Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Atlas May’s death has finally been placed to rest. At least in Mordecai and Mitzi’s minds. Revenge was served unforgivingly on a cold evening, in the form of a blade delivered by the infamous Mordecai Heller himself. The man had died slowly and painfully, not for Atlas but for Mordecai himself. Did it have the desired affect that he had craved? Did it put an end to the mystery that has haunted him for years? Not particularly. But his revenge was to be served personally and intimately, a swift bullet between the eyes was too… impersonal and almost merciful. Too quick. A pathetic lump of a body is unceremoniously dropped onto the doorstep of Mitzi May at approximately 3:48 in the morning. Despite this, Mordecai was not granted forgiveness with open arms immediately. Which ultimately, was to be expected. Given how he had kneecapped a co-worker in his departure. There were few left on the list of individuals Mordecai has not attempted to murder, all of which reside in the Lackadaisy crew. In the end, it didn’t make a difference whether it was his bullet or another Marigold associate’s, there is and will forever always be blood on his hands. Mordecai has been the malevolent conductor of a blood spilling orchestra, leaving behind deathly silent crowds with each performance. Without so much as an applause. The Lackadaisy’s small found family are the only audience who have survived his slaughter, whether it be chance or simply some comatose sentimentality on Mordecai’s end.

It was by pure miracle, and some sweet, manipulative words from the young Ivy Pepper, that has placed Heller out of the metaphorical deck of the Marigolds and back into the hands of the Lackadaisy speakeasy. Ready for whatever play that Mitzi was willing to gamble. There has yet to be the need, but he’s ready for that call.

Mordecai had reluctantly re-joined his former crew five months ago.

To be expected, everyone kept a safe distance from him. Viktor still refused to speak with him, but it wasn’t like he was going out of his way to communicate with the Slovak to begin with. Mordecai knew to some degree when he is welcome, Viktor’s one-eyed death stare was quite enough. Ivy has made a habit of pestering him to ‘socialise’ with deceptively sweet attempts into tricking him into a room with someone under the guise of needing help with something or other. Calvin McMurray happened to have been an unfortunate soul tricked into a room with him. With a bristled tail and wide, stunned eyes. Calvin, better yet known and lovingly referred to as ‘Freckle’; did not last six seconds. To no one’s surprise except Ivy’s, Freckle made sure to not stick around too long whenever Mordecai happened to be about.

Mitzi fared better than most. It took some time but she soon fell into the role of an exasperated mother figure once more, as she did for all her employees. Knowing stares and bantering remarks, Mitzi took great joy in teasing him. It has only increased in frequency over time. Zib would scarcely interact with him if he really had no other choice in the matter. It was never a one-on-one interaction, but rather Zib is unwillingly dragged by the scruff of his neck into conversing. Depending on how Mitzi feels at the time, she is not afraid to drag Mordecai by his scruff as well.

All in all. Everything has been going exactly as Mordecai has predicted.

Except for one little, unexpectedly confounding thing.

Rocky.

Roark Rickaby is by the most respectful of terms, an incomprehensible, infuriatingly… charming enigma. Though charming is a word that Mordecai probably wouldn’t have used just a few months ago and to be fair, they were on opposite sides of the playing field at the time. Charming wasn’t particularly the word that… in all honesty, anyone in their right mind would use to describe Rocky. Mordecai happened to be the unfortunate soul that would. Not by choice, which is usually how most of Mordecai’s feelings sprouted. Unwillingly and pestering. Like a weed. Rocky is by all definitions, a pest.

But also… charming, in his own disturbing way. But there was something about that particular word that sat like honey on Mordecai’s tongue. Charming. The sweet, lulling flavour that reminded him of his favourite earl grey with a teaspoon of honey. This pestering realisation was not frail by any means, not like some weed. It isn’t spindly and slender, much like the tabby that haunts his thoughts. Instead, its roots are firm and inflexible. Charming is a word that blooms in the older man’s head like a blushing rose, as corny as that is. A rose is fitting, he concludes. There have been countless occasions where Mordecai Heller has been struck by unforgiving thorns. But the thorns that came with the rose that is Roark? Mordecai is anything but a man who isn’t prepared. Metaphorical gardening gloves if you will.

Mordecai isn’t entirely sure when it had started or if it will ever grant him mercy and stop.

Rocky has made a considerable effort to be present. Or perhaps he’s made no effort at all and he happens to just be there. Whether Mordecai liked it or not, the tabby stood out to him like a thorned rose in a field full of unsuspecting daisies. Rocky, the rose that he is, draws Mordecai in like a moth to a flame. He couldn’t help it; it didn’t matter how hard he fought against it. Seemingly against his will, the tiniest part of him will react. His ears will perk at the sound of the younger man’s voice. His inquisitive green eyes track every movement the tabby makes, studying and anticipating what move Rocky could possibly make next. Rocky is unpredictable. That’s what makes him that much more of an enigma.

Mordecai prided himself in knowing.

But with Roark?

He just simply didn’t. But something in him itched and screamed to know.

That lead to where he is now, but not from his own actions. But instead, Ivy Pepper’s.  The young woman has a way of orchestrating events that one would think she were the conductor of all their futures. She had a way about her. Unbeknownst to everyone involved, Mordecai’s future will be irreversibly changed henceforth.

Mitzi had gifted him access back into his former office space above the café. It was bitter sweet and a painful reminder, but greatly appreciated. Mitzi entrusted him with the book keeping, taxes and what not. The tasks he used to previously complete under Atlas’ employment. One evening as he is settling himself back in, a hurried and mismatched knock stumbled him out of his thoughts. His tail flicked, irritated and slightly bristled at the disruption. Flattening out his waist coat, and with an almost undetectable twitch of his whiskers, Mordecai stands up from his desk chair.

Upon opening the door to his office, the last person he expects to see is the band’s troublesome violinist and standing behind the tabby is the mischievous Ivy Pepper.

“Aha Ole’ Serious Face! Terribly sorry to bother you but miss Pepper here said you needed a hand-” the tabby attempts before he squeaks out an indignant noise as he’s suddenly pushed into the office, mere inches away from bumping into the older man.

“Sorry mudbug! Mordecai just looks so horrendously lonely in here!” Ivy gives the gunman a mocking stare, fluttering her eyelashes innocently.

“How about you tell him about that one poem you like? I’m sure he’d love to hear all about it!” the young Pepper playfully declares as she shoves the tabby into the room before slamming the door shut behind him. The sound of an obnoxious click sounds as Mordecai’s ears flatten against his head.

Dumbfounded and puzzled, Rocky stutters out a small noise of confusion, whipping around to test the doorknob. Mordecai stares wide eyed at the back of the younger man’s head, his tail twitching behind him in a mix of irritation and apprehension. Rocky sucks in a nervous breath through his teeth as he turns himself back around to face the noir man with a bashful (charming) grin.

“You wouldn’t happen to have the key would ‘ya Serious?”

Mordecai turns back to his desk with a small huff. Walking over, Mordecai eases himself back into his desk chair, only to relieve himself from the sudden weakness he feels his knees. If it were anyone else, he would have snapped at the attempt of a nickname. If it were anyone else- but Rocky made things… difficult.  It didn’t matter how he tried. He couldn’t bring himself to fight it and say something. Mordecai wasn’t entirely sure why he couldn’t, it’s not that he felt particularly upset about it. It was more about maintaining appearances, but Mordecai’s jaw remained tightly shut. Which Rocky took as unsaid permission to continue calling him that. Sticking to him like syrup to his fur.

“No Mr Rickaby, I do not” the tuxedo replies back dispassionately, his hands coming to rest at his own knees. His grip tight on his pristine, black dress pants. Rocky’s charismatic grin falls, his bushy tail curling dejectedly around his own leg.

 “Ah… I hope I’m not too much of a bother then, do you mind?” Rocky tentatively points at the empty chair opposite of Mordecai on the other side of the desk.

The tuxedo makes a small gesture with his hand, giving Rocky his unsaid permission to sit. The grin makes itself known on the tabby’s face once more as he practically hops into his seat, his fluffy tail swishing amusingly behind him. Theatrical and nonsensical as ever.

Charming.

“Well Serious, seems like I might be here for little while… what have you been up to in here?” the young man prompts, crossing a leg over his knee. Blue eyes staring back at him with a fascinated attentiveness.

“Taxes.” Mordecai replies dryly, his own eyes avoiding contact as he sifts through the multitude of ink written sheets.

“Oh.”

There was something about the unfiltered disappointment that seeped from Rocky’s despondent sigh that irked Mordecai immensely. Leaving a dense and tight sensation within the of depths his chest before making its way up into his throat. And before he knew it, he’s speaking.

“Miss Pepper said something about… a poem?” Mordecai enquires lowly, peeking back up at the tabby to gauge his reaction with narrowed eyes.

There wasn’t anything that could prepare him for the pure, almost manic joy that bloomed on Rocky’s face. The violinist’s trademark smile making itself known as he inches closer, until he’s sitting on the edge of his seat.

“You really want to know?” the younger man bites his lower lip, as if he’s struggling to keep himself contained.

Mordecai raises a single brow and with a small ‘go-on’ gesture of a wrist, Rocky nearly vibrates in his seat. Sharp teeth on display and dilated pupils, the tabby grips the arms of his chair in excitement.  Amusement bubbles in Mordecai’s chest and it takes every fibre of his being not to give a small smile at the sight. Keep yourself together.

“Do you happen to read any Shakespeare?” Rocky grins, blue eyes narrowed in anticipation.

“I’m not one to dabble into fiction, I read non-fiction” the tuxedo replies.

“Really? None of his work? Surely you have heard of Macbeth? Perhaps Romeo and Juliet?” the tabby enquires, claws tapping at the wood of his chair. The way he speaks reminds Mordecai of an actor giving a performance. It’s as if the violinist is always on stage, eager to impress and engage. Roark didn’t really need to try; Mordecai finds him plenty interesting as he is.

“Heard, not read” Heller stoically clarifies, adjusting his pince-nez.

“I highly recommend… perhaps a sonnet? Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day?” Rocky verses gently, eyelids fluttering dramatically as he brings a hand to sit on upon his own chest. The tabby’s hand rests right against tufts of charming, devious fur that happen to peek out from his collar. Absurdly alluring and instantaneously distracting the tuxedo cat of any previous coherent thoughts.

Mordecai lets out a small cough to clear his throat as he continues to sift through the tax papers, purposefully turning his face downwards, tilting to hide any cracks in his expression. His sleek tail sways contentedly behind him, hidden by the desk.

“Thou art more lovely and more temperate… rough winds do shake the darling buds of May, and summer’s lease hath all too short a date… really? You truly haven’t heard it?” Rocky playfully pouts as he leans back into his chair, lulling blue eyes squint mischievously as he continues, “Mordecai Heller, I’m almost disappointed.”

“Almost?” the older man peeks up at the tabby, who silently gives a sharp grin in return. Eyes twinkling with mischief.

The gunman is stuck and hopelessly lost in the violinist’s charming eyes once more. Rocky’s expression remains true as he tilts his chin up slightly, standing firm in his silence. Surrendering to Rocky’s stubborn reserved quietness, Mordecai sighs defeatedly;

“Well to answer your question, no, I haven’t heard of that particular sonnet” Mordecai calculatedly replies as he avoids eye contact once more. Eager to quell the ever-bubbling emotion in his chest from overflowing.

Looking away is a struggle, as it seems. As the second Mordecai looks away, the urge to stare at the tabby hits him like a hearse. He longs to count each stripe that are uncovered on Rocky’s blissfully exposed forearms. There’s four on each forearm. The countless hours of... watching guarantee it. He longs to get lost in eyes so azure one would think he were staring up into the broad midday sky itself. Ponder upon the scar that sat so neatly and perfectly on the centre of Roark’s forehead. Symmetric in a macabre sort of fashion. Though Mordecai is aware he would need to peer quite intensely at Rocky’s forehead to truly see it, it hides thinly behind regrown grey fur. Tempting Mordecai to trace it with a finger if he so dared. But with teeth as sharp as Rickaby’s, Mordecai isn’t willing to lose a finger to the bear trap that is the younger man’s grin. He hasn’t had an opportunity like this before.

He’s never usually this close.

