Okay but Michael ‘Mogar’ Jones the fighter with bloody, bruised knuckles and a hunger for the fight, for the thrill of it, trained as a shield. Trained as a bodyguard, as the front line soldier, and he’s fucking good at it. He’s proud of it, even if the people he defends don’t particularly interest him, even if he’s not all that attached.
He takes his cash and he takes the praise and he beams from it. Because really, much as Mogar fights for himself, Michael is always eager to show off what he’s capable of, to show his value tallied up in violet bruises and broken bones.
The trouble with counting his worth that way is when he fails, when someone slips through his defense and tears the man he’s meant to be shielding down to nothing. And even if it weren’t for the threats that accompany failure Michael Will Not face the condemnation, the disappointment of a botched job, and he runs.
Maybe that’s how Gavin finds the smart-mouthed brawler on the streets of Los Santos, long before Geoff, long before the Fakes. The only gold on him is in flashes of stolen jewelry, quickly pawned off to pay for rent, for food, the basic essentials that he’s only barely keeping in check. He pegs the man as an easy enough target, charming him with a honeyed voice and lingering touches as they walk along the same direction, flirting along the line of distraction and interest.
Until Michael snatches the hand in his pocket, grabbing back his wallet and nearly leaving behind bruises, ready to give the silver-tongued stranger an impromptu lesson in back-alley brawling that Gavin’s already learned one too many times.
(Put the rest under readmore because I didn’t intend to ramble about this as long as I have, whoops)
Also on Ao3 http://archiveofourown.org/works/10333259