A/N: I'm gonna be honest and say I really really don't feel like I captured Niko or Roman properly. I made them too immature or something....blah. Hopefully it's a good story even if not very realistic? :/
Niko woke up the day after the bank heist with a throbbing shoulder and a burning calf and it took him an embarrassingly long time to remember he'd been shot twice. The shoulder had just been a graze but the bullet to his calf had gone clean through the back, missing his shin by inches. Maybe. Roman had always frothed at the mouth about his injuries and how close Niko had come to dying. It hadn't happened yet.
What had happened was Niko had taken two minimal injuries and secured them a way to support their current lifestyle for a year. A whole fuckin' year of money in one day. A shitty day full of blood and pain and those damn vigilante bastards who'd shot Michael. Niko felt anger more on behalf of Packie than at the actual kid's death. One death didn't mean much in the grand scheme, as long as it wasn't Roman's.
Roman. His cousin, who had patched him up and sent him to bed and now, Niko could see, he sat on the floor counting and sorting the bills. Normally Niko hated Roman's obsession with money but considering he was obsessing over something they already had, it was just kind of. Well. Not bad, anyway.
"So, Nurse, how long before I can walk?" Niko asked, shifting up into a sitting position. Roman took a few more seconds to memorize where he was with the money and then turned around. The glee on his face was still evident, dimmed not even by the reminder of Niko's injuries. Good. The payout had been worth it and if Roman agreed with that, his recovery would be a lot more pleasant.
"I'm not sure. I think you need to go to an actual doctor."
"No I don't," Niko said, pretty sure he did. Roman pushed himself up off the floor and walked over to the bed, pulling back the blanket and revealing Niko's bare leg, gruesome looking despite the wound being stitched perfectly. The skin had torn when he'd run on it and when Roman had extracted the bullet so it looked less like a bullet entry and more like a stab wound. Niko reached down a hand, a stupid reflex leading him to want to touch all injuries and see just how bad it would hurt. Roman grabbed his hand before he could, pressing it between his own two warm, soft hands. Soft compared to Niko's.
"How many times have I told you not to do that?" Roman asked, not letting go of Niko's hand. Niko didn't really mind. He was flying fuckin high from the success and the wealth and maybe the pain pills too and it felt good to hold Roman's hand just then. "You're going to give yourself an infection."
"That would be too fuckin funny, me killed by an infection." Niko felt invincible, it was true. He'd done so much shit in his life, never mind since coming to America. Killed hundreds of people, almost died thousands of times. He'd only bled out and had to get a blood transfusion once and his only permanent injury was that the pinky and ring finger on his left hand wouldn't totally bend or completely straighten. It had gone to his head and fuck yeah he read stuff and knew pride was always the greatest before the fall or some shit like that. But it wasn't like he was stupid-prideful. He knew how to keep his head down and he knew how to run away. So it wasn't an issue, just a bonus, to have adrenaline pumping through him and feeding his ego.
"It wouldn't be funny at all," Roman said, suddenly serious. Niko shrugged and used his free hand to tug the blanket back down over his leg. Roman snorted and then, after a couple seconds, climbed into bed with Niko. He moved slowly enough to make it obvious he was trying not to hurt Niko further and he wanted to point out that one bad gun wound didn't make him a fragile little bitch, but he didn't. He let Roman curl a meaty arm around his neck, get settled down and pressed against the side that wasn't bandaged. His hand went to Niko's blanketed thigh, rubbing circles and tapping his fingertips in an extremely unfair way.
"Don't be such a pussy, Bellic," Niko said, meaning about his death via infection but when Roman rolled his eyes and grasped Niko's dick, he could see how that could have been taken the wrong way. If the wrong way meant the best fucking way.
