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Ace would be the first to admit he wasn't the best with kids.
Contrary to what others might believe—cough, cough, Deuce—he could, in fact, recognize his own shortcomings from time to time. His pride might refuse to admit it out loud when it came to certain areas he wasn’t exactly stellar in—like History or, well, common sense—but it’s not like he went around claiming he was the best at everything.
Riddle and Cater would definitely be on his ass if he tried to promote anything remotely close to that, in two very different ways.
(If Riddle puts him under watch one more time, he swears to God he'll defect.)
Dealing with kids was one of these shortcomings.
Perhaps it was his personality—prone to what some would generously call “boundary-pushing,” or what Cater had once labeled, with great affection, ragebaiting. Or maybe it was his chronic lack of a brain-to-mouth filter. Honestly, Ace figured the whole lot of them just had a secret pact to hate him after that one time he accidentally knocked over a six-year-old’s ice cream and didn’t apologize when he was thirteen. Whatever the reason, kids just didn’t like his vibe.
Honestly, Ace didn’t have much of an opinion on the matter. He wasn’t Trey, the walking embodiment of “big brother syndrome,” always swooping in to fix every kid with a sniffle. He wasn’t Deuce either, who claimed to be an ex-punk but short-circuited the moment a child cried. And definitely not like Riddle, who could make grown men bolt with a single glare, yet completely unraveled at the sight of a teary-eyed face from someone half his size.
Ace couldn’t care less about kids—watching them, helping them, or figuring out how they worked. Not that he ever ran into them anyway. The spots his crew hung out in weren’t exactly playground material.
All that to say, when his luck ran out and he lost rock-paper-scissors to Deuce over who’d take out the trash that night, he was completely unprepared to deal with the kid waist-deep in their dumpster.
A literal kid in their trash.
For a second, Ace honestly thought he was seeing things. It had been one of those days—dumb customers, dumber coworkers—so he figured the grimy kid rooting through the dumpster behind Heartslabyul was just his overtired brain making things up.
Evidently not, because even after Ace dragged a hand down his face and squinted hard enough to blur his vision, the kid was still there—standing waist-deep in garbage. Not his imagination, then. Wonderful.
Now that he’s sure the kid’s real, Ace takes a closer look—and immediately curses the flicker of concern tightening in his chest. Nine, maybe ten—eleven tops. Their shoulder-length hair is matted and filthy, black tangled with gray, sticking to their head in damp, greasy clumps. A hoodie that might’ve been bright blue once hangs off them, far too large, sleeves swallowing their hands. Baggy basketball shorts peek out from beneath it, the drawstrings yanked tight and knotted at the waist. Everything about their clothes—the dirt, the wear, the fit—speaks the same story of rough living.
A weight steadily grows in his stomach as he continues. Scabs and half-dried blood lay waste to the skin he can see, and he silently cringes at the mottled bruise coloring the child's cheek a sickly yellow-purple.
Probably a stray. There weren’t any places for kids around here—no homes, no shelters, nothing—and this one was too beat-up to be fresh off a runaway streak. They’d been out here a while. Long enough for the streets to leave their mark.
The way the child warily eyes him with frozen limbs, like they’re ready to bolt at any moment, makes something whisper it's been longer than that. Children with those fierce, scavenging eyes—as if survival itself were something they’d learned from the leftovers of others—rarely get to keep their childhoods in warm corners and comforting homes.
All this considered, the question still stands: what the fuck is he supposed to do about it?
The kid stands frozen across from him, as still as a statue, as if even a single movement might spark his wrath. Ace grazes his fingers over the trash bag still occupying his hold, absentmindedly fiddling as he considers his options.
What he should do is leave the trash bag, turn around, and act like none of this ever happened—even if that means a lecture tomorrow when someone discovers it abandoned just outside the club’s back door. The kid doesn’t seem to need him, anyway. They’ve been surviving just fine on their own, and judging by their expression, they’d rather be left alone.
Ace wants to believe that’s the safer option. But he knows it isn’t, not for them. God, what are the statistics on street kids going missing or worse, their corpses winding up instead?
Swallowing around the thick, ugly worry clogging his throat, he thinks of Heartslabyul’s wrath: they’d kill him for leaving a child to their fate. Their rules were harsh, sure, and they didn't exactly operate on what one would consider the right side of the law, but they had a soft spot for the innocent.