Considering the violinist this close is an entirely different experience to... observing the tabby from afar. Mordecai notes that it is a lot easier to take in Roark’s fine details when the younger man in question is staring back at him. Every other time, the tabby is often distracted by something or other. Much too preoccupied to notice that every movement he makes is being observed with innate dedication. Mordecai isn’t sure what he is looking for in particular. It is simply the fact he just doesn’t know, or understand. There wasn’t much that could keep Mordecai’s attention these days, not anywhere near as close as the devotion that he commits to watching Roark. This current situation is... exceedingly dissimilar. The speakeasy’s stage is often where the younger man would allure Mordecai’s undivided attention. A dwelling where the younger man is often more himself than any other place. A performance of a different kind. However now, with the younger man across from him, it seems the stage lights doesn’t give the violinist the true justice. Here, in his dingy little office space, Roark is bathed with the warm light of Mordecai’s desk lamp. Mordecai notices tiny innate details he’s never had the chance to truly study. Like just how soft and inviting the hair on Roark’s chest looks. It is becoming increasingly difficult to pay attention to the work on his desk.

His senses are numbed. Piercing like a needle through tough skin, Roark’s voice penetrates through the fog of Mordecai’s mind.

“That’s a real shame Serious…if given the opportunity, would you read Shakespeare?” Rocky enquires carefully, eyebrows raised.

“That would be extremely unlikely” Heller replies amusedly, the barest hint of a smile on his face.

Rocky sighs in dramatic defeat, though his posture remains alert and interested.

The two men then sit contentedly in silence as Mordecai works. Occasionally Heller’s green eyes peek up at the tabby before hastily looking back down at his work. Each time he is caught by Rocky’s inquisitive bright eyes and an expression that Mordecai cannot quite place. He can feel the younger man’s eyes staring, he’s being studied. It is as if any slight movement could give away Mordecai’s most well-hidden, impossibly secured thoughts and feelings. Hidden and trapped within the impenetrable vault of his mind, and his heart. Though there are many individuals that would argue that he lacks the latter.

Mordecai didn’t need to prove to anyone he has a heart.

Not when he can feel it pump so uncontrollably within the confines of his chest. He has all the unavoidable proof he needs.

“There’s something I’ve been meaning to ask and… I haven’t really had the right moment for, would you be so kind as to indulge me, Mr Serious?” Rocky enquires with a small almost… solemn smile.

Everything about the tabby’s posture is taut, as if he’s ready to spring up and out of his chair over the tiniest of inclination. Taut like the strings of his beloved violin. Rocky appears ready to jump at any moment, possibly set to jump out the nearby window if the situation demands it. He looks nervous. Mordecai gives no hints of his immediate curiosity and interest, green eyes still cast down towards his work as his tail whips undetected behind him. Rocky’s nervousness doesn’t sit well in Mordecai’s chest.

“I’m well aware you will continue… regardless if I give permission or not” Heller drawls out, his grip on his favourite red China pen tenses.

Rocky is silent for a moment, mulling over the question in his scrambled mind. His hands fiddle nervously in his lap as his mismatched ear twitches.

“Do you ever find yourself... echoing to yourself in this chamber? Lacking ears willing to capture your voice?” Roark leans forward slightly, lithe hands gripping each other tightly. The tabby’s expression becomes less confident with every question.

“I’m sorry?” Mordecai questions, confused by the violinist’s roundabout questions. Eyebrows furrowing; Mordecai feels... frustrated with himself for not quite catching onto whatever flowery enquiry that Roark spills out. The tabby’s tail is bushed up behind him, skittish like a caught squirrel.

“You know... lacking in some keen camaraderie?” Roark questions almost softly, twinging like an untuned violin, as if he regrets asking in the first place.

His hands are up, shakily grasping at some invisible... something. As if the motions would aid Mordecai in translating the overcomplicated sugar-coated questioning the violinist is rambling at him. Mordecai raises his brows in evident puzzlement, his agitation rising. The musician’s smile shrinks at the sight, appearing more embarrassed by the second.

“Mr. Rickaby, I ask that you just spit it out already.” Mordecai demands, tired with the tomfoolery.

Roark visibly gulps at the demand, charming brows furrowed as his eyes dart to look down at his own now clasped hands. Biting at his lower lip, darling fangs gnaw at the delicate skin in a way that Mordecai has to resist the urge to tell the violinist off for being so rough with himself. The gunman’s better judgement allows him to remain silent. Roark sucks in a steeling breath, as if gathering the strength to continue. Azure eyes finally meet Mordecai’s as Roark delicately questions;

“Are you lonely?”

What?

Mordecai stares at the violist across from him, incredulous but intrigued. His expression mustn’t be as fascinated as he feels, sending Roark into a panic.

“Now before you say anything! This isn’t meant to offend, because heck- I’m lonely too… if that helps! It probably doesn’t- I just- I see you and- well, I thought maybe-” the tabby rambles, desperate to redeem himself.

“Mr. Rickaby, just- Roark stop-” Heller forces, hands coming up to mimic an easing motion to the spiralling man.

Rocky’s mouth shuts with a small wince, his charming brows furrow in anxiety. Mordecai takes a second to sigh and process his thoughts. He breathes in and exhales slowly to ease his posture, attempting to appear less threatening. He wasn’t looking to scare the tabby out the window. Not when he’s right here, talking to him. Regardless if it’s willingly or not. Though if the younger man wasn’t interested in speaking with him, Rocky would have made use of the window the second the door locked.

“I didn’t mean to offend you-” Rocky quietly starts again, though less hurried and fretful this time. He is swiftly interrupted once more.

“You haven’t offended me” Mordecai states firmly before continuing; “I would like to ask… what you meant by your question.”

Rocky’s face transforms microscopically through a mix of emotions before settling on a timid expression. The tabby purses his lips as he hums in thought, vivid green eyes consume every movement like a starved hawk.

“Well, it’s just… I see you around and you never stay. Zib is always telling me to steer well away from you but- I think that’s just Zib so it wouldn’t be entirely your fault... I think everyone is a little terrified of you to be frank-”

“Are you?”

“Am I what?”

“Terrified?”

The silence devours the small confined space of the office as tension thickens like a smog. The two men are stuck staring into the eyes of the other, waiting for even an inkling of movement. A hint or a sign, anything substantial to work off. Mordecai stares imposingly at the tabby across from him, whilst not actively… trying to be intimidating. He is well aware that it doesn’t truly matter if he tries or not. Anyone who wasn’t terrified of Mordecai Heller were either bluffing or mad. Even Mitzi, in all her ‘all bark no bite’ attitude, holds a smidge of fear for the hatchet man. Calvin wore his fear on his sleeve unlike Ivy, who very convincingly, does a splendid job in hiding hers. A false bravado, she is well aware that while Mordecai wouldn’t harm her… Mordecai has grievously harmed others.

But Rocky? Mordecai once again, simply did not know. Is he bluffing? Or has his head injury truly messed with his frame of mind? Mordecai can recall the tabby’s bright eyes full with fear as he aimed his pistol at the back of the Lackadaisy ford. Narrowly missing as the car swerved left off of the road and headfirst into Sedgewick Sable’s quarry. The tabby’s maniacal laughter haunted him most nights. But he didn’t truly mind it. The manic young man stood high upon the mechanical beast, trapping Mordecai in an almost bewitching trance. Mordecai is very aware that something is undoubtedly fundamentally wrong with himself. His convictions of murder and various crimes placed aside for a moment. Finding Rocky at his most charming when he’s rife with madness and hysteria is something that Mordecai cannot fully process. All he knows is that he wants more of it.

Mordecai concludes that he isn’t sure if he wants Roark to be afraid of him.

Mordecai isn’t sure how he wants Roark to feel about him.

Does he wish for the violinist to be closer?

A small part of him fights to remain the image that everyone has made of him… but a surprisingly large part of him dreads losing this. Whatever complicated thing that he and the violinist have. It’s horrifically fragile. And most likely one-sided Mordecai bitterly reflects. Although, as fragmented and as strange as it is, Rocky is just as lonely as him. He can see it hidden within the depths of those azure gates.

Rocky is the first to break eye contact, opting to stare down at his own intertwined hands, twitching and fidgeting. The tabby gives a small smile as he finally speaks, the darling fur of his cheeks raise slightly in embarrassment.

“I wouldn’t say terrified is the right word for it-”

The office door swings open.

Mitzi May stands in the open doorway with her eyes wide with bewilderment, a key in one hand and letter in the other. Her eyes dart between the two men, fixed with an expression typically reserved for when she is having trouble trying to comprehend something. The same face she pulls when Rocky is trying to explain his unfiltered love for a certain rounded, sickeningly-sweet, doughy breakfast cuisine. Under Mitzi’s scrutiny, the tabby shrinks slightly in his chair, his posture caving in on himself. Seemingly doing his best to take up as little space as possible. Mordecai clears his throat to gain Mitzi’s full attention, directing it to himself and off of the tabby.

“Can I help you Ms. May?” the tuxedo enquires curtly, quickly placing his metaphorical walls back up. Brick by brick.

“Mordecai, honey you know you can just call me Mitzi… for heaven’s sake. I just came by to drop this off for you” Mitzi huffs out, her heels clicking as she steps forward. She gently places the letter in front of Mordecai before turning to face her band’s violinist.

“Though I am curious... how are you still alive?” the woman smiles amusedly, leaning against the desk with a hand on her hip.

“Pardon?” Rocky awkwardly yet politely smiles, his hands held tightly on his lap.

“Well dear, I had to use the key just to get in. I didn’t realise the big bad Mordecai had you all locked up in here” Mitzi teases, causing the hatchet man to sputter and cough slightly.

“Oh! No, this isn’t Serious’ doing... Miss Pepper locked me in” the tabby chuckles weakly, keeping his eye contact anywhere else than back at Mitzi.

“Now that makes sense... well, come along Rocky, Zib was looking for you anyhow” Mitzi states, giving the tabby a small pat on the shoulder as she saunters towards the office door.

The violinist trips slightly as he stands, shaky in the knees. Stepping away, Roark looks over his shoulder as he leaves. Mordecai watches on solemnly as the enigma of his thought’s exits his office, Roark’s expression is unreadable as he briefly peeks at Mordecai over his shoulder.

Without another word, Rocky has left.

Leaving Heller behind with the silence of the office and the screaming of his mind. Second by agonising second, he is driven further into his inner madness. Pondering over an unanswered question. His delightful company has left the room, but he left behind an uneasy presence through the form of an unanswered question.

What was Roark going to say?

Chapter Text

To say Rocky is disappointed is a slight understatement. He hasn’t seen Mordecai around... if at all.

The tension of that unfinished conversation weighs so heavily, that the feeling has yet to leave his chest. Weighing in his frame like boulder ever since he high tailed it out of the older man’s office. He simply hasn’t had the chance to speak with the man, Mordecai has always been elusive. And fascinating. Extremely so.

He sees the tuxedo patterned man walk by, busy with something or another. Always seemingly put together, not a hair out of place. His suit and posture as immaculate as ever. Though his eyes tell another story and Rocky longs to read them, A novel of hidden emotions and thoughts. Would the words hidden between the pages of Mordecai’s thoughts be sweet like his favourite sonnet? Or something dark and macabre, something that Rocky supposes is almost sweeter. There is something that lures Rocky in about danger. The exhilaration and adrenaline of it all, the pumping of his heart aching to break from his very ribcage. Mordecai leaves behind a river of crimson wherever he walks, poems written purposefully in blood. There is just something about the older man. Rocky is well aware Mordecai is dangerous; everyone has seemingly made it their mission to remind him so. But Rocky wonders as he stares, that there is something hiding in the striking green of Mordecai’s eyes. But Heller is long gone before he even has the chance to truly figure it out.

The violinist knows a lot more than people give him credit for.

Like the way he knows Mordecai stares back at him.

But it is strange, that he can feel Mordecai’s piercing stare on him before he even sees him.

Having Mordecai’s eyes on him leaves him feeling weak at the knees and to be completely honest, a little scared.

No, scared isn’t the right word. Nervous? Excited? Eager? Ardent? Deprived? He’s thinking too much. His mind is a storm full of thoughts, echoes of condemning thunder and bittersweet memories. The violinist shakes his head slightly, trying to physically remove all thoughts of the man from his tumbling mind before focusing down on his violin. It sits almost expectantly in his hands, in desperate need of a retune and maybe a wipe down. It’s been given more use than it usually does in a long while. Business has slowly been picking back up, not quite a snail’s pace, but enough that the band has been called for the need to play. The audience grows larger night by night. Money is flowing into the speakeasy once more, gaining more and more attention from shady figures and wealthy sorts.

One particular man has become increasingly known by the band.

Collins Wadsworth.

