Between a Rock and a Hard Place
A Vander x Reader x Benzo fic. (reader is FtM)
You can also read it on my A03
Chapter 2 - Thrift.
(In the first chapter the reader meets Benzo, the pawnbroker, and manages to secure a deal that ensures better living conditions for them in exchange for your found treasures. Today, Reader will interrupt perhaps the most important sale in the universe, and meet with the Bartender)
Three days feels like too many and too few at the same time. You don't want to appear over-eager, or more pathetic than you already feel. People's generosity down here is a precarious thing though, if you wait too long he may rescind the deal. And an evil little voice bickers in the back of your mind that maybe this ‘friend of a friend’ might not be as hospitable as you had hoped.
Your thoughts drift back to the shop owner, Benzo. He was hospitable, mostly, but only after puffing his chest and making you cry in his store. As shameful as it is, the interaction endeared you to him. You haven't been treated with kindness in.. no. that's not really the word you think. It was gentle. The feeling keeps passing over you like a ghost, his big warm hand on your shoulder, the subtle press of his thumb as it ventures to the nape of your neck in shy circles. It makes you shiver.
He's a far cry from the man you had hoped to wed. Piltover men had a vanity to them that was just another way to peacock wealth, an unspoken social rule that a ‘moderate’ weight was respectable, but anything deemed excess was a sign of a personal failing or greed. Crooked teeth are straightened, stained cloth replaced with fresh white linen and silk, skin clean and pure from washing themselves in untainted waters.
It was all taken for granted, and it all made your stomach turn now. Your would-be-fiancee was the embodiment of a piltie to the people of the lanes, and his image shone in your mind in blinding vile fluorescence.
But Benzo? Big, soft and dare you say fluffy Benzo? With his crooked bridge and chipped teeth, or his audacious, unkempt mutton chops. He was every bit as unique as his personality would ask, a balance of strength and softness. He was not a replication of a cities idea of a perfect image, just comfortably himself.
Regardless, you shake your head as your mind has once again dragged you back to thinking of him. Maybe it's a sign to bite the metaphorical bullet and go back already. Secure this ‘bag’.
Looking around your little home you consider all that you had put together here. Along the ceiling and walls spanned many pipes and valves you had decorated in your year, weathered oil lamps tied with wires, scraps of colored fabric, and patchy horrid soldering jobs to close up wide gaps that rats would climb in and out of.
Large wooden planks of varied length litter the floor overtop of green tinted concrete long before claimed by the moss, and the equally as unforgiving walls were plastered with posters from years before. Your bed was made of fabric scrap, pieces both big and small stitched together to make a sheet of fabric large enough to fold in half, sew along its edge, and stuff with dubious soft materials. Anything you could get your hands on really. Youd scavenged strips of foam from rotted couches and mattresses, more fabric scrap and sodden raw wool that you washed five times till it smelled less acrid.
Everything here was a necessity, but if this proposed spare room was good, you think you can be happy to leave this all behind. Let another wayward soul find respite in your ramshackle attempt at making a life for yourself.
The rest of the cache you had stowed away in this room, its crate stained darkly with scorch marks but miraculously still retained its integrity enough to carry it all the way home. You can fit the rest of this in your rucksack, save for a particularly long and strange construction of long flat brass plates and bolts, there were some hinged, hidden parts along it that suggested hidden compartments or blades. Carrying this out in the open will be a little bit of a hassle, so you roll it up in a stained bit of cloth and hope for the best.
It was still morning, but it will be midday by the time you climb some levels up to reach the shop. There is a lightness in your step as you trek away, at the very least, till you get deeper into the lanes. You clutch the odd object close under your arm and keep your head down, weaving around potholes, pipes and people, till you come to the same wide round window again.
There's some muffles inside and your skin tingles for a moment before you push open the door, almost excited to see the big guy.
But its not.
