Chapter Text
The dull morning sunrise through Swank’s curtains is… Wrong.
It’s too bright, sharp and harsh on his brown eyes.
He’s already awake before he opens his eyes, lying flat on his back and counting the seconds between the air conditioner clicking on and off. It’s the same pattern every time, every morning and night and minute between.
Fourteen seconds. Pause. Fourteen seconds. Pause. Fourteen….
He waits for it to be wrong.
It isn't. It never is and he knows it, but for some reason, his brain follows the same routine every morning.
He exhales, drags a hand down his face, then immediately pushes his fingers back through his hair, combing it out of his eyes. He keeps doing that lately, and he doesn’t even realize until his scalp feels tender.
It’s officially been two months.
Two months since Benny.
Two months without Benny.
He sits up slowly and stares at the opposite wall of his suite in the Tops. It’s quiet this early. The Strip usually doesn’t start screaming until noon, and right now it just hums like it’s doing its daily stretching.
“You’re in charge,” he mutters to himself. “You got the chair, got the jacket, got the keys… Relax.”
The words sound rehearsed, mostly because they are. Swank’s always been the type of man to speak to himself before he actually says something. Benny was the one who could say whatever he wanted and just shrug it off if he made a patron or dealer mad.
Swank’s always been the brains behind the public statements.
He stands and adjusts the folded hem of his boxer shorts three times before heading into the bathroom. The mirror gives him a version of himself he’s still getting used to. It’s the same face, the smirk if he forces it, yet the weight behind his eyes is different.
Benny would’ve loved this.
That thought makes something ugly crawl up his spine.
Benny would’ve thrived in this weird in-between moment where Vegas feels like it’s holding its breath. Where the 38 is quiet. Where everyone is watching everyone else and pretending they aren’t.
Swank leans closer to the mirror.
“You ain’t him,” he says softly. “Stop tryin’ to be.”
He runs his hands through his hair again.
By the time he steps onto the casino floor, the Tops is waking up in layers. Chairs are being adjusted, chips clack softly, the low murmur of early gamblers who never sleep or maybe never go home, the scent of stale smoke and cologne and ambition and a tinge of regret.
He slides into the atmosphere like he belongs there, because he does, he always has.
“Morning, gentlemen,” he calls to two Chairmen near the roulette tables.
One of them looks up with an exhausted expression, while the other snorts. “It’s 6 in the morning!”
“Which means you’re either dedicated to your work or unwell,” Swank replies smoothly. “Either way, I respect it.”
They laugh, real laughs. Swank grins wider than he feels. Always with the appearances.
He moves through the floor with practiced ease, adjusting a crooked stack of chips absentmindedly as he passes, straightening a crooked painting by a millimeter. He tells himself it’s attention to detail. It’s leadership. It’s pride. It’s what Benny would do.
It’s also the only thing that keeps the static in his chest from getting loud.
By ten, the Strip outside is glowing in full daylight, ugly and bright and honest. Swank stands in his office with the door half-open, reviewing inventory reports that he’s already reviewed twice.
There’s a knock.
He doesn’t look up immediately. “If it’s about the liquor delivery, tell ‘em I want the bourbon rotated clockwise this time. I’m feelin’ rebellious.”
“It ain’t about bourbon.”
Swank glances up.
Tommy Torini stands in the doorway, arms crossed loosely over his chest, posture relaxed in a way that isn’t actually relaxed at all.
Tommy has always been sharp. Not flashy like Benny was, or loud, yet observant. The kind of man who doesn’t miss shifts in the air pressure. Swank always preferred meetings with the old Ben-Man if Tommy was there, he had something about him that made Benny less… Extravagant with his words.
“Torini,” Swank says warmly, leaning back in his chair. “You look like you’re about to tell me something I don’t wanna hear. Please, just lie instead.”
Tommy doesn't smile, instead he steps inside and closes the door carefully behind him.
“That quiet at the Lucky 38,” he says. “You noticed it?”
Swank’s smile doesn’t disappear, but it thins.
“You always cut straight to the case. Of course I’ve noticed it, everyone has.”
“She’s been quiet,” Tommy continues.
Swank’s fingers tap once against the desk. He stops them, and smooths his palm over the wood.
“She’s a busy gal.”
Tommy studies him, an eyebrow raised almost accusingly.
“With what?”
Swank shrugs lightly. “Running the most volatile stretch of land in the Mojave? Paperwork? Existential dread because of the most volatile stretch of land in the Mojave and paperwork? Take your pick.”
Tommy still doesn't smile.
“I’m serious.”
“So am I.”
Silence lingers for a moment.
Tommy moves further into the room and rests his hands on the back of one of the chairs across from Swank’s desk.
“Benny would’ve made noise,” Tommy says carefully. “If he had that tower. He’d make sure everyone felt it. You know he liked big moves and statements. He had a lot planned for the Strip, you know.”
There it is.
Swank forces a chuckle. “Yeah, well, Benny also wore checkered suits like he was allergic to subtlety.”
Tommy doesn’t bite.
“She’s different.”
Swank’s jaw tightens slightly.
“She is,” he agrees.
Tommy exhales through his nose. “Different ain’t always bad, but it ain’t always good either.”
Swank leans forward slowly now, folding his hands on the desk. He looks directly at Tommy before stating softly, “You doubt her?”
Tommy meets his gaze evenly. “I don’t know her, that’s the problem, Swank. We handed Vegas to someone who walked outta some grave. I wanna believe she’s got it under control, trust me I do, but quiet towers make me nervous.” His tone starts to become more shaky, “House wasn’t one for appearances, but he never stayed quiet.”