Rocky shivers uncomfortably on his stool, his grip tightening on his poor violin. Now look, he doesn’t hate the man. It’s more like... distaste to the highest degree. That fits much better. Mr Wadsworth is... persistent. His brown eyes seem to follow him around like some uncanny Mona Lisa. Unlike Mordecai’s lingering staring, Wadsworth’s prolonged eye contact makes Rocky feel like dousing himself in gasoline.

Then promptly setting himself aflame.

The sweet, welcoming release of death is oh so tempting when Wadsworth attempts to get his attention. Calling out his name or worse, whistling up at him. The man simply cannot seem to wait until after Rocky is finished performing. Rather, he attempts to gain the violinist’s attention whilst he’s playing and whilst doing so, he effectively interrupts the band. Very quickly making himself known in the band’s bad books. With some gentle coaxing of Mitzi May, Mr Wadsworth is successfully distracted, lured by the flowing alcohol from the bar. Henceforth granting harmony to the performers once more, but not without a very unsubtle glare from the band’s leader. It appears to Rocky that no one really seems to like Mr Wadsworth, not even Mitzi, but he does happen to be ridiculously wealthy. Which seems to be enough to not have Mitzi get Viktor to drag him out by his sorry scruff.

Rocky considers himself almost lucky, as by the end of the evenings, Wadsworth is simply too drunk to recall that he wanted to speak with the violinist to begin with. Granting Rocky the chance to slip away before he can give the stumbling fool a chance to remember.

But hey, all in all, business is slowly starting to boom again. Rocky is actually being paid.

Hence why he sits here, after another seemingly successful night of performing. Though he isn’t sure what the time is, only that it is reaching the absurdly early hours of near dawn. Rocky cannot recall if he had seen Mordecai while he performed on stage or not. His daydream disguised as a nightmare of a man was not in his usual spot beside his favourite Ficus. Something aches within the confines of Rocky’s chest. Did I say too much?

Did I scare him away-

“-kid, hey, kid”

The tabby’s head darts up to notice Zib lazily walking towards him. The rest of the band sluggishly packing up their own designated instruments behind him, conversing quietly amongst themselves.

“Zib?” Rocky, now alert, questions back. Bushy tail curled slightly behind him and eyebrows perked up in attention.

“You all good kid?” the band leader drones, a small frown on his face.

“Sure!” Rocky sprouts back, jovial mask quickly taking its place. Zib’s frown deepens.

“... okay well you’ve been sitting over there mumbling for a while now and the rest of the band are starting to take bets on whether you’ve finally lost your mind... or maybe you’re just beat like the rest of us” Zib mumbles over a cigarette, his tone light but his brows are furrowed in worry.

“Not yet, I think” Rocky tiredly grins up at the older man, doing his best to reassure him.

“Which part of my question did you just answer?” the band’s sax player questions, one brow raised in confusion.

Rocky looks back down to his violin with a mischievous grin, fully aware of the confusion he has created. Dedicated to being a master of his craft, the poet knows he can deflect any intrusive questions tremendously well. Though it seems Zib is keen on mastering his own craft, in breaking through Rocky’s metaphorical walls and riddles. Curse you Zib!

“Don’t worry Zib, I’m just dandy” the violinist sighs out with no real mirth, forcing himself to look up at the older band member.

Zib gives him a pointed look that says ‘I don’t believe you’. Rocky gives Zib a bashful grin in return.

Rolling his eyes and a tiny smile on his face, the older man flicks his wrist in a ‘follow me’ motion and without another word, starts slowly sauntering away. Hurrying to comply, the tabby places his violin away into its protective case before scurrying to step in foot with the band’s leader. Walking through the empty underground caverns of the speakeasy is tranquil in a way, but restricting. It made Rocky’s skin crawl in a strange way, confined in a way that didn’t feel fully safe. The scruffy band leader gives the violinist a small look over his shoulder, expression unreadable.

“Let me ask again, and don’t lie to me, are you really alright?” the band’s saxophonist breaks the silence, leading the younger man up the steps to the secret entry way of the club.

Rocky remains silent, biting at his bottom lip in habit.

Zib places a hand in front of Rocky and onto the cave wall, stopping the younger man in his path. Silently demanding an answer. Zib’s eyes are uncharacteristically serious, attempting to break through the poet’s mask. Searching for a weak spot, a tiny crack. Anything.

“Zib- really, I’m fine... just stuck in my thoughts is all” the violinist replies with a small breathy laugh, attempting to lighten the suddenly uncomfortable mood.

“Your thoughts... about something? Someone? Do me and the guys need to knock someone around? I’ve noticed that Mr Big Shot was here again tonight. He can’t seem to keep his creepy eyes off ya... might need to knock him down a peg after all” Zib drawls out, his frustration with Mr Wadsworth evident. His posture is lax though his expression remains deadly serious.

“Knock someone around? What? No! Absolutely not... Mr Wadsworth hasn’t done anything to me, I’m not that worried about him... I think he just likes the music?” Rocky replies honestly, inching forward to try and push past the older man.

“Well, if it’s not about Mr Big Shot... is this about Heller again?” Zib prods, immovable from his spot in blocking the exit.

“What do you mean again?” the tabby unconfidently huffs out.

“Rocky” Zib simply retorts.

Rocky decidedly keeps his eyes pointed downwards towards his own shoes, his hands coming forward to fiddle with his lucky tie. Another nervous habit. Zib sighs, his hand coming off the door to pinch at the bridge of his snout.

“Don’t worry about it Zib, I just... he’s confusing is all” the tabby reassures, taking his opportunity to push open the large, false door. Opening up into the lit room of the café, small noises of commotion emanate inside.

“I don’t see why you bother with him kid... a man like that doesn’t care about anyone but himself, he really ain’t worth your time-” Zib starts before promptly shutting himself up, his eyes wide with a small amount of dread. The two band members promptly stop as they turn the corner into the café. The tabby’s fur fluffs up in a flustered manner whilst Zib’s cigarette slips from his mouth and onto the tiled floors.

Standing at the counter is the man in question, Mordecai Heller. Heller’s expression remains the same, disinterested and unamused. Though his eyes widen slightly at the sight of the violinist.

Sitting slouched nearby is Freckle, with Ivy standing on the opposite side of the counter. Freckle looks about ready to have a heart attack, as if the Grim Reaper himself is standing beside him. To be fair, the scar that sits across the left side of Freckle’s forehead serves as a bitter reminder of a death that was narrowly avoided by the hitman. Ivy’s face is full of mischief, her expression fitting whatever trouble-making thoughts she is most definitely having. Rocky makes brief eye contact with his younger cousin, who desperately stares back at him with a look that could only scream help me. The tabby’s trail of sight turns back to the man of his troubles, only to find that Mordecai is staring back at him.

The tension is thick as the two remain stuck in their unsaid staring contest, waiting to see who will look away first. Freckle lowers his head, seemingly wishing to disappear from where he sits. Ivy’s eyes dart between the two men whilst Zib leans down to pick up his discarded and now unlit cigarette.

A hand lands between Rocky’s shoulder blades as the saxophonist lifts himself back up, causing the tabby to break the intense eye contact. Mordecai’s eyelids narrow slightly at the band leader.

“Well, this is my cue to leave, stay safe kids” Zib bids goodbye, brushing his shoulder against Rocky’s in farewell before stepping beside Mordecai. Tilting his head up to stare at the tuxedo from beneath his hat.

“Heller” the angular man utters lowly as he walks past. A warning.

“Zibowski” Mordecai unfazed, replies back. Though his cunning eyes remain on Rocky, not once looking away.

The tabby swallows down the lump that has suddenly formed in his throat, not daring to look up at the older man yet. The tension is back and Rocky feels as if there isn’t anyone else in the room. Just him... and the well-dressed man across from him. He wants to speak, to say anything but for the first time in a long time; words won’t seem to form. As unbelievable as that sounds. His hands are back on his lucky tie, simply fiddling with the soft, orange fabric as he scrambles for the right words in his disordered mind.

The sound of the café’s front door bell chimes as the band leader leaves, snapping the small group out of their silence.

“You played well tonight” Mordecai compliments awkwardly with a small cough, his posture rigid and expression unreadable.

Ivy bites her bottom lip to keep her squeal contained as she watches on. Studying the expression of embarrassment morph into a look of pure delight on the violinist’s face. Freckle pulls his head up from where he was hiding it wedged between his arms to stare up in shock, mouth slightly agape in slight repulse.

“You saw?” the tabby questions softly, awe evident on his face.

“I wasn’t able to witness all of it but yes... you performed exceptionally, despite the interruptions” Mordecai hisses slightly at the end as he clarifies, the fur of his cheeks fluffing up slightly. He’s referring to Wadsworth?

The tabby bites at his lower lip. Mordecai’s expression softens, by a margin.

Rocky can feel his heart beat thunder all the way up through his chest and into his throat. The older man’s sweet words sit like syrup in his mouth and his body wants nothing more than to move. To surge forward and do something. He isn’t entirely sure what, but something needs to happen or he feels like he’s going to explode. It wasn’t everyday one was complimented by Mordecai Heller, especially to such high regard. There was something genuine about Mordecai that intrigued Rocky to no end. The tuxedo didn’t sugar coat his words, the man is often viciously and excruciatingly honest. He had a way of speaking that didn’t hide what he thought. Not if you looked hard enough. Not everyone gave Mordecai the time of day or even a second thought. Rocky would hear all sorts of things about the gunman, that Mordecai takes himself too seriously or he needs to lighten up- but Rocky doesn’t want that. Mordecai as he is, how he makes Rocky feel... in all honesty, is undoubtedly dangerous and definitely foolish. Zib loves to remind him on that. Not because Zib thinks he’s a fool but because he doesn’t want to see him get hurt. Not like how he did. Rocky is sure that Zib most likely won’t ever approve of the soft spot Rocky has for Mordecai Heller.

There was just something about Mordecai that others couldn’t see, or simply refused to. There wasn’t anything that anyone could tell Rocky for him to believe otherwise.

That Mordecai, when he really wanted to be, could be undeniably sweet.

And one would have to pry that fact away from Rocky’s cold dead hands.

Mordecai, in all his splendour and malicious intent, is a murderous and short-tempered... gentleman. Rocky isn’t entirely sure if Mordecai’s kind words could ever be topped. Any flowery words that Mr Wadsworth attempted to throw up at him from the dance floor was truly nothing compared to Mordecai’s own. Every word that came out of the deceptively immaculate Mordecai Heller has Rocky hanging on the edge of his metaphorical seat. Every word, every syllable. Rocky wants to savour it, snare it, like a firefly trapped in a glass jar. Keep it with him forever because no one is sweet to him like Mordecai is. Something inside Rocky just knows that Mordecai is just as crazy as he is, if not more. He’s the only one who is as crazy he is. Someone who can understand his crazy and speak it so fluently back to him. Words dipped in honey with wild, barely contained starvation behind those eyes. The violinist wasn’t able to identify the expression within Heller’s eyes for a long, long time. But something has clicked. Mordecai’s eyes bore into his with a feeling that could only be described as ravenous. A feeling Rocky knows all too well.

So caught up in the striking green of Heller’s eyes, Rocky forgets how to converse. A small squeak creeping out of his throat instead. All previous distaste that Mr Wadsworth left has been swiftly replaced with a honeyed, decadent delight. His fur appearing more plush and fluffier by the second and he has no doubt that if he didn’t have his fur to protect him; he is as red as a tomato underneath it all. The tension is palpable, budding and blooming as Mordecai clears his throat to speak once more. He is interrupted by Calvin’s chair scraping across the tiles as he stands.

“C’mon Rocky... it’s late, I’ve been waiting forever for you to finish up. Mom will bury us in her garden if we’re not back before she wakes up” the orange cat fearfully whines, impatiently taking a hold of his older cousin. Pulling Rocky by the bicep to drag him towards the front door.

The tabby sputters as he’s hauled past Mordecai, who simply watches as his rose is stolen away.

Again.

“Do you need a ride, Ivy?” Calvin questions thoughtfully to his sweetheart at the counter, his grip firm on the struggling violinist.

“Nah, you two go on ahead. I still have some cleaning up to do, I’ll see you later!” the young lady replies, blowing a kiss to the auburn cat, who shyly ‘catches’ the kiss as he leaves.

Calvin pushes open the café door and easily hauls Rocky out, the tabby just barely able to yelp out a “-goodbye!” to the tuxedo cat before the door is shut. The door’s bell chiming as the two depart.