Inside was the child again. A mop of white hair tied in a curled type of topknot, his overalls a few sizes too big, he leans back in the stool counting through a sizable stack of paper notes, the type of money that hardly sees the world down here in the humid depths of the lanes. Across from the counter stood a tall broad man, a hooded cloak over his shoulders and the glint of a standard issue Enforcer respirator hung around his neck.
Piltie you thought without even realising it.
At what point did these people become so othered to you?
It was a thought you couldn't dwell on as the man seemed to almost panic, like he wasn't supposed to be here.
“Uh.Tha- Thank you then! I will be taking my leave good sir! I mean Young man?”
He had attempted to lower the pitch of his voice but it was clear that it's unnatural to his way of speaking. Hastily he gathered a collection of items that he had purchased and loaded them with clumsy hands into a small trolley he had with him, topping it off with a large black box that he gave the most care in its placement to. The child quirks a brow at him, and can hardly contain the smirk on his lips as he continues to flick through the notes just one more time to be sure. Some dodgy business was going on here that's for sure. But it's none of your business.
You awkwardly move around the room to give this stranger space as he retreated, taking with him almost half the shop's more eclectic wares. You didn't see his face too closely, just the strong line of his jaw and the jut of two misaligned front teeth. And his silly little cart, hardly concealing a Piltover family crest with a measly taped piece of paper.
When the door slammed shut with the sound of the bell's final rattle the room was silent for all of a few beats. Both you and the child staring at the swinging sign before turning to each other with incredulous looks.
You both begin to speak at the same time, tumbling over one another. “Um. is Benzo around-” “What you selling mister-”
It does nothing to alter the strange atmosphere, but he hufs a cheeky little laugh at you. “Hes out right now. But if you have more of those hairpins from last time I’ll give you everything in my pocket” He tells you smugly as he places the stack of bills inside something beneath the counter, closes a heavy sounding door, and spins a rattling dial. You glare at him just slightly. This isn't about what you bought for Benzo the other day, but the first time you had met this child months ago.
It seems he hasnt grown out of his snark.
“I'm not selling anything. I just needed to talk to Benzo”
“Well” the child shrugs, eyes sliding to the door again for a moment before setting back to you “I dunno when he will be back, you can come back a little later”
There wasn't anything you could think of to do in time in between, heading back to your little home would just give you another hour of walking with this heavy bag of trinketry weighing your shoulders down. Maybe you can waste a little time? Maybe Benzo is right around the corner and this tiny dweeb was just looking to shirk his responsibilities.
You slide the bag off your shoulder, as well as lower the mechanical piece, and dig around inside the rucksack for a remaining handful of the strange gears from last time, you place them on the counter and shrug back to him, parroting some of his body language back.
Almost rolling his eyes the child picks up some of the gears and turns them around, and instantly you see his brows furrow, flicking through a few, pinking out others, slotting some of them together and seeing what teeth fit comfortably amongst others.
“Are these from the same machine?” he questions you as more of the little pieces in his hands seemed to compliment each other. “I thought you said you weren't selling anything”
You corrected him “I'm not selling, I kind of already agreed to something with Benzo, you see. That's why I’m here”
The child leans overtop the counter to get a better look at your bag and your wrapped object, pointing at it with a gear he demands you “hand that big one over” so you do. Unwrapping the long armature and placing it longways in front of him, this kid seems to be as curious about it all as Benzo was, but where Benzo strong armed a client the child seemed to be more inclined to mischief.
“Robbing Pilties for the Old Man huh?” he asks with a grin. You falter just so.
Its a reminder that you probably avoided some serious problems by taking your things directly to Benzos the first time. Others would undercut you, or worse, just outright rob you of this well earned find.
You sounded exacerbated when you reiterated once again. “I didn't steal it”
“Heh. sure whatever”
If you were a true Zaunite you’d have bickered back with him, but you still can't find a place in you to be unkind to him, even if he was a bit of a dickdead. You watch as he tinkers away, adept with his tools and inquisitive mind, probably experienced in disassembling and reassembling a large manner of objects within the shop alone.