The others would be upset if he didn't at least attempt to try. Right, he just wants to avoid getting in trouble later if they catch wind of this. (That's the story he's sticking to.)
Decision made, Ace lets out a wary sigh, using it to dump today’s bullshit from his brain and brace himself for the conversation ahead. He really hopes this doesn’t come back to bite him in the ass later.
The kid, despite their sharp-eyed glare, flinches slightly at the sound. Skittish, then. Well…he could’ve guessed that much already.
He crouches down slowly, trying to meet the kid’s height and appear nonthreatening. Fantastic. Now he’s nose-deep in alley grime that has probably hosted more puke and blood than he wants to think about. Everyone better appreciate his effort. No one could honestly say he wasn’t making an effort.
The kid, of course, just keeps him pinned with a glare sharp enough to cut glass.
He gingerly releases the trash bag onto the alley floor, his hand brushing the back of his neck. Saying he didn’t know how to deal with kids was the understatement of the year. Not these alley kids—eyes darting, muscles coiled, a hair’s breadth from disappearing into the dark or pouncing on him for the small chance at whatever goods he might possess.
Cautiously, he clears his throat. “So, uh…find what you’re looking for?”
Not exactly his most elegant phrasing, but it doesn’t seem to do any harm. The kid still regards him with a heavy dose of skepticism, a flicker of incredulity sparking in their eyes, but doesn't otherwise move.
“Right, yeah, trash. Only so much to find there.” Ace coughs awkwardly, scratching the back of his neck.
For their part, the kid only glares harder. In other circumstances, he would've applauded their healthy dose of suspicion. Stranger danger and all that. But it was rather an inconvenience when trying to gain trust.
“You searching for anything in particular? If you want, we might have something to spare.” He offers.
Once again, the kid doesn’t budge, just burns holes through him with their eyes. If looks could kill, he’d already be part of the alley—just another stain no one would spare a glance at. Honestly, aren’t kids supposed to be gullible?
“C’mon, you must want something other than those dirty rags.” Ace says, and promptly curses himself immediately after the words leave his mouth. It was in poor taste to insult the person you want to trust you.
For the first time since he made his presence known, the kid finally shifts, just barely. For a second, he wonders if his comment finally did it—either for them to try and snatch something from him or to vanish back into the night. But neither happens. The kid only tilts their head, mouth moving slightly, as though trying the shape of words they haven’t decided to speak.
It catches him off guard when, after a moment’s hesitation, the kid finally finds their voice.
“You’re one to talk,” with a small, scratchy voice, they say.
A laugh bursts out of him before he can stop it—short, sharp, and entirely uninvited. Wow. The kid’s got some nerve, standing waist-deep in trash and still bold enough to throw shade.
They don’t even flinch at the sound this time. Progress, he figures, considering five minutes ago they looked ready to bite him or vanish into the garbage heap. A reluctant smile creeps across his face.
“So you can speak. And with attitude, no less.”
Ace lets out a small huff, choosing to ignore the insult. The kid clearly didn’t know real style when they saw it—not that they had much to work with, judging by their current wardrobe.
Deciding it’s safe enough to keep the conversation going, he tries again. “You sure you don’t want anything? We’ve got a Lost N’ Found, and no one’s gonna miss a single stray jacket. People forget their dignity in there half the time.”
Clearly, Ace isn’t above a little bribery if it means earning goodwill. Besides, it wasn’t exactly a stretch to say the kid could use a new one. It’s not like Heartslabyul would miss one lousy jacket, and if nothing turned up—well, Deuce’s wardrobe was fair game. Ace could just say it got misplaced. Deuce would forgive him the second he saw who it went to anyways.
He gives them a moment to weigh his offer; pushing a skittish creature never ends well. It’s like trying to force a nervous cat to accept your hand—you’re only asking to get scratched.
But the look they’re giving him… Ace can practically feel the resolve leaking out his body. How much time and patience is this going to drain out of him? He’s already regretting ever deciding to help this kid, to coax them into trusting him. He should’ve just left the damn trash bag behind and gone home, Deuce be damned.
After a second more, the kid finally moves, just a small shift. Their gaze flickers from the door Ace came through, to Ace himself, to the trash at their feet, then back to him, as if mapping escape routes. He’s glad at the change, as it seems they're actually giving his offer consideration, and a slight bit more trust than they did at the beginning of the encounter.