Mordecai stands in silence as he observes Calvin’s car huff off into the distance, the morning sun’s glow starting to just barely light up the sky. The night sky’s stars, slowly fading away to make way for a new day. Mordecai was almost ashamed to admit, that he missed the violinist’s company already. It had taken him days to work up the nerve to say something to the tabby again and it wasn’t even planned. Whilst he knew that Rocky would have eventually walked out through the speakeasy’s secret door, he was exceptionally close to leaving before Rocky had the chance. He knows he has been a coward up until that point, but every other time was just not right. His words would fail him or he was simply just too busy. Rendered to just staring at the charming rose that is Roark from afar.

Pathetic.

Mordecai is dying to know what the younger man was going to say that night in his office. If he had simply gotten his shit together and just invited the tabby off somewhere private, he would finally have the chance to ask. But Mordecai’s words failed him and the tabby’s cousin whisked him away.

Ivy’s slams her hands onto the counter, startling Heller out of his self-deprecating thoughts, causing him to stare abruptly at the young girl.

“So! Are you going to tell me what that whole situation was about?” Ivy grins, eyes glinting almost dangerously.

Mordecai delivers a pointed glare to Ivy, to which she just smiles at. Simply refusing to take the hitman seriously, she remains unfazed. With a playful glint in her eyes, Ivy raises her eyebrows as if to say ‘go on’. The tuxedo cat sighs in defeat, opting to sit himself in Freckle’s now unoccupied stool.

Ivy cups her own face into her hands, leaning forward with great interest. Her ears forward and pointed, eager to hear to whatever Mordecai was willing to share.

“I don’t see how this is any of your business” he mutters out, pulling out his pocket watch to check the time.

“Well, that’s a real shame Mordecai... a real shame indeed, I guess you don’t want to know that Rocky’s birthday is coming up soon... and I was going to tell you when but-” Ivy starts but is swiftly interrupted.

“When” Mordecai leans closer, eyes wide and threatening.

“Mordecai, that wasn’t asking politely”

“Tell me when... please” Mordecai attempts, faintly hissing under his breath. His imposing brows furrowing further.

“That’s better!” Ivy smiles impishly as she leans back, her claws tapping against the counter in thought.

Mordecai’s tail whips frustratedly behind him, his own claws tapping and slightly scratching at the counter in hardly contained displeasure. His composure is slipping. Mordecai isn’t going to let this chance just slip by, this wasn’t going to be stolen from him. Roark’s birthday is coming up. But when? Mordecai cannot leave it up to chance, for all he knows it could be tomorrow. Or technically today?

“His birthday is in two days... so you better show up for when he plays” Ivy subtly threats as she leans back, still paying close attention to the man across from her.

“He’ll be performing?” Mordecai questions. He assumes that the tabby would have been granted the night off. The younger man could use some time off, it often seemed that the tabby is constantly working. Always on the move. Did he ever have time off? Where does he go to?

Where does Roark live? With his cousin?

“He wants to get up on that stage, who is Zib to stop him? Though he did make Rocky agree to not play all night” Ivy supplies before continuing, “I’m sure you know how Rocky is by now... that wily brow can’t be stopped once he starts.”

Ivy stares at the gunman, waiting for a reaction. Heller remains statue still as he stares back.

 “...are you going to get him something?” Ivy quietly prods, as if she’s poking a bear with a stick.

Am I?

He couldn’t show up with nothing. Well, he could. But he won’t.

He wants to get Roark a birthday present.

Mordecai curses himself silently, when did he become so- feely? Soft? Sensitive?

He’s not entirely sure when he could pinpoint exactly when. It was undeniably before Roark was trapped in his office. Mordecai has been... observing Roark for multiple weeks now. Did his feelings develop before or after he reunited with the deck of Mitzi’s Lackadaisy cards. Something in Mordecai’s gut tells him that it was before.

The poet stood high upon the mechanical beast. Versing his manic performance with the sweetness of a fool in love. A maddening, soul crushing love. A disaster, a cyclone. A pretty little thing with sticks of devastation in hand, hurling destruction with every divine stanza. The poet that haunts the gunman’s every dream... and nightmare. Raw laughter sending tingles down Mordecai’s spine. Hair raising on its end, goosebumps line his skin. His heart fights to break out of his chest, desperate for freedom. Pumping with the lifeblood that drives him forward, powered by the pure vitality that is Mordecai’s ruthless obsession.

Curse you Roark.

Mordecai’s mind is thoroughly elsewhere as Ivy continues to speak to him, but none of her words penetrate his attention.

What could he gift to a man like Roark Rickaby? What would be worthy?

Another violin? No, he’s extremely attached to his own. A new tie? Mordecai is faced with the same dilemma; the violinist is quite attached to the one he currently has.

Rocky adores poetry.

Poetry.

Rocky was practically performing Shakespeare in his office just earlier this week. Whilst Mordecai was never a man for sonnets or flowery words, but when it came from the mouth of the charming man that is Roark? Mordecai is capable of change. Maybe he’ll even get a copy for himself, just so he can... keep up with the tabby. Perhaps he can utilise it into engaging in another conversation with the younger man. Rocky may even be impressed with his newfound knowledge... now that’s a thought.

Yes. That is what he will do.

He can see the tabby in his mind now. The violinist is smiling, but not his usual mirthful and almost dangerous grin. Rather, it’s one of his rare smiles. The type that Mordecai was graced with for just a moment in his office, just as Rocky was about to answer his question. A question he has yet to receive an answer to. A smile that was stolen far too soon, taken from him before he truly had the time to witness it. To take it in. A smile so soft, so earnest and almost self-conscious in nature. A smile that displayed the true Roark Rickaby, real emotion. Not the mask he often wore so perfectly.

A real smile.

A smile so damn charming.

Mordecai yearns to witness it again... have it directed to him once more. If learning a little poetry is the price of Roark’s genuine smile? Mordecai is willing to memorise a desert worth of literature, each grain of sand a sonnet to the violinist’s heart. Drown in the blue of his eyes whilst he’s graced with a smile so damn pretty that Mordecai forgets how to breathe.

It’s settled, Mordecai has his mind set on retrieving a copy of Shakespeare’s works for Roark, as well as a copy for himself. Just so he can sit and verse saccharine words with the younger man for as long as he’ll permit. This might just grant him the chance. The chance of being graced with the sight of that smile once more.

“-ordecai? Mordecai? MORDECAI” Ivy’s voice abruptly filters through the haze of Mordecai’s mind.

Startling the man out of his thoughts, Heller almost flinches as his fur puffs up slightly in embarrassment. Locking eyes with the young girl across from him, he suffocates the urge to just get up and leave without a word. But that wouldn’t be polite. Opening his mouth to reply, Mordecai chokes up a little. Coughing slightly as he replies.

“Ahem- um, yes? My apologies Miss Pepper, my mind was... elsewhere”

“Clearly” Ivy responds sassily, hands on her hips.

There’s a collective silence as Mordecai waits, growing increasingly nervous under the scrutiny of Ivy’s glare. Tapping his claws on the counter top, Mordecai’s frustration increases.

“Do you have something to say?” the gunman enquires, green eyes narrowed.

“I don’t get what he sees in you but, then again... he is Rocky” Ivy ponders aloud, causing Mordecai to let out flustered sputter.

“Pardon?” Mordecai’s fur puffs up further in embarrassment and mild offence.

“Oh nothing! Anyhow, toodles Mordecai! I’ve got some assignments to catch up on, I better see you on Rocky’s birthday!” the young girl threatens sweetly (maliciously) as she walks away and out of the café.

Offended and mouth agape in surprise, Mordecai watches as the girl skips away. The café’s doorbell chimes as she leaves.

Alone with his thoughts once again, Mordecai can’t help but yearn for Roark’s company.

Chapter Text

It’s not the ...fanciest wrapping paper. A simple light blue paper adorning a thin white ribbon to finish. The same shade of blue as the tabby’s eyes. Not that Mordecai had initially planned that, it just sort of happened. The wrapping itself is immaculate. Mordecai would never settle for less; this is a birthday present for Roark after all. Not a wrinkle or single imperfection in sight. Symmetrical.

Roark doesn’t deserve anything less than perfection.

What if it’s too... much?

Mordecai frowns as he glares down at the flawlessly presentable gift on his desk. Bringing his gloved hands up to adjust his coat, tightening it to keep away the biting winter chill attempting to seep into its warmth. The sky is dark outside, a gloom settling into the early evening with approaching clouds rumbling in the distance. The room has a bitter coldness to it, despite Mordecai keeping the room’s windows and door firmly shut.

At war with himself, Mordecai stares at the gift.

Rocky will surely appreciate the novel comprised of Shakespeare’s most renowned works. Hopefully. The trick is finding the right moment to gift it to the manic violinist.

Perhaps after the younger man is finished up on stage? Would it be best to invite him back to his office for privacy? Or maybe keep the exchange public so that it gives Mordecai a better chance at promptly running away if he’s met with rejection.

No. It needs to be private, there are too many judgemental eyes. Zibowski would surely be troublesome if he were to witness Mordecai being... soft towards the band’s youngest member. The band’s leader, while he did his best to appear gruff and detached, he isn’t doing a very good job at keeping up said appearances. Even Mordecai can see it. Zib is so painfully and utterly obvious with his... almost paternal protectiveness towards the young violinist. Each band member had their own funny way about it. Zib more outwardly so.

Mordecai cannot have Zib around when he presents the gift to Rocky. Or anyone for that matter.

He definitely cannot have that other... man around. Wadsworth.

Mordecai’s brows furrow further at the thought of the violinist’s admirer. Though the word admirer is too polite of a word, much too merciful of a word used to describe the man that Collins Wadsworth is. He is disruptive, rude and to be completely honest, merely a nuisance. Not worthy of Roark’s time and attention. Mordecai, if given the excuse to do so, would make use of his hitman skills in a heartbeat if someone merely asked him to. He’d do that service gladly for free.

Mordecai does not... enjoy killing.

However, Mordecai surmises that daydreaming about massacring Roark’s admirer is not exactly sane. Again. Admirer is too kind of a descriptor for Wadsworth. Especially with how he ogles up at Heller’s dearest when he is on stage.

Mordecai does not enjoy killing.

He will keep telling himself that. As foolish as that may be at this point.

The oh so tempting idea of driving a hatchet into the gore of Wadsworth is an idea that sits too sweetly in his mind. A blissful carnage. The removal of a minor problem.

The only thing Collins Wadsworth has going for him is his inherited glory. An unmarried man, looking to blow his riches away without a care in the world with the false demeanour of a finer, sophisticated man. A useless disguise. What sophisticated man harasses a musician trying to perform on stage at a speakeasy of all places? The way he leers and snarks up at his poet has Heller’s blood boiling uselessly within his veins. A raging fire with no oxygen for ignition.

Heller dug up everything he could get away with about this man. The man’s file, carefully curated by Mordecai himself, is hidden within the depths of Mordecai’s apartment. Under a false, unsuspecting floorboard, among his other... items. An odd assortment of possessions that should never see the light of day.

If the gunman really wanted his problem taken care of, he would plant some incriminating evidence within the man’s residence.

That would only be a temporary solution.

Merely based on the idea of Wadsworth being somehow unable to bribe his way out of conviction.

Which he would factually, very much be able to do so. Those sorts of... men can get away with anything when their pockets are stuffed with paper worth more than life. What does Wadsworth have to gain with his harassment towards Roark? Does he know anything about the musician?

How he thinks? What he enjoys? The way he sees joy in just about anything and everything around him?

His love for versing a never before heard stanza? His sweet poetic words of wit and charm, a blessing that no one seems to notice.

Or appreciate.

Does Wadsworth see the way Roark’s smile reaches his eyes and transforms his entire face?

A smile so damn bright, the urge to smile along with him is maddening.

Does he see the way Roark’s nose crinkles when he laughs?

No.

Collins hasn’t the faintest clue about what makes Roark... Roark.

Heller can see the way Rocky’s carefully curated mask almost cracks whenever Wadsworth makes himself known. The younger man’s posture becomes... uncomfortable. As if he’s trying to shrink in on himself, likes he wants to disappear. Whatever twinkle of wonder that shone in the poet’s eyes dissipates. Like a candle being snuffed of its darling little flame.

How does Mordecai know this?

Let it be known that Mordecai will never admit how often he spends his time just watching the tabby.

Stalking more like, his mind not so helpfully supplies.