It's as if he’s seen one of these.. Things, before. But also, not. He knows what screws may do what, how a seam may lead to a compartment that leads to more intricate gearwork within, even managing to wedge open a spot that you swear one of those vial tubes could slot into. Very curious indeed.
He almost has the thing completely opened up when the door swings open with an audacious bang, the door rebounding off the crates stowed beside it and rattling with a creaking hinge. Damn near scared the shit out of you, making you jump in place and turn on your heel quickly to the sight of the store owner entering with a collection of rolled paper blueprints in his arms.
“Aah, that wretch at Geoff’s fucked up the measurement conversion again Ekko, You’d think they’d hire someone better at math by now” He huffs toward his.. Son? You assume.
But then his eyes fell on you, sitting on that little stool across from the counter, holding an odd gyroscopic ball that would glow so slightly when its inner mechanism turns fast enough. The way his face broke out into a wide grin comforted you, he wasn't cranky it took you three days to come back.
“There you are!” He chuckled “I was beginning to worry I scared ya off”
You can hardly keep away the little smile that pulls on your lips when you greet him. He hands the paper rolls to the child, Ekko, and waves him out of his chair for the man to take a seat himself. “Toyin’ around with it already” he muttered under his breath as he picked up the piece Ekko was working on. The child waits a moment to scrutinise the two of you before slipping into the room in the back to leave you alone.
You pick up your rucksack and place it on the countertop too, and begin to pull out every last piece you had left in there, more vials, gears, and four more of the small devices from the last visit. Benzo lets out a smooth low whistle surveying everything before him and seems to excitedly wring his hands before separating groups of the items, placing them in new little boxes for later use.
“I’m very glad you bought me the rest o’ this. It's not everyday someone comes in with long lost machines like this”
Watching curiously as he recloses the openings on the main piece. “Is it a weapon?” you ask.
Benzo gives a half-shrug. “It's not the whole machine, you got a little less than half of it. It is part of a charge amplifier from an older model of Enforcer Airships. I'd say this thing is maybe.. Thirty, Forty years old?”
You don't know the first thing about how airships are built or what a charge amplifier does. You were never one of Piltovers… best. While the town was swarmed by brilliant minds with the academy's generous grants and constant technological advancements, you were just lucky enough to be born into it. Maybe it made a little sense to you why your Ex had rejected your proposal, at the end of the day his family had a public image to uphold amongst their people, and you sure weren’t bringing anything special to their already overfull table of inventors and investors.
But alas. You did have things to offer here. A pile of Piltover relics that better put a damn good roof over your head. Considering that, you are unsure how to approach that subject with Benzo, not wanting to come across as disrespectful you simply watch him reorganise his things from where the child had misplaced and scattered things.
“Wheres the bloody… was here before I left… where’d he put-”
It seems the child has misplaced some of Benzos belongings. He stops himself from searching, and takes a cautious quick glance around the walls of his shop, then to you. His reddening cheeks and slightly flustered state making you equally as bashful in this awkward scene.
“Sorry, luv. I had put away somethin’ as an apology but…” he rubs a hand against his chin as he ponders “Guess I’ll have to find some more- sorry. More anticipation to a surprise I guess” You aren't sure why he’d need to apologise, trying to help you was more than enough, but he seemed keen to offer up more in humility.
“Oh thank you, It's fine really” You try to lessen his worry, and use the opening in the interaction to address this deal. “You are already going to improve my life here I can't ask for anything more”
“Think nothin’ of it! I was actually over at his this morning, but if i'm honest I told him ‘bout you the same night you were here”
Whoever this guy was had you hopeful and you felt yourself vibrate with anticipation. “What did he say?” you ask, earning another hearty grin from the man. “Of course he's open to the suggestion, gotta meet you first. As sorry a case as you are, he's still got his standards, but..” His eyes once again dip down your body and back to your face “I get the feelin’ you’ll tug on his strings just right”
You're unsure exactly what's insinuated here, but you flush anyway.