The next week was a cozy one, spent mostly in bed together except Roman kept running out to get groceries or booze or Mallorie's cunt. Niko didn't mind much. Mostly he felt glad to have escaped a doctor visit, where they always had to change the wound to hide that it was a bullet. Niko wasn't a bitch about pain but he still liked to avoid it when possible. Then again, he also liked to avoid being a little girl around Roman, and being shot had seemed to change that. He looked at it as a once in a lifetime thing and that made him feel a bit better about his masculinity. And it wasn't like they were fuckin cuddling and shit. They talked, yeah, crudely and violently, and got drunk and watched sports and it actually really wasn't much different than the relationship between any two guys. Except, you know, the sex.
Sometimes Roman would be cooking dinner or reading the newspaper or changing and he'd just stop and go over to Niko and kiss the side of his mouth, touch the side of his neck, bump his forehead against Niko's. That was how Niko knew Roman, upon hearing of a bank robbery on the radio, had been scared that he'd died.
His leg healed up nicely, nothing permanent other than a new scar, pink and swollen among the litter of faded white ones. He went to Packie's the day Roman gave him the okay and was unsurprised to find him under the influence. "Enjoying your cut?" Niko asked, idly wondering if Roman and Mallorie were going out or staying in and fucking.
"Shit man, don't judge me. I'm not gonna be a fucking idiot and blow it all on blow. I just spent a couple grand buying the best and the rest I'll...I dunno. Maybe I'll buy Kate a house. But you can't fucking visit her if I'm not there. I don't trust your penis." Niko was a bit flattered at that distinction because it meant Packie trusted him, so he let the rest of the bullshit slide off. He knew all the McRearys would waste their money on drugs and booze and whores, all $750,000 of it. The thought made Niko sick but he needed connections in this city and getting on his only "coworkers" for their recreational habits was a bit suicidal.
"Fine by me. I never said I was interested in Kate," Niko said, although he was. He figured the less Packie knew, the better. Kate had said they were only friends, anyway. Apparently Kate said a lot because Packie howled with laughter for a few seconds and then pointed his hand, beer still clutched in its grip, at Niko.
"You son of a whore, I know you called her the second I gave you her number. I know you went bowling. And she kept going, 'Oh, Patrick, it's so nice to have one guy who doesn't want in my pants.'" Packie laughed, a short choked sound, and tipped the rest of the bottle into his mouth. He swallowed, dragged the back of his hand across his mouth, and burped. "She's a naive bitch. But I love her. So don't fuckin' hurt her, okay?" Packie drew his finger across his neck in warning but Niko knew he didn't mean it.
"Okay," Niko said, propping his legs up on the coffee table so his feet were next to Packie's. Packie seemed to notice this too and started knocking his feet against Niko's, not saying a word but staring at Niko steadily. He was so drunk and high it almost made Niko mad. No, it did make him mad. Drugs didn't bother him as much as losing a friend to them did. So Niko expressed his anger as passively as possible. "Did you tell Michael's parents?" Packie dropped the beer bottle and it clunked down onto the wood floor, rolled a few times, and then stopped when it bumped into the leg of a coffee table.
"Yeah. Kinda. Gave them money and left them a note. I didn't want them to know it was us and know what their son had been involved in. Too goddamn messy." His eyes switched from Niko's to the beer on the floor. "I'm gonna get another drink." But he made no move to get up, just as he had not stopped bumping their feet together the whole time.
"I'll get it," Niko said, heaving himself to his feet. His shoulder twinged a little at the movement and he had to limp just a bit but he was pretty pleased at his body for healing as cleanly and quickly as it had. He found the beers and grabbed one for himself. He returned to the living room and found Packie snoring softly. He set the unopened beers down on the coffee table and, without really thinking about what he was doing, dropped to his knees to pull off Packie's boots. They were already unlaced so it was two quick pulls and then he moved to stand but found a hand wrapped around his wrist, pulling down just firm enough that he wouldn't want to stand and stress his shoulder.
"That was nice of you, Niko," Packie said, voice slurred and eyes still closed. "Real nice. You're a real friend. A good fucking friend, a real fucking friend. Kate's not..." But then he drifted back to unconsciousness and Niko didn't care enough about his inebriated ramblings to wake him up. The fingers were still on his wrist but loosened so he shook them off and left.