Watching Rocky play his beloved instrument up on stage is truly a sight. His dynamic with the band is carefree and jovial. The tabby is fluid with his contentment and joy around the group, all of them kept under the watchful eye of the band’s leader. Rocky looks... happy. Mordecai would stew in his thoughts, standing off to the side, inconspicuous and blanketed by the shadows. Mordecai can observe with little to no interruptions. Rocky is and has always been, a delight to observe. The young man is at his best when he’s true. Not utilising the exaggerated joy that he weaponizes often, instead it is authentic merriment. Mordecai cannot help but feel almost... jealous of how unperturbed the violinist appears to be around the rest of the band, or even Ivy and Freckle for that matter. He wants that. He cannot help but recall how Rocky is often nervous if even a little terrified around him, as if one wrong move will set Mordecai off. It’s... worrisome and it leaves a heavy, unwelcomed feeling in his chest.

Mordecai doesn’t want Rocky to be terrified of him. The desire to be liked by Roark Rickaby is so overwhelmingly strong that it almost leaves him feeling lightheaded. Mordecai isn’t sure if he can handle having Rocky terrified of him again. That night in his office, before the younger man was interrupted, Rocky insisted that terrified isn’t the right word for it.

But what did he mean by it?

Rocky, with a single unfinished sentence, has thrown Mordecai into the trenches of a losing war with his own thoughts. Yearning and longing with every fibre of his being, for an answer. Mordecai has wanted few things in his life.

He wants his mother and sisters back in New York to be happy, safe and content.

He had wanted justice for Atlas May. Though he isn’t sure if he’ll ever be satisfied with how he got it.

All his wants, Mordecai can justify. They’re logical.

However, wanting Roark, Mordecai cannot justify that.

There is no logic behind it. The want. The need. This want is a weakness. Any wiser man will weaponize this weakness against him. Whatever strange and immobilising feelings that he has for the violinist is not only a danger to himself, but to Roark as well. Mordecai feels horrifically ill at the thought of putting the younger man at risk. Like a douse of freezing water, it startles Mordecai as to how his thoughts and feelings for the tabby have almost taken a complete reversal from how he used to feel. He doesn’t have the right to feel like this, not when just a few months ago he had aimed his own pistol towards the back of the violinist’s head. He almost murdered Roark. There isn’t anything that could abolish that irreversible fact away. Rocky was never meant to be in the line of fire to begin with, for heaven’s sake, he’s only meant to perform for Mitzi’s band.

But times were different then and Mitzi had to make some very difficult decisions. Irresponsible, senseless and careless decisions. Roark wasn’t safe. Not just from Mordecai, but every other Marigold hitman that were sent his way. Not that Rocky wasn’t capable of defending himself, it was just that more often than not, it was pure luck rather than sensibility. Roark is a man of luck.

But Mordecai doesn’t want Roark to be here just because he’s lucky. Luck is unreliable.

He wants Roark to be safe.

He wants Roark to be happy. Truly happy.

He wants Roark beside him. Talking to him. Spending time with him.

Roark doesn’t need to rely on luck anymore. Not when Mordecai has taken its place. Even if that renders him to watching and protecting from afar, Mordecai will surrender himself to it. Heller is not by any means, a weak individual. Roark Rickaby renders him into some fumbling fool with a mere pretty smile. Mordecai will be damned if he’ll let that smile be diminished by anything or anyone.

A knock on his office door wrenches him out his thoughts and back to the world of the conscious and present. Frazzled and panicked, the gunman quickly takes a hold of the gift and stuffs it into a draw in his desk. Embarrassed by being caught in his own internal monologue, Mordecai clears his throat before calling out;

“You may enter!”

The door noiselessly opens to reveal Mitzi May, adorning her own thick, lavish coat to protect her from the cold.

“Mordecai, sweetie, we need to get you an oil heater or something, it’s freezing in here” Mitzi complains she saunters in, her own fur fluffing up to protect her from the unforgiving chill of the office.

“I can fare with the cold just fine” Heller flatly replies back, doing his best to cover up any previous embarrassment by over compensating with his usual monotone.

“Sure honey” Mitzi drawls out as she leans herself against the back of the guest chair, opposite of Mordecai’s desk. Her gloved hands resting at the top of the chair, tapping before she continues; “I have a job for you.”

He knew this was coming eventually.

“What do you need me to do?” Mordecai enquires, his tone and face lack of emotion. His sleek tail flicks behind him and his whiskers twitch minutely.

“I need you to pick up a shipment from Kehoe, you know that old fellow? Works on the river? While I’m not usually a fan of his... supplies, he’s promised us some heavy liquor that the wealthy gentlemen enjoy” Mitzi requests with a sigh, wrapping her own arms around her midsection for warmth before continuing;

“Though I have a feeling you may run into some... trouble while you’re down there, so you’ll have someone accompanying you”

“I can assure you, I don’t need company” Mordecai reasons back, eyes narrowing by a margin.

“The job will get done quicker if you do honey” Mitzi sighs, her fluffy tail sways.

Mordecai’s harrowing green eyes narrow and brows furrow further. Growing more displeased by the second.

“No if’s or but’s, Rocky will go with you... no one else would” Mitzi mutters the last bit under her breath, leaving no room for argument.

Rocky?

NO.

“Absolutely not.” Mordecai almost snarls, his tail whips irritably behind him unashamedly.

“That’s too bad honey... besides, he volunteered if that makes you feel any better” Mitzi smiles mockingly, fully aware of the gunman’s discomfort.

Volunteered?

Why would he ever volunteer?

“Volunteered?” Mordecai questions, confusion evident on his face.

“Well, I asked just about everyone if they were willing to accompany you and the boy almost jumped out of his seat when I asked him, he insists upon going with you... hell, the only time I see him that excited is when any poor soul mentions pancakes” Mitzi supplies, shrugging her shoulders exasperatedly.

The first feeling that settles in Mordecai can only be described as butterflies. A fluttering mix of bliss and amusement settle in his stomach because Roark insisted on accompanying him. But these feelings are quickly quashed by the feeling of dread. Regardless if he’s under the safety of Mordecai or not, Mordecai doesn’t want Roark out in the playing field at all.

“It isn’t safe for Mr Rickaby to accompany me, he is safer here, you can tell him-”

“Tell me what Serious?”

Mordecai and Mitzi turn to see the violinist standing in the doorway, a small puzzled smile on his face. As if he just swallowed his own tongue, Mordecai cannot speak. Not when Roark looks at him like that.

“Rocky dear, there you are, it’s about time you two get a move on, hmm?” Mitzi informs sweetly as she walks past the tabby, condescendingly patting his shoulder on her way out. The woman gives Mordecai a kind but stern look before she walks away, leaving the two men alone.

The tabby gives a small hum in confirmation before turning to look back at the older man. His bright blue eyes are expectant as his hands come up to fidget with his lucky tie.

“Mr Rickaby” Mordecai greets softly, his rigid posture easing up. His defences seemingly come crumbling down now that he’s in front of the violinist.

“Mr Serious” Rocky greets back, giving the tuxedo a cheeky grin.

The younger man is wearing his usual suit, minus the waist coat. Adorning his usual matching coat and favourite tie. Mordecai notes that the tabby’s state of dress isn’t as warm as he’d like, not with the cold snap of the evening. The only article of clothing that does meet the gunman’s approval is the navy coloured, woolly scarf that sits snuggly around Roark’s neck. Perfectly framing his cheeks.

The darling violinist looks cosy. He looks charming.

“Shall we depart? Keen for this evening’s pilgrimage?” the young poet questions, turning himself slightly to gesture to the open door behind him.

Mordecai nods wordlessly, simply because he doesn’t trust himself to speak eloquently in the tabby’s company.

The two men walk side by side as they make their way down to the garage. Stepping ahead of the tabby, Mordecai opens the door to let Rocky enter first. The tabby’s fur fluffs up ever so slightly, that if one weren’t paying close attention, one would easily miss it. Mordecai didn’t.

The two enter to find the lights in the dusty garage already on, the sounds of metal clanking and tinkering come from a hidden corner of the garage. Mordecai silently makes his way towards the car’s driver’s seat only to turn the corner and run into Viktor with a wrench in hand.

“Hello Viktor!” Rocky perks up from the other side of the vehicle, peeking with bright eyes over the top.

“Rocky... Mordecai” Viktor’s gruff, unwelcoming accent greets. His seemingly permanent one-eyed scowl furrows deeper.

“Viktor” Mordecai replies back, standing firm under the glare. Straightening his posture by a fraction.

“Rocky... you be careful ‘vith this one” the one-eyed man warns as he pokes at the gunman’s chest with the wrench, Mordecai growls lowly in response.

The Slovak scoffs and steps around the other man, making an effort to glare at the gunman on his way past. Once Viktor has left, Mordecai lets out an exhausted groan before opening up the car’s door and sitting himself into the driver’s seat. Rocky hops into the passenger’s seat, looking over to Mordecai with a small frown.

“You alright Serious?” the tabby questions softly, causing Mordecai to look over and be ensnared into the endless blue.

“I’m... fine” Mordecai struggles out. Rocky raises a brow in evident disbelief, a tiny amused smile gracing his face. Damn-

“Don’t worry, Viktor’s behaviour is... warranted. I’ve accepted that” Mordecai reassures as he starts the ford’s engine. He can feel Roark’s stare prodding at him, but eases as Mordecai kicks the ford into gear.

The start of their long drive is silent, but pleasant. The sky darkens as the clouds that were looming in the distance rumble through. A warning of an impending storm. Threatening snow most likely. The cold of the weather hasn’t dulled Mordecai down one bit, if at all. Just having the violinist sitting beside him is enough for his heart to pound frantically in his chest, his fingers itch as he tightens his grip onto the steering wheel. He has the urge to... grab? The desire is tremendous and suffocating. He wants to grab Roark by his damn pretty face and- well, he really has no idea. The thought is terrifying but also electrifying at the same time. It’s also astoundingly distracting.

“So... Serious, have you given poetry any thought since we last spoke?” Rocky coyly asks and Mordecai can feel the tabby’s piercing eyes on him. Increasing his panicked heartbeat tenfold.

Mordecai isn’t sure on how to answer the question. Does he lie? And say that he hasn’t?... when in reality it’s almost all he’s thought about because the violinist and his love for poetry refuse to leave his sorry mind-

“Would it please you to know that I have?” Mordecai replies back, almost coyly. Attempting to match the tone that Roark has set for them.

Rocky wiggles slightly closer to him on the car seat, excitement evident in his body language.

“It does, it pleases me immensely” Roark grins with hushed words, like he’s telling him a secret. The tabby’s pupils are blown wide and Mordecai wishes so badly that he wasn’t currently driving. He contemplates the thought of pulling over and forgetting about their work altogether. The thought of driving Roark and himself back to the Little Daisy Café is becoming more desirable by the second. Roark would be safe. Far from danger, his mind supplies.

But they have a job to do. The sooner they complete it, the sooner he can deliver Roark... and the alcohol, back to the safety of the café. So, for now, Mordecai surmises, they’ll just need to get this job over and done with. Perhaps after, he can convince the tabby to spend some time with him... get him back into the privacy of his office. Maybe.

“What are your thoughts, Serious?” Rocky practically purrs beside him.

I want to take you and leave this place forever.

“My interest, whilst it isn’t as great at yours, has been piqued. I am willing to give fiction a try” Mordecai amusedly replies instead.

“I knew you’d see reason dear friend” the violinist replies contentedly, giving the older man a gentle pat on the shoulder before adjusting his own scarf to sit snug against his neck and face.

Roark’s touch sends a tingling sensation down Mordecai’s spine.

The barest hint of a smile begins to form on Mordecai’s face, his amusement produced by the young man beside him becoming increasingly harder to hide. Roark eases himself back into the car seat, contentment rolling off the tabby in waves. Mordecai isn’t entirely sure if he can pick up on the slight sound of purring coming from the tabby or if it’s his mind playing tricks on him. Or maybe it’s just the rumble of the ford’s engine. Sitting this close to Roark has made Mordecai realise two things.

One, Mordecai wants the musician by his side. All the time. Or for as long as the tabby will permit.

Two, Roark smells like a mix of syrup and... something warm? Mordecai cannot fully decipher exactly what the violinist’s scent it, only that it is surprisingly pleasant. He’s never had the time or proximity to truly notice. Mordecai hasn’t been in this close of quarters with the younger man before. Mordecai realises that Roark smells how drinking his favourite tea tastes like, a subtle sweetness of the honey and the encompassing warmth of the liquid in his core.

He is hopeless.