He adds in at the end “An’ if youre any good at cookin or cleanin who knows.. Might end up with a little coin”
Now that is a silver lining if you ever heard one.
“When do I get to meet this guy?”
Benzo straightens against the counter and flicks out a pocketwatch to check the time, despite the.. Seven, eight, nine clocks scattered around the store. Granted some dont seem to be ticking now that you focus. He purses his lips before closing it and stuffing it in his pocket.
“Well, He's probably a lil’ busy right now getting ready to open shop this evenin. Hows about lunch? Got anywhere to be?”
An invitation to a meal was again, unexpected, the hospitality of Benzo growing more and more grand every time he opens his mouth. You feel yourself melt into that comfort. You try to respectfully decline, not wanting to overindulge in his generosity lest it sours, but he insists upon it.
You relent easily, he didn't really need to pressure you much, as your stomach growls its own opinion on the matter.
He hops off his stool and you watch as he flips the door sign again, then reaching into his pocket to retrieve a ring of keys. Your skin prickles for a moment hearing the lock turn, not realising ‘Lunch’ meant eating here. You were curious now, did he have someone in the back who cooked? Was it himself? Or the child?
As Benzo steps up beside you you feel his hand on your body again, fingers smoothing from your shoulder in between the blades, he urges you up and out of the chair with his palm flat to your back. His heat permeates the thin weave of your layered shirts as you both walk towards the door to the back of his shop.
It opens with a creak, and he motions you in with the sweep of his arm. “After you, Luv"
═════════════
By Janna, the man can cook.
You can't even remember the last time in Piltover where you had eaten yourself into a food coma, but Benzo had just as much stowed away food as he did dangerous knick knacks in his store. And he knew exactly how to use them.
Apparently he had made a strange gamble a few years ago that really paid off in the form of a seemingly endless supply of canned preserves of many kinds. He tells you how he used to work odd jobs in kitchens when he was really young, learning by watching as the cooks tossed together their ingredients and teased the barely paid labourers with the delicious smells.
“-and the shelf life is at least three or four years after the printed use by date” He prattled to you as you sit opposite each other on his living space couch, “whats that sayin’ Ekko?” Benzo asks, having to throw his arm over the back of the couch to look behind him at his child, who was tipping his chair back in a lazy rocking motion at the table, His hand grips the fabrics surface firmly and is just a breadth away from being on your shoulder again. You stare at his fingers when you hear Ekko parrot something in unison with his caretaker
“Expiry dates are suggestions, not rules”
You find that dubious, but the way the two laugh with each other at least settles the worry of getting food poisoning. Only because you will have company in suffering.
“Unless its milk” the boy chimes in.
“Even spoiled milk can become yogurt or curds, lad”
His optimistic outlook is comforting, and you can tell by looking around his welcoming home that all things serve purpose, or have been repurposed like many things in the Underground were. The people of the Lanes were resourceful, his dinner table was clearly once a door, sanded down and fitted with three wooden legs of what might have been a bedframe once, paired with a single iron outlier. Not a single piece of cutlery or dinnerware matching. All pieces originating from somewhere else settling into this found home, not feeling disorganised, but that they belong.
You hope your next destination is just as welcoming.
The creak of Ekko’s wooden chair hitting the floorboards again signaled his rise and he begins to clear the table, and you too, feeling like you had something to give in return for the meal, also stand to assist him. Despite both of their complaints, that you were a guest, this time you insist, and there is little argument to it as the boy starts filling a washbasin with lukewarm soapy water.
Washing their dishes is the least you could do. In the back of your mind a talley of generous deeds between you fluctuates bit by bit, not with the intention to further ingratiate him to you, or you to him, but as a show of good faith. You want this man to like you a whole lot more for some reason.
As you are drying your hands off with a small towel Ekko is edging towards the door back to the shop with a glint in his eyes, but Benzo stops him. “Off to watch the shop for me?” He asks with a prodding humor before the boy had even gotten his hand on the doorknob. His skinny shoulders draw up, and when he turns his head there's an endearing pout in his expression.