A minute passes, and the kid grows increasingly uncertain. The expression on their face tells him they’d actually appreciate a new jacket, but don’t trust him enough to ask for it.
Eventually, Ace decides his patience has grown short enough.
“Here, how about this,” he starts, "I'll go back inside and check if we might have something extra that’ll go into donations anyway. While I’m doing that, you can take a moment and decide what you want to do. Either way, I’m coming back outside with a jacket, and to put this—” he points at the trash bag lying dejectedly on the concrete beside him, “---in there—” he moves his finger to the dumpster.
“Capiche?”
Once the kid gives a hesitant nod at his words, he shifts back onto his feet, grimacing at the way his legs ache at the movement.
Rubbing the back of his neck, he eyes the kid who eyes him back with a fervor and a large dose of apprehension. Ace sighs, pivoting on his foot to return inside and rummage around in the lost-and-found. Whether the kid is still there when he gets back will remain to be seen.
In all honesty, he doesn't expect they will. Throughout the entire interaction, it seemed as if the kid was waiting for the perfect moment to escape notice, which aligns perfectly with his highest theory of street kid. Trusting a stranger is too big a risk in circumstances like that. One wrong move, one wrong person you trust, means game over.
Against his better judgment, something—quiet, tentative, almost too gentle to belong to Ace at all—hopes that even if the kid leaves, they’ll somehow still get whatever he digs up for them. It’s stupid, really. If they leave, they’re not coming back, and if they’re not coming back, they’re not getting anything from him. Ace prides himself on being practical, but apparently, he’s decided to indulge in a little sick, pointless hope today.
Jeez. Deuce is making him soft. Gross.
Still grumbling to himself, Ace slips into the staff area and heads for the shoddy, cracked, cloudy plastic bins that make up Heartslabyul’s sorry excuse for a lost n’ found. One box sags under abandoned or tragically forgotten clothes, limp sleeves dangling over the edge like they’ve given up on life. Another is lined with the usual water bottles and umbrellas. The smallest of the three containers is the most miscellaneous: books, travel lotions, a half-used compact, sunglasses, and what looks suspiciously like a drug bottle he absolutely needs to tell Riddle about later.
Everything of value—wallets, keys, phones—has already been logged and locked away in the safe. So no chance of “redistributing” a few coins from someone’s wallet to help the kid out. Shame.
He mentally curses at whatever misguided conscience is pushing him onward. Usually, the second something smells like “work,” he drops it into someone else’s lap and walks away whistling. But now? Now he’s elbow-deep in a heap of lost, very possibly cursed clothing. Fissions of dread wrack his stomach. There’s no telling where any of this has been. They serve alcohol here, for crying out loud—there is no way at least one item in this bin hasn’t been christened by someone’s drunken stomach.
Ace summons an image of the kid—the pathetic kid who looked too much like a scrappy hissing kitten in his imagination—hoping to beckon every ounce of virtuousness and generosity that dwells in his body. Maybe it would help him get through this tumultuous ordeal.
He makes a heroic effort not to inhale as he rummages, silently vetoing every sad-looking garment his fingers snag. The kid probably wouldn’t give a damn what he handed them, and he knows he shouldn’t be picky—beggars, choosers, he gets it—but surely there’s something in here that isn’t floor-length on a child. Granted, the chances are microscopic. He’d be shocked to find anything remotely their size. Kids aren’t even supposed to be within five miles of this place. But come on—there’s gotta be one extra-small miracle hiding in this trash heap.
Though Ace doesn't get his hopes up. If he has to settle, he will, but he won’t be happy about it. For a moment, he considers whether Riddle would leave anything of his behind—it’d certainly be closer to their size—but dismisses the thought as soon as it comes.
When his fingers hit the bottom of the bin, Ace groans mentally. Great. Time to go back through the whole disgusting pile with lowered standards. But then—wait. Jackpot. Stuffed beside a navy polo is a black puffer coat with a fur-trimmed hood. He pulls it out with something dangerously close to glee and inspects it. Aside from a stain on one sleeve, it’s in shockingly good shape—no rips, no weird smells, no biological hazards—and it won't engulf the kid with its size.
Score.
He stands and dumps the rest of the clothing back into the bin without ceremony, flinching as the plastic cracks in protest. Slinging the jacket over his arm, he turns to haul it out back and finally be done with this revolting act of kindness.
Before he can step foot back into the alleyway, he catches the last wafts of food clinging to the air before being covered by bleach and synthetic rose.