Should he ask about what Rocky was going to say that night in his office? Would it be inappropriate timing? Taking into consideration that the two were most likely about to confront some lowly figures on this job and Mordecai does want to keep a somewhat level head on his shoulders. Mordecai isn’t entirely sure if he wants the answer to his question just yet. Mordecai’s decision is made for him as Rocky clears his throat to speak;

“I have been wanting to ask you something” Rocky slowly enquires, breaking the silence.

Mordecai makes a small hum back in question.

Go on.

“I am curious is all... that night in your office, you received a letter, may I ask whom from?” the violinist questions politely, his tone light. Drumming his claws against the leather of the car seat beneath them.

Mordecai turns the car down an empty dirt road, absent of light and witnesses. Heller contemplates on whether he should reveal the contents of the letter he received. Though he supposes, if he were going to tell anyone, it is going to be Roark.

“The letter was from my sisters... my youngest sister, Rose, she was recently married” Mordecai reveals, feeling safe enough to do so.

“You have sisters?” the tabby elatedly asks, eager as he wiggles the tiniest bit closer to the tuxedo cat.

“I have two. Rose, my youngest and Esther the eldest” Mordecai smiles softly as he clarifies.

“Are you an older brother?” Rocky enquires, intrigued. A charming grin sitting perfectly on his face.

“I am” the older man replies, delighted by Rocky’s interest.

Mordecai takes a moment to trust his steering and look over at the tabby. With his breath caught in his throat at the sight, Mordecai isn’t prepared for the pure delight he’s given the pleasure to witness. It is truly a marvel to see the way Roark’s smile transforms his face, a sight almost so bright that like a moth caught by a flame, Mordecai has to fight to look away. Not that he wants to.

But he has to, with his gaze back and focussed on the road, Mordecai instantaneously misses the sight.

Eventually, Mordecai spots the turn off and steers the ford into another, more hidden dirt road. Trees and brush hide the path well as he slows the vehicle down and parks, turning the lights off to not draw attention to anyone lurking nearby. Rocky hauls himself over the front seat to reach into the backseat of the ford, bushy tail poised up high.

Lord Almighty.

Mordecai keeps his gaze forward but the urge to stare bubbles and boils within the depths of his gut. The thuds of items being scattered about resonates as Rocky searches for something, the tabby making small noises of frustration every now and then.

“May I ask, what you are looking for?” Mordecai questions, struggling to keep his eyes pointed forward.

“A bat! I know I have one back here somewhere- Ha! Here it is!” the tabby pulls himself back over the front seat, revealing the bat in question.

Mordecai finally wills himself to look over at the tabby, who looks completely and stunningly manic. Mordecai’s heart thumps harder in his chest at the sight, frantic to escape from the cell of his ribcage. Rocky looks up at him with his brilliant blue eyes and he almost forgets why they’re here to begin with.

“I assume you brought your own... visage of devastation?” the violinist enquires charmingly, completely unfazed by Mordecai’s staring. Ogling.

Swooning more like, Mordecai’s mind unhelpfully provides, reminding himself to will his composure back together.

Looking away, Heller pulls the right side of his coat open to reveal his firearm in its designated strap before pulling it out with his left hand. Roark whistles in appreciation before speaking;

“You’re a lefty? You’re full of surprises, huh Mords?”

Mordecai can practically hear the cheeky grin behind the younger man’s words. Mords is a new one.

“Let’s get to work Roark” Mordecai says with a small fond smile as he exits the car, effectively hiding his face from view. The sound of the car’s passenger door closing softly resonates, indicating Rocky’s exit.

The tabby makes his way around the car to stand beside the older man, his eyes expectant.

“You will stay behind me at all times” Mordecai whispers firmly, his expression firm.

“Yessir” Roark quietly replies with a nod, his unquestioning compliance sending a shiver down the gunman’s spine.

Roark will be safe if he stays behind him.

Mordecai plans on leaving these woods with the violinist unscathed. Not a bump, a scratch, a bruise or even a single hair out of place. Nothing astray to be seen on the younger man.

Safe and unharmed.

The two men walk silently through the woods, nearing closer to the river where Kehoe should be waiting, so they’ve been told. The only sounds the two can hear are the sounds of rustling leaves and branches as the distant storm rumbles closer, the wind picking up in its ferocity.

In the distance, Mordecai’s keen eyesight picks up on the glow of a flashlight or lantern. Suddenly stopping in his stalk, the tabby gently bumps himself into Mordecai’s back with a quiet ‘oomph!’. Roark stays quiet behind him, but doesn’t make any move to distance himself from the older man. Instead, he peeks over Mordecai’s right shoulder, attempting to get a peek at whatever the gunman’s spotted.

Mordecai’s ears are up and alert, picking up on the sounds of hushed voices.

Mitzi was right. They will have company.

Mordecai resists the urge to curse under his breath, instead choosing to check the ammo he has in his pistol. A full clip. The click of his gun alerts the tabby.

“Stay here” Mordecai commands quietly over his shoulder, his eyes still pointed forward. Rocky makes a small scoff before replying;

“Serious, you’re not going alone”

“Roark.” Mordecai harshly replies, please stay here.

Without replying, Roark steps around the older man and sneaks forward. His body hunching closer to the ground, bat trained and ready to hit. Towards danger.

Mordecai growls as he follows suit, his tail whipping behind him in unrestrained fury. The tabby moves quickly and silently, keeping himself low and hidden behind bushes to sneak closer. From where he is, Mordecai can spot two men near a dock, seemingly waiting for the same shipment that he and Rocky are there to retrieve. Only two men, but that’s only what Mordecai can see. There may be more.

One man is walking, almost in rounds, keeping an eye out for any witnesses. Mordecai notes that the man keeping watch is armed, the other man standing closer to the dock is unarmed. He and Rocky’s chances of success are good, they’ll just need to be careful. The tabby creeps closer, easily hiding his lithe figure behind a tree. Pleased with the musician’s safe placement, the trained gunman stalks forward. Mordecai keeps himself low, relying on his dark fur to keep him hidden amongst the brush. His pistol aimed forward and ready for any sudden movement.

The man making his rounds steps closer, his focus sluggish and careless with unkept attentiveness. He treads nearer to where the tabby is hidden, unknowingly skulking himself closer into the snares of the beartrap that is the violinist’s feverish might. Roark gives Mordecai a purposeful stare as he raises his wooden bat, it’s the only silent warning he receives as the younger man swings.

The bat makes an excruciating crack as it collides with the unsuspecting man’s skull, the body thuds unceremoniously to the dirt ground. Mordecai bolts forward, his pistol aimed to the man on the dock’s head. Before the offender has a chance to turn himself around to see the commotion, a loud bang resonates as the bullet is delivered swiftly through the back of the man’s cranium.

The body thumps against the wooden planks of creaky dock. Mordecai’s ears flick as he turns back around, swiftly facing the tabby. Rocky steps over the body, kicking him on his way past to check if he’s truly unconscious. Or dead. Blood slowly gushes from the side of the unconscious man’s head, twitching slightly. The younger man steps forward, blood dripping from his bat and a feverish grin on his face. Bright eyes wild and mirthful. Mordecai can’t help but think that Roark Rickaby has never looked prettier than he does right now. Striding to stand in front of the hitman, Rocky’s grin softens. A smile so sweet it has Mordecai feel weak in at the knees. The smile the violinist treats him to is such a stark and uncanny contrast to the brutal act he just committed.

“I must say... it is pleasant, being on this side” the tabby verses almost sweetly.

“This side of what?” confused, Mordecai questions. Keeping his gun in hand, not fully letting his guard down.

“This side of your pistol, rather than...” Rocky points to the corpse on the dock with his bloodied bat, “...his”

Mordecai doesn’t reply as regret settles into his gut. His face must betray his inner turmoil because Rocky is quickly reassuring him.

“Not that I blame you! You had your reasons Serious... it’s just- if any bullet was ever going to put an end to my madness... I truly did believe the delivery would be from yours truly” Roark reveals, bloodied bat slightly pointed towards Mordecai. Roark’s words are dark but he speaks with a smile on his face, as if he’s making Mordecai some divine promise.

Mordecai has a thunderstorm of words swirl and rumble within his mind but his body refuses to cooperate. A thousand things he could say, things he wants to say but all he can feel moving within himself is the ravenous beat of his heart. The younger man takes his silence in stride, carefully and ever so slowly stepping closer to Mordecai. As if he’s trying not to spook a wild, untamed animal.

Mordecai’s breath catches in his throat, the tabby is so close. Mordecai could reach out and grab Roark... and run. The gunman wants too so desperately. Forget their lives at the Lackadaisy, take the musician into the safety of his apartment and... Mordecai isn’t sure. His thoughts are dark and definitely should not be voiced aloud. Roark would be safe in Mordecai’s apartment and he longs to keep the tabby there. Protected. Roark would never need to work again. Hell. Mordecai has enough funds hidden away to keep the two living comfortably, for a long, long time. They could move away, buy a quaint little home somewhere, anywhere. Roark could meet his family... and-

Mordecai can see it; in the split second he has before Roark is right in front of him. A future that Mordecai most certainly, does not deserve. Not for all the atrocities he has committed. The lives he’s stolen. The life he just stole.

Mordecai is nothing.

But here, Rocky’s bright blue eyes see right through him, looking at Mordecai like he’s everything. Like he’s the only person he ever wants to look at. Such an undivided attentiveness that Mordecai almost feels like Roark might reciprocate.

Reciprocate what?

Mordecai hasn’t put a word to whatever this is. This sweet, fragile thing he has with the violinist. All Mordecai knows is that he wants to be by Roark’s side, forever, if he’ll let him.

Roark is closer now.

Mordecai can feel Rocky’s breath against his whiskers. The endless blue of his eyes is a bottomless ocean Mordecai would gladly drown in.

“Mordecai” the younger man whispers softly, his expression tender as he inches closer ever so slowly.

“Roark-”

Roark’s lips are so close.

A twig snaps somewhere behind the musician.

Roark startled, twists himself around, giving himself and Mordecai, a clear view of a third man marching his way towards them. A gun in his hand and raised towards the tabby, like some twisted executioner. Mordecai’s hair raises on its end as he hears the tell-tale click of a pistol’s chamber.

Instinct driving Mordecai forward, he’s advancing. Everything is moving in slow motion as Mordecai surges forward. Pushing the tabby towards the ground as he aims his own pistol up. Roark lets out a panicked shrill as he’s rammed face first into the dirt, dropping his bat in shock.

A loud crack resonates as a single bullet flies, whistling through the air.

There’s a stinging sensation in his left shoulder, stunning Mordecai into dropping his own pistol. He hisses as a searing sensation settles into his arm, fear evident in his wide eyes as their shooter aims once more. Whatever hope that Mordecai has for their future, as delusional as it may be, is about to be torn away from them.

Another three consecutive bangs echo into the cold night air.

The man across from them falls back. Blood gushes from a hole in his chest and stomach, the aim is panicked and rushed to Mordecai’s trained eyes. Another lucky bullet hole spurts out blood and gore between the man’s eyes as he collapses. Dust clouds beneath him as he falls and the silence of the woods settles once more.

Mordecai stands stock still in shock, staring at the body littered with holes in disbelief before looking down to the musician on the ground.

Roark, with his body twisted to face the body, has Mordecai’s gun aimed up to where the man once stood. Breathing heavily with adrenaline running through his veins, the tabby’s face is full of fright and turmoil. The violinist’s talented hands are trembling, Mordecai’s pistol shaking slightly in his grasp. Roark’s usual charismatic brows are furrowed, feral and untamed. Mordecai doesn’t have time to admire the sight of the tabby beneath him.

“Roark-” Mordecai leans down, unhurriedly grasping his pistol from the musician’s trembling hands.

“I um... damnit-” Rocky unsteadily breathes out, his eyes everywhere than up at the man above him.

Mordecai holsters his gun away into its strap, the stinging in his left shoulder is a footnote in his priority list. His shoulder can wait. Roark needs him.

“Come here” Mordecai pleas softly, his gloved hands snaking around the violinist’s lithe waist. Mordecai notes that his hands wrap around Roark’s waist too easily. Almost engulfing the man’s midsection. Has he been eating?

Gently and easily lifting Rocky up, Mordecai immediately spots blood on the musician’s face.

“You’re bleeding” Mordecai states, guilt hurriedly seeping into his system as he hastily pulls out a spare handkerchief from his coat pocket.

Rocky, now steady and on his feet stares at the older man with hurt bewilderment. As if he can’t believe what he’s hearing. Mordecai gently presses the fabric to the tabby’s bleeding snout as the guilt hits him like a tsunami. The waves of shame crash against him and he is eager and willing to drown in it. He was too rough shoving the musician into the ground, face first most likely. Roark is hurt.