Swank studies Tommy’s expression.
This isn’t rebellion. It isn’t disrespect, ol’ Torini would never.
It’s… fear.
And that makes it worse.
“She’s… calculating,” Swank says finally. “You don’t get that far without bein’ ten steps ahead. We ain’t struggling for shipments or losing service, you just gotta give it time.”
“What if we don’t have time? At any second the NCR could swoop in, and take Vegas right under our noses, and we wouldn’t know!”
Swank’s hand immediately goes to his hair, fingers combing back through it before he can stop himself.
“Luck runs out,” Tommy says softly.”We know that. Because it happened to Benny.”
Something flashes behind Swank’s eyes.
A flicker of defensiveness.
“She’s not Benny,” he says.
Tommy nods. “That’s what I’m sayin’.”
Swank stands abruptly, moving around the desk. He needs motion, space.
“She ain’t supposed to be Benny,” he snaps, more heat in his voice than he meant to let out. “This town already buried one version of that. She’s already buried one version of that.”
Tommy watches him carefully.
“You compare yourself to him,” Tommy says quietly.
The words land harder than anything else has.
Swank laughs once, sharp.
“Everyone does.”
“I don’t,” Tommy replies. “I compare you to you.”
That shuts him up.
Tommy continues, slower now.
“You’ve kept this place stable. No infighting, no chaos. You kept the families from sniffin’ weakness. That ain’t flashy, Benny would do flashy. That’s leadership.”
Swank looks away first.
He hates that he needed to hear that.
But the unease remains.
Tommy straightens.
“Look, I’m not tryin’ to undermine her, I just want us prepared. If the quiet turns into somethin’ else, we need to be ready.”
Swank nods slowly.
“We will be.”
Tommy studies him one last time.
“And Swank?”
“Yeah?”
“If you’re worried, you don’t gotta pretend you ain’t.”
The door closes softly behind him.
Swank stands there for a long time after.
He walks back to his desk. Aligns the papers perfectly with the edge. Realigns them. Adjusts his cuff.
Runs his hand through his hair again.
The Lucky 38 rises in the distance through his office window, all steel and pride and secrets. He stares at it longer than he should.
He doesn’t doubt her.
He refuses to.
But doubt is contagious. It spreads in small rooms. In careful conversations. In the way Tommy didn’t smile.
By late afternoon, the casino floor is loud enough to drown out most thoughts.
Swank leans against the balcony railing overlooking the main hall, watching people gamble like the world isn’t balanced on a knife’s edge.
One of the Chairmen sidles up beside him.
“Boss,” the man grins. “Got a high roller downstairs who swears he can outdrink the bartender.”
Swank smirks instantly.
“Tell him the tender drinks bourbon and regret. Then see how he feels about that.”
The Chairman laughs.
“And if he insists?”
Swank pushes off the railing smoothly. “Then we make him sign a waiver and I’ll personally escort him to his bad decisions.”
He descends the stairs with theatrical flair, sliding into the chaos like he was born for it.
Like he was, because he wasn't born for this.
At the bar, he leans in beside the high roller, flashing that easy grin.
“Sir, I hear you’re challengin’ an establishment that survived nuclear fallout. I admire the confidence. However, I do question the strategy.”
The man laughs, already pink flushed. Guys a lightweight.
Swank trades jokes with him for fifteen minutes, layered and quick and slightly inappropriate. The surrounding Chairmen join in. Someone makes a crude remark about betting chips and other forms of leverage. Swank fires back twice as dirty but with enough polish that it feels charming instead of gross.
Laughter ripples.
And for a while, he feels steady.
For a while, he isn’t thinking about towers or doubt or ghosts in checkered suits.
But when the high roller finally stumbles off victorious over nothing in particular, the noise fades just enough for the silence underneath to creep back in.
He excuses himself.
Back in “his” office, dusk painting the sky gold and red, he sinks into his chair and stares at nothing.
What is she doing right now?
Is she pacing?
Is she calm?
Is she alone?
He hates that he doesn’t know.
But he hates even more that he wants to to begin with.
His fingers drum against the desk, then stop. He straightens a pen. Then straightens it again.
“Stop it,” he mutters.
He reaches for a blank piece of paper.
He doesn’t write anything for a long time.
Then, slowly, he drafts a formal inquiry about cross-casino resource coordination. Neutral. Professional. Boring enough to be harmless.
He stares at it.
Then crumples it.
Far too eager.
He leans back and stares at the ceiling, Tommy’s words echo in his head.
“Quiet towers make me nervous.”
Swank closes his eyes.
He trusts her, he truly does, with his entire self, but trust doesn’t silence anxiety. It just makes it worse, silence makes everything worse to begin with.
Outside, the Strip ignites into neon on every sign, wall, and fence post.
He stands and walks back to the balcony, watching the lights bloom like they always do.
Vegas is alive, it's thriving like always.
For now, at least.
And somewhere in that steel tower, he prays that she's thinking.
Planning, breathing, anything but sitting and doing nothing.
He can’t put his absolute trust into another person again.
He can't put his trust into another Benny again.
He adjusts his cuffs one last time.
He will not run to her. He will not check in. He will not be the man who panics at silence.
He rests his hands on the railing and lets the wind move through his hair instead of his own nervous fingers.
“Alright,” he murmurs to the skyline. “Your move.”
The Strip hums back, indifferent and glittering and endless.