 10 minutes, and Naomi'll be on my ass if we're late."
Weapons training?
Micheal's mind slipped back to the crate sitting abandoned in his berth, bearing another man's name, a man only born as Tom smirked down at him in that alleyway, useless gun cradled between his hands. His so-called path to redemption.
(For him, it's always death.)
But Frank's voice pulled him out of his head, grinning up at him as he swept the cards back into their pack, collected chips as the others filtered out of the room. Took in Micheal's far-off stare and returned it with an even wider smile, a look blanketed with understanding.
"It's not all bad here, eh Kev?"
He thought of Walt, oceans away and probably just leaving school; the bright eyes and quick mind and sharpened sense of self that seemed years beyond his true age. He may not have gotten much right -- drifting to Susan, to Ana Lucia, to Libby; broken hearts and torn muscle and bloodbloodblood everywhere, so many women wounded -- might be damned for eternity, but Walt?
Maybe Walt was enough, for the little time he had left.
He smiled, clapped Frank on the back.
"Nope. Not at all."