Because of him.

Mordecai doesn’t deserve to be standing here, beside him.

He hardly deserves to even fathom the idea of a future with the younger man.

“Mordecai... you’re bleeding- Your shoulder!” Rocky’s eyes widen as he spots the bullet graze, his hands quickly raising to put pressure on the gunman’s wound. The tuxedo hisses slightly at the sensation. He deserves this.

“Take your coat off” Roark instructs seriously and Mordecai doesn’t move, too caught up in the self-destruction of his thoughts and the slow seep of blood dripping from the violinist’s nose.

Roark growls lowly as he pushes Mordecai’s hand away from his face, worried and shaky, Rocky starts forcing the older man’s coat off. Undoing the tie of coat and pushing open the left side and sleeve. His hands are unsteady but gentle as he helps Mordecai pull his arm free before peering closely at the wound.

The tabby lets out a shaken sigh of relief.

“A graze” he whispers to himself more than Mordecai.

Mordecai stays silent as he inspects the tabby’s blood on the handkerchief, his chest still tight with remorse. The excessive sound of fabric rustling has Mordecai peer back up at the tabby to be met with the sight of Rocky removing his lucky tie.

“What are you doing?” the older man anxiously mutters out.

“I’m going to bind it” Rocky softly replies and Mordecai can feel the warmth of the violinist’s body with how close they’re standing together.

“But that’s your favourite tie-”

“Mordecai”

That shuts him up. His white button-down shirt is stained crimson at his shoulder and Rocky’s hands are gentle as they hold him once more. With his lucky tie in hand, the tabby gently but tightly weaves it around the older man’s shoulder and upper bicep.

“You didn’t have to do that” Rocky whispers as he binds, his eyes hazy with an emotion Mordecai can’t name.

Didn’t have to do what?

Let Roark be shot?

“He would have shot you; you could- you would have died-” he argues back with a slight hiss, rage bubbling in his gut. The very thought of the younger man being shot because of Mordecai’s careless inattention ignites a fury like no other.

“He did shoot you!” the violinist raises his voice back; his bold blue eyes glare up at him.

“You said it yourself- it’s just a graze!” Mordecai snarls back. Rocky sucks in a pained breath, his hands still shaking as they hold Mordecai’s wound.

“You were still shot! Mordecai- I’m not worth the effort-”

“This is a waste of time- I wasn’t going to just let you die! This is stupid-”

“You’re stupid!”

The two become trapped in a stalemate of their stare, both refusing to back down. Rocky bites at his bottom lip as his eyes begin to water. Mordecai feels his rage instantly diminish at the sight; the flames of his quickly ignited fury are instantly drenched by guilt once more. A single tear sheds from Roark’s eye as he breaks the eye contact to stare back down at the older man’s grazed arm. Tightening the binding of the tie, Rocky sniffles before wiping at his eyes with his scarf. Blood slowly begins to stain the orange of Rocky’s beloved tie.

“Roark... look at me, please” Mordecai pleads, reaching a hand out to sit at the tabby’s shoulder.

“I’m sorry Mordecai- I...” the tabby’s muffled voice comes out from behind his scarf and hand.

“I’m okay, you’re okay...” Mordecai awkwardly hushes, not fully sure of what he’s doing. Gripping Roark’s shoulder as he decides, he allows himself to just move, pulling the tabby closer.

The violinist lets out a small tearful noise as he’s pulled into Mordecai’s chest. Pawing at Mordecai’s chest as he takes in deep, shuddering breaths. Willing himself back together. Mordecai’s heart hammers in his chest and there’s no possible way that Roark can’t not feel it. Despite the pain in his shoulder, butterflies settle in his stomach. With the tabby finally in his arms, pressed against the safety of his chest. Protected. Mordecai doesn’t ever want to let Roark go. This isn’t how we wanted to get Roark in his arms. This isn’t how this was meant to go.

“We need to get rid of the bodies” Mordecai whispers, they still have a job to do.

They can talk after.

Roark takes in one last shuddering breath before nodding slowly, stepping back from the older man. Mordecai misses the feeling immediately. Roark’s eyes are red and sensitive with emotion as he steps back but his tears have ceased. Looking away from Mordecai, Rocky twists himself around to observe each of the bodies. His snout is stained with blood but the bleeding has stopped, the musician looks a mess. A pretty mix of chaos and charm.

Mordecai has never wanted him more.

“We need to get them out of here before Kehoe rocks up” Rocky slowly states as thunder rumbles in the distance. A rough wind breaks through the brush of the woods, sending a chill down his spine.

“The river... this storm will carry them far” Mordecai supplies, his eyes not leaving Roark for a second.

The two men work silently as they drag the bodies away and callously shove all three corpses into the jagged waters of the unforgiving river. The three lifeless men are rapidly consumed by the merciless water, disappearing into the darkness of the evening. Mordecai notices the tabby’s bloodied bat still sits abandoned in the dirt, picking it up he walks over, presenting it to Roark.

“Thank you” Roark whispers in recognition, his charming fur fluffing up in embarrassment or the cold. Mordecai isn’t sure.

“I’m sorry that I- I didn’t mean to shove you down like that” Mordecai quietly apologises.

“I’m alright Serious... let’s just focus on getting back and getting your shoulder fixed up” the tabby replies with a small worried smile.

Mordecai and Roark stand closely, side by side. Both men are keenly aware of what had almost transpired just seconds before Roark was nearly shot.

What was going to happen?

Mordecai recalls being able to feel the musician’s breath against his own lips with how close they were. It was as if Roark had him under some trance that Mordecai couldn’t fight, not that he had wanted to. Regardless of how the bullet shot, Mordecai would have taken the gunshot over and over before it even had a chance to graze the violinist. Mordecai would wholeheartedly accept death if that meant he got to drift away into oblivion in Roark’s arms.

“There’s something my mother used to tell me...” Rocky almost whispers, Mordecai looks over to the musician, holding his breath.

“...she would say, that if- you spent enough time with anything... you begin to like it. Cherish it...” Rocky sighs almost desirously before continuing, “...even the madness.”

Rocky breathes in.

“... and well, whatever- this is... it is madness but... it’s alright.”

Rocky breathes in a shaky breath at his admission. A riddled confession. A confession so veiled that the poet is not entirely sure that gunman will pick up on it. He’s terrified, not of Mordecai but of how the tuxedo may react.

Mordecai is speechless.

Roark turns to him with eyes full of sentiment and Mordecai wants nothing more than to pull the tabby against his chest once more. Kiss him senseless and make him forget about any heart ache he has. Kiss away all the pain Roark is carrying. Mordecai’s hand is reaching out before he can process it doing so, mere inches away from pulling the younger man to him.

Mordecai’s heart hammers in his chest and just as he opens his mouth to ask Roark for any form of consent, a light shine and the chugs of a boat resonates. The two men squint their eyes at the blinding brightness of the captain’s boat, their pupils narrowed into slits. Mordecai growls in frustration, thoroughly pissed off. Fed up from being interrupted. Again.

It seems that the world is out against them.

The boat chugs closers and is tethered to the dock. Roark steps forward, his metaphorical mask in place as he charmingly greets the boat’s captain. Kehoe wordlessly greets the tabby back with little to no enthusiasm. Mordecai has half a mind to force the boat’s captain to be nice and greet the violinist back. Instead, Mordecai keeps his distance, irritation still boiling uselessly in his gut. Roark looks over his shoulder to the older man, an imploring expression on his bloodied face.

“Mords, can I get a hand?” he calls out.

Mordecai’s expression must reflect the fury in his core as Kehoe almost recoils as he glares over. His eyes soften as they meet Roark’s stare, nodding to the musician as he steps forward. Roark graces Mordecai with a sweet smile as he strides beside him, kindling a fluttering warmth in his chest.

The two men haul the cargo off the boat and pay the captain. Carrying a couple crates worth of well-aged liquor, the two set off back to their parked vehicle in silence. The trip back is filled with heavy tension, compact within the small space. Both men have half a mind to just drive away together and never return to the Little Daisy Café.

He could fix this.

In a heartbeat, it could all go away. He would throw it all away and run with the man beside him. No one would come for them. They mattered so little to everyone around them. They are nothing. But to each other they are everything.

He could fix this.

He could save them.

Mordecai’s grip on the steering wheels is white knuckled and tense, as if he’s trying to contain whatever actions he’s willing to do to the younger man beside him. Mordecai knows that if it starts, he won’t be able to stop. The ache in his chest so great that it’s unlike any pain he’s felt before, even when Atlas died.

Mordecai has never wanted more in his entire life.

His ears pick up on every miniscule sound the musician makes, every hushed breath and movement. As if Roark’s finger is on the trigger of Mordecai’s pistol, ready to shoot and set the older man off. The car ride is too quick, Mordecai pulls the ford in front of the closed garage, shutting off the vehicle’s engine. Parking at the back of the café they know everyone is waiting for their arrival inside, waiting on the delivery of liquid gold. His shoulder has gone numb compared to his inner turmoil. The two men sit there for a moment, just staring at the café but unwilling to move. Before Mordecai can reconsider starting the ford’s engine to drive away, Rocky is sluggishly moving and closing the car door behind him.

The tabby hauls the garage door open, giving Mordecai a small whistle to signal ‘you can move’.

Mordecai solemnly restarts the engine and slowly pulls in.

Viktor awaits inside, as does Zib. The two other men make their way forward, discarding their poker game to help them out with their cargo. Both men’s eyes squint at the sight of blood on the arriving men.

Mordecai, stepping out of the ford to help, a hand is pressed to his chest. Rocky’s eyes are pleading as he softly whispers;

“No, you’re going upstairs, get Miss M to patch you up... please”

Mordecai wants to argue, that he’s fine. But with how the violinist stares up at him, Mordecai can’t bring himself to fight.

As the gunman walks away, he can hear Zib gruffly fuss over the tabby’s bloodied nose. Viktor complains about how Mordecai should be helping over his shoulder, the statement doesn’t kickstart a rage like it usually does. All Mordecai feels is loss for an opportunity that he and Roark have missed. A door closing.

For the rest of the evening, Mordecai sits in his office as Mitzi threads a needle through his flesh. Binding the graze back together as the gunman’s thoughts are elsewhere. Mitzi’s voice is muddled, crashing against the barrier of his senses but they’re unable to break through.

The only thing on his mind are yearning thoughts of the violinist downstairs.

Chapter Text

Lightning fractures through the endless sky, cracking like a whip as the almighty voice of God. A flash of the remarkable, a thunderous quake within the depths of his chest.

Mordecai is here.

Where?

The rustling of trees, twigs and leaves shake with heartache. Ripped and torn from their beloved roots. They’re screaming in Mordecai’s ears. A visage of destruction. A visage of glory. The rushing sounds of the river rages nearby, a reminder of their limited time. They aren’t alone.

Roark Rickaby, in all his macabre beauty, is here.

Where?

Here with him.

Gruesome need.

He has a disgusting and ravenous, starving need. Azure eyes and lightning whiskers. Through the gateways into the poet’s obscuring mind, lies a broken and desperate man. Despondent. Elegiac. Calling to Mordecai. Echoes of maniacal laughter and an electrifying buzz in his veins, the essence of life flows through his system and surges him forward.

Mordecai steps closer.

This isn’t how it went-

Roark is here and so close.

“Mordecai”

Roark’s voice is a hushed plead.

Mordecai can never say no to Roark.

Their noses are almost caressing with how close they are, their hands are touching as lightning shatters through sky and stabs straight through his heart. A poet’s sick, twisted cupid’s arrow. Roark’s lips are so damn close. He can feel how soft they are just from their proximity. A glimpse of heaven, the golden gates and pearly Eden.

An earth-shattering crack echoes through the clearing.

Roark stumbles into his chest with an excruciated, silent scream. As if the poet is under water, his melodic voice is hoarse with hurt. Torn apart at the seams. Mordecai brings his hands up to hold his darling as he tumbles into the gunman’s arms. The poet clings to him, claws dig into his biceps as the poet goes weak in his hold. Mordecai rushes to hold his muse in his arms, there’s a shadowed figure standing off into the clearing.

The judge. The executioner. The deliverance.

“Rocky-”

There’s blood on his hands.

“Roark?”