Ace pauses with tense shoulders. No—no, he's already done enough. More than his due diligence as a citizen.
The wide-eyed wet kitten look strikes through his head.
The image summons questions he does not like: Were they digging through trash for food? How long had it been before they had a warm meal? If Ace ignores it, will they make it through the night?
Auuuughhh. Curse whatever spirit of altruism that's possessed his body.
He swings on his food, stomping to the kitchen.
Ace opens the fridge and rummages around for whatever leftovers might survive a microwave reheat without poisoning anyone. If Trey or Riddle were here, they’d probably rattle off nutritional needs or optimal food choices. Unfortunately, he’s flying solo, which means “edible” is the only requirement.
He eventually uncovers a decent-looking container of something and shoves it into the microwave, jabbing at the buttons until it whirs to life. The noise fills the kitchen, and Ace groans, scrubbing a hand through his hair. That kid better be grateful. Or, bare minimum, not end up in a ditch somewhere by the end of the week. Then at least all this wouldn’t have been for nothing. He pointedly ignores the sick twist in his stomach the thought brings.
The microwave beeps—finally. But before he can even reach for the door, his relief dies a quick death when Deuce appears in the opposite doorway.
“Ace, seriously, what are you doing? You went to take out the trash and—wait, why are you microwaving something?” Deuces' expression turns exceedingly sour. “Dude, come on. We have to lock up in twenty minutes.”
Carefully trying to avoid burning his fingers, he pulls the food from the machine and places it on the counter. Afterwards, he reaches for the aluminum foil so the food keeps warm for at least a bit.
“And is that—my leftovers?” Deuce continues, an equal mix of annoyance and exacerbation leaking into his voice.
Ignoring his companion for the moment, despite the itch to egg him on, he wraps the container until it looks a little bit like a shiny, crinkly square of metal. That should be good enough, right?
“This is, what, the twentieth time?” Deuce complains, his ire trumping his notice of being ignored.
“Yeah, yeah. You should know that I'm fulfilling my yearly quota of goodwill.” He huffs back, pulling the folded jacket from the counter where he’d deposited it.
Ace turns to make his way back to the alley, as Deuce has an affronted complaint on his lips behind him, but he still follows on his heels when Ace starts back outside anyway.
Package in his arms, he turns around and shoves the door to the alley open with his back when he arrives.
He flips around and gives the alley a once-over afterwards, and finds his suspicion proven correct. The ratty kid is nowhere to be found, and especially not in their dumpster. A pang of disappointment hits his chest, and he shoos it away as fast as it came. He suspected they’d dip as soon as he turned his back, the skittish thing they were. No use getting himself upset over it.
Beside him, Deuce scans the alleyway as well. A crease forms between his brows at whatever he finds. Ace has a feeling he won't like it.
“Did you take fifteen minutes out here and still not take out the trash?” He points to the sad trash bag on the floor. He knew it.
“You are so annoying,” Ace responds with a sneer.
Deuce spluttered after a second, a frown working its way onto his face, “What did I do?”
With a half-amused shrug, Ace cradles the items in his care, using one hand to grab the garbage bag. He steps forward, swinging it into the dumpster. Finally, the simple task he set out to do 20-something minutes ago has finally been completed. What a chore that shaped up to be.
With a small grumble, Ace inspects the area around the dumpster. Not a good idea. The jacket would probably be mistaken for trash that someone was too lazy to throw away.
Turning, he considers other places the kid might notice or stumble upon, but not too obvious as to be stolen. Jeez, this is way too much effort. Not like they’d ever come back anyway to find it.
Still by the door, Deuce watches him with a curious gaze that makes his skin crawl. Has he never seen someone do a good deed or what? Actually, maybe it's just Ace…
Anyway, he decides something simple might be better. Or maybe he's just really edging into lazy territory at this point. To be fair, he's put way more effort into this than anyone would expect him to.
Depositing the pile in an old cardboard box, he wipes his hand and turns around, mentally ridding himself of the misadventures the raccoon kid subjected him to. He's so ready to go home.
“Seriously? You're leaving my leftovers like that?” His companion complains with displeasure and more than a little judgment.
Ace huffs as he stretches his arms above his head, “Augh, whatever. I’ll get you something else. Let's just go home, and I'll tell you about the weird night I’ve had.”
“You know we have to finish closing duties, right?”
…Damn it.
He's never doing a good deed ever again.