“I was gonna go see my friends-”
“Ah, that works for us then. We were goin’ to head to the Last Drop ourselves anyway. We’ll all go together”
There's a little waver in the child's eyes that say he had some plans of his own in that respect, but he huffs in defeat, as he could never argue with his father really. He shrugs in acceptance and waits for the two of you to get off the couch and follow him.
Benzo guides you back through his house with a steady hand behind you again. It's so foreign to you to be touched so often by someone who was essentially a stranger, but nothing about that touch conveys intentions of harm. Maybe something different, something tender. You feel cared for.
There's a warmth that radiates right down to your bones as you disembark, a stomach full of food and heart full of friendly conversation, the three of you moving as a unit out through the front of the shop. Your rucksack slung over your shoulders was light once more, empty now save for your meagre belongings, a single change of clothes, a small knife, and a few notebooks you used to entertain yourself with little stories and doodles you come up with.
Ekko offers to carry it for you, but you laugh, “you have both done more than enough, I’ll be fine”
Traversing the Lanes feels so.. Different this time. Something about being with a group of people, not ones you are paid to work together with, but persons who would probably shove off any trouble that comes toward you. And the chat doesn't cease as you walk either. Benzo points out different buildings you pass and tells you who works out of what fronts, Mitula’s lockpickers, the knifesmith named Baros, a “rat bastard named Kev” who lived above a small grocery store, a good handful of brothels here and there too. It was quite evident that knowing people in the Lanes was very beneficial.
The pipes and tight alleys give way to a more open flat walk path of welded steel. No stone and dirt, as you make your way deeper into Zaun. Given the positioning, this spot was more or less considered the ‘city center’, deep beneath Piltover where the founders had built platforms descending into the Fissures.
You hadn't noticed Benzo and Ekko stop, continuing your pace as you look around at all the bright neon signage used to advertise the evening venues. Benzo has to reach out and grab your hand to stop you from walking away with a chuckle. “Nah luv, over here”
You wobble on the spot as you turn and look at them, then to the door you stand before, and then up to the large sign high above the building that you can't discern from this angle. This must be the place then. A.. bar? You consider it curiously, and cast another glance to Benzo as he steps forward and pushes open the door, walking in, then holding it open for you and his child.
Running in head first Ekko disappears into the building, already well familiar with this environment, and you follow behind while throwing cautious glances around. Bars were never your favorite place honestly, what Piltover had to offer had an atmosphere about them, that people sitting in their stools thought themselves too important to really be there sinking into the bottom of their mugs. When your Ex had taken you out you were no more than a decoration on his arm as he sat with others to drink.
This felt different. Whether it's a good difference will have to be seen.
Inside you are welcomed into warm lighting, the slow beat of a jukebox, and enough chatter in the early evening to set a low drone in the background that vibrated in your ears. Ekko was long gone, so Benzo strides his way directly up to the currently empty bar and takes a seat on one of the farther ends, you follow close behind him and take a seat beside him.
You look around for the Bartender, then at the collection of bottles and glasses lining the shelves behind.
“He’ll be around” He tells you as he turns in his seat to wave towards the room of patrons. “The place is nice though, innit? Ol’ Vander has been runnin’ this place for twenty odd years. Hes kinda’ the reason everyone plays nice around here”
You hum your acknowledgement and remain entrapped by the movement around you, though numbers were few, every second booth housed two to four people, and some tables were full. Everyone caught in their own little worlds, having conversation, making deals, the candlelight throwing sharp shadows across their features and highlighting their laughter, smirks and glowers. The clink of glass echoes every now and then, a chorus of life.
Then. Heavy footfalls. The creak of withered floorboard and the jangle of loose keys and coin in someones pocket. And then.. “The hell are you doin’ back here?” came a deep, jovial voice from behind the counter as a man steps back into his space.
Your heart hammers for just a moment as you set your eyes on him.