The poet is trembling, shaking like a leaf in his arms as Mordecai lowers him gently into his lap. Landing heavy onto his knees, Mordecai crumbles, breaks. Dust clouds around them as bellowed swirls, a vortex of blinding lightning and grim isolation. His benevolent green eyes are wide as he takes in the form of his beloved. Merciless, crimson seeps slowly from the mouth of the poet. Hot, furious tears blur Mordecai’s vision. Lightning courses through his veins and he’s screaming. The judge is gone. The executioner has served his bitter, righteous judgement. The sentence delivered. A sentence intended for Mordecai.

This isn’t how it happened-

“Mordecai-”

The poet pleads his name, quivering hands desperately grasp at Mordecai’s chest. Begging and bleeding. Attempting to gain admission into the cold man’s violent, grief-stricken heart. His darling poet lays bleeding in his arms and Mordecai is in anguish. His throat is raw and his tears are scorched as they run down his face. His love’s soul seeps from his weakened frame, begging to never be let go. To hold him like he’s going to lose him. He is losing him.

This isn’t what happened.

Roark is dying in his arms. The light dwindling as the soul who consumes him so completely, vanishes with one last quivering gasp. Mordecai’s breath tremors, shaking and despairing. Desperate to keep his trembling hold on his fading love. Roark’s gentle, apprehensive voice begins to fill Heller’s spiralling awareness... like a calling from a place far from him. Here but not. Present yet gone. An admission he’s heard somewhere before... it hasn’t been delivered to him yet.

This isn’t what happened.

“...my mother used to tell me...”

The light from the poet’s charming blue eyes drains, cold and dazed. Lips unmoving yet the poet continues to muse, ponder and recollect. Confess.

“...she would say, that if- you spent enough time with anything...”

Mordecai can feel his heart shatter within the depths of his chest, threatening to pierce out; to furiously lash out at the world. Anything and everything. The poet’s muse lingers, a gentle laugh huffs into the rushing wind.

“...you begin to like it. Cherish it...”

The poet sighs.

 “...even the madness.”

This isn’t what happened-

Mordecai feels himself slipping. It feels like madness.

It is madness.

Roark isn’t gripping his chest anymore; his striped arms lay limp at his sides. His musician’s face is peaceful. At ease and devoid of pain. His eternal silent harmony. Crimson taints his soft darling lips but his brows furrow no longer. A poet who can longer perform his muse, no longer charm Mordecai with his wily wits and endearing, longing stares. Blood pools beneath them at an excessive rate, threatening to swallow the two souls whole. To drown Mordecai in his well-deserved sins. His punishment. He is long condemned. He never should have brought Roark out here. He should have done more. He should have protected his poet. He should have-

This isn’t what happened.

Is it?

Mordecai gasps out in a strained and silent scream, his throat seemingly incapable of proper noise. He sits up, drenched in his own cold sweat. Fur matted against his skin. His sheets have been haphazardly thrown off his shaking frame as his heart hammers frantically in his chest. Threatening to break free and put an end to his tortured thoughts once and for all. The aching pain remains in his shoulder, the graze is nothing compared to the stabbing in his heart. Ragged and consumed, his breaths come out in panicked gasps. Struggling to swallow in the air he so desperately needs; as if he is drowning under the plaguing weight of his sinful regrets and heartache. The ocean of his ultimate demise as it would seem. His noir tail flicks with tension behind him.

That isn’t what happened.

Roark is safe.

His poet did not perish last night, the bullet had not lain its merciless hands on the younger man. Mordecai brings both his shaking hands up to his sweat drenched face, cradling over his eyes as if to hide away the visions of his sins. The darkness aids Mordecai in seeing his charming, dying love clearer. Wrenching himself out of bed, Mordecai’s heart has yet to ease in its incessant war drumming. His shoulder aches. A footnote on his list of worries.

The sun is setting, lulling Mordecai’s apartment under a hazy golden glow through the windows. A rare sight of divine sunlight glittering against last night storm’s freshly laid snow. He’s overslept and by God does he need a shower. His skin crawls at the thought of sweat sticking in his fur.

Mordecai trudges his way to his bathroom, adjoined to his bedroom. His pince-nez left forgotten on his bed side table; the gunman’s world is a distorted blur. He does not need to see. He does not want to. Crimson still haunts his vision, like the shrivelled petals of a wilting rose. His charming, darling rose. Stripped of his thorns and abused for his delight. Mistreated and battered, his rose deserved- deserves better. Roark is not dead.

His thumping heart is a persistent reminder of his haunting feelings for the azure-eyed man. Mordecai knows, realistically, that Roark is safe. Alive. Most likely at the Little Daisy café right now.

Safe.

Breathing.

Smiling.

Alive.

It’s Roark’s birthday today.

The steaming shower does little to ease his ill-structured mind. His body is scrubbed free from the evidence of his nightmare, mindful and ever cautious of his stitches etched into his shoulder. Roark would not be particularly happy if he managed to open the stitching. Not looking to upset his darling further, Mordecai remains cautious.

His noir frame is now cleansed from worry. A stark contrast unparalleled to the storm spiralling in his cranium. Heller foolishly longs for something to scrub his mind clean. Erase these thoughts.

He is so sick of thought.

Mordecai notes that he has spent most of his day in his apartment, as per Mitzi’s orders... and Roark’s remarkably persuasive and insistent stares he received as he had left the cafe. Mordecai wasn’t looking to disappoint the tabby further, reluctantly heading home after being stitched up by the lady in charge. Though he doesn’t plan on missing any of Roark’s performance on stage tonight. The gift sits safely tucked away in Mordecai’s desk drawer, yet to be retrieved.

Meandering around his apartment, the dull ache of his shoulder is present but not enough to dull his ever-persistent thoughts. Roark is all he thinks about and he’s ashamed to admit that his thoughts aren’t all... appropriate. He can feel the phantom sensations of Roark’s waist in his hands. Roark’s hushed breath on his lips and it is becoming increasingly difficult to concentrate.

With his favourite tea in hand, Mordecai distracts himself by watering his houseplants. Drowning his thoughts with the gentle sounds of water rushing down leafy stalks.

His sister’s letter sits open and unanswered on his small dining room table. Sat haphazardly beside it, shrivelled up and tainted; is Roark’s favourite, now bloodied tie. Taunting him. A reminder of his careless inattention. Stained by thoughtless oversights. Mordecai’s tail jerks in frustration as he then forces himself to stare back at the paper. His small watering can in one hand and his tea in the other. With a grumble, the gunman places the watering can down beside his now hydrated Ficus. Walking over to the table, he places his tea down and takes a hold of his ink pen sitting close by.

How was he going to reply to this?

His youngest sister, Rose, is married.

She has recently married some doctor, with the approval of their mother of course. A doctor is respectable. It’s a reliable and well-paying job, a job that will ensure this man will keep his sister provided for. His sister will be able to settle down and live comfortably and have children, if she so desires. Mordecai won’t need to worry. Though he still sends a portion of his funds to his mother in New York, providing financial support from afar. Mordecai is happy for his sister. He feels that any day now, Rose will soon be sending a letter stating that he’s become an uncle. Children in all honesty... have never interested Mordecai. They are messy, loud and a fuss to deal with. But somewhere within the depths of his well concealed heart, Mordecai knows he will love any niece or nephew his sister will give him.

Jaded eyes linger back over to the bloodied yet beloved tie.

A small inkling of... longing and envy forms in his chest. Flashes of his wishful future spark in his mind. Within the safety of his apartment, he can indulge and see it oh so clearly now.

An afternoon glow, autumn seasonal colours. Crimson tinted leaves crunch and crumble beneath his shoes. He’s standing on a front lawn, a bouquet of darling roses in hand. Standing in front of a quaint, two-storey red-brick house. A white picket fence surrounds the charming home. Their home, his mind supplies. Along the fence are well-kept and maintained flowerbeds, he steps forward along a small stone path leading up to the front door.

Mordecai treads in, the house is warm and so damn cosy that it feels more home to him than his current apartment. There’s a violin playing, strings echoing from somewhere within the walls of the home. Luring Mordecai forward, in search of the instrument’s owner. His darling. Making his way up the stained wooden stairs, the strings sing their melody. A siren’s alluring song calling out to a deserted ship’s captain. Mordecai falls victim to the siren’s mind-numbing charm. Mordecai passes an assortment of homely items, blurry picture frames along the walls. Well-loved house plants here and there. A bookshelf stuffed with novels of fiction and non-fiction alike. A healthy and loving contrast.

The siren’s serenade lures Mordecai to a closed door.

With his hand on the doorknob, Mordecai twists and pushes the door open.

Inside, the first thing he gazes upon is a bed large enough for two. Plush blankets and pillows haphazardly, fabric tousled about, unkept and unmade. The sight fills his chest with... serenity and satisfaction despite the mess. The mess was made purposefully.

The light from the window to his right draws him in, turning himself to face it, he’s graced with the sight of Roark lounging on the windowsill. Seemingly basking in the warm glow with his violin pressed beneath his chin. His bow in hand; Roark hums softly with his eyes closed. The breeze from the open window ruffles his soft fur.

The false siren’s ear flicks, aware of Mordecai’s presence, yet he continues to play his symphony. Unfazed and blissful. Sitting at the windowsill in nothing but what appears to be Mordecai’s white button up shirt. Slightly oversized on the musician, the shirt hides his figure but the view ignites a fire in Mordecai’s gut.

“Hello you”

Roark softly calls out, alluring and enchanting. Peeking up at Heller with one, half-closed eye. The violinist’s tone is teasing. Though his beloved’s greeting sounds muffled in Mordecai’s mind, like his ears are stuffed with cotton.

Before Mordecai can answer to the violinist’s call and present the darling bouquet of roses in his hand, a loud shrilling sound invades Mordecai’s ears and startles him out of his daydream. Pulled away from the heavens of his wishful thinking.

Flinching, Mordecai searches for the source of the interruption to realise his landline telephone is ringing. With a growl, Mordecai wrenches himself out of his seat and towards the phone, gripping it harder than necessary as he answers;

“Who is this?”

His tail whips frustratedly behind him.

“Hello to you too Mordecai! It’s Ivy” the girl’s chipper voice replies, unfazed by the hostility of the gunman’s tone.

“Miss Pepper? How did you get my number?”

“Mitzi gave it to me!”

“Of course, she did” Mordecai groans, brows furrowing.

“You can be grumpy later; I need you to come pick me up and take me to the café- I am not missing a prime Lindy-Hop opportunity with Calvin” Ivy firmly states.

“Pick you up? What about McMurray?”

“He’s busy running errands, said he’d meet me there... I’d ask Rocky but you know how he is” Ivy sighs dramatically, “he is here, there and everywhere... God only knows where” the girl ponders, as if Roark is some unsolvable enigmatic.

While a constant enigma to the untrained eye, Mordecai has long noticed that Roark simultaneously wears his heart on his sleeve. As long as you knew where to look. Roark is performer, never missing a beat and is a constant display of well-orchestrated emotion and feeling. Some would say over the top. A bit much. He overcompensates.

For what?

At Pepper’s mention of the musician’s name, embarrassment seeps into his throat. With a small cough, Mordecai answers;

“I’ll be there in fifteen minutes, be ready, please” Mordecai sternly answers.

“Thank you so much Mordecai! I will!” the dial tones, Ivy has hung up the line.

With a groan, Mordecai pinches the bridge of his snout, just beneath his glasses. Hooking the phone back up, the tuxedo lazily walks back over to his dining table. He’ll need to write his reply later. Picking up his tea and swallowing it down in two gulps, the slight sting in his throat wakes him up and kicks him into gear.

Getting himself dressed out of his casual house clothes, which typically consisted of just an undershirt and some soft flannel pants. Mordecai is in his suit in record time, gazing at the letter and Roark’s tie on his way out, Mordecai leaves his apartment.

Down within the cavernous depths of the Lackadaisy speakeasy, Roark Rickaby methodically tunes his violin with the band’s leader by his side. Sitting silently together on the edge of the stage as the Lackadaisy speakeasy prepares for the evening ahead of them. Rocky can smell the smoke of Zib’s cigarette as he works, attempting to fill his senses but failing to distract him from his tumbling thoughts. Guilt sits heavily in his gut.

Mordecai Heller.

Rocky’s heart swells in his chest. The mere thought of the older man’s name has Rocky fighting to not smile like a madman. He isn’t sure if he wants to smile or cry- perhaps both. Mordecai went out of his way to save him. Almost taking a bullet as he did. The guilt continues to weigh like a hefty stone in his stomach however the stone is swiftly tickled and perched upon by a fluttering wave of butterflies. No one has ever gone to such lengths, or any