His eyes are on Benzo at first, who turns to him and barks his greeting, their hands coming together in a mock shake over the counter, before the larger man nods his head toward you.
“That lost lil’ cat I told you about”
And Oh, does his gaze burn. You thought Benzos charm made you simmer under the collar, but as those intense steel grey eyes lock on you you freeze in place, yet they pool fire in your belly like nothing else before. You almost forget to breathe when he cocks a little smirk and holds his hand out to you.
“Good to put a real face to a description. The names Vander” You tentatively put your smaller hand into his palm, his fingers close around yours and he gives it a gentle jostle.
“About time you showed up-” he continued, the baritone of his voice shook you “Benzo was beginning to fret thinkin’ you’d been plucked off by some gang for your coin”. The way Vander carried himself was intriguing, there was a pride to him, aware of his strength and stature, but the same underlying glint of gentleness in his expression that had endeared you to Benzo. You nod along with him, not knowing what to say, while Benzo tries to insist he wasn't “fretting” but simply “concerned for a fellow Zaunite doing it tough”
It makes Vander laugh, the corners of his eyes crinkling and setting your heart aflutter. This was getting dangerous fast for you. This comfort, this attraction, hit like a sack of bricks, and you once again reflect on how the men of Piltover really didn't seem to compare.
After pulling out a bottle from under the counter and filling up Benzos cup he turns to you.
“You drink?”
You nod, somewhat of a lie, as alcohol hardly made its way to you after coming of age to do so. It was a social thing for you in a way, only enjoying it in the company of many. But you were no doubt in good company now, the kindness of these men amounting them to a room of people.
Whatever it is that he pours, you sniff and take a sip, and are pleasantly surprised to find it bubbly and sweet with a tinge of bitterness. A cider. “You like it?” he asks, smiling warm and curious. You reply “Yes, thank you”.
To your side, Benzo leans ever so slightly towards you, and a hand placed on the lowered back of the barstool all but cages you in between the metal and wood of the counter.
“Right then. Benzo here said you've been living out in the warrens for a year?”
You nod again. If the Warrens are what they call the abandoned and rotted structures to the east. He gives a tight shrug at that, and hums a disapproving note.
“Hm.. that's no place for someone so… foreign to take shelter, absolutely not. Surprised you're even breathing down here honestly”
“It took a little while to get used to” Your response comes with your own shy laughter which only deepens Vanders smile, liking that your walls were dropping in little increments for him.
“Well, our purifiers run during open hours, You’ll breathe easy here for the most part.. Ya know, If you wish to stay. Its nothin’ fancy, and maybe a little humid, but the old distilling cellar over there” he nods towards a wall on the opposite side of the establishment, an area noone was sitting and languishing in low candlelight, “it’s been sitting empty for a while save for some old boxes of barley I ain't usin’, I can get the girls to clear it out tomorrow”
A mention of “the girls” gives you slight trepidation, probably a man with many lovely ladies flocking around him and those stupid gorgeous eyes and smile of his. His charm was probably a blessing and curse all in one.
“I.. It's so generous, really, I feel like I shouldn't..” You begin, but he cuts your sentence off with a swat of his dishrag on the countertop beside you. “Ah-Ah! None of that young man” he chastises “You live in a dangerous place right now, without even knowin’ it. It's no loss to me to put a roof over someone's head when they need it”
It's almost as if some benevolent deity were watching over you, a patron of portly philanthropic men tossing these two in your direction to essentially save your life. Your eyes become wet, and though you sniffle a little bit, you don't let your waterworks overflow this time. You accept his offer with deep gratitude.
Benzos hand that had been resting behind you slips up to rest against your hip and you stiffen at the contact, but then he uses that hold to tip you towards him into a one armed hug. Raising his glass towards the Barkeep in a mock toast.
“To another new beginning, eh?”
You pick up your glass as well, and Vander tilts the bottle in hand to clink with the rim of your cups.
“To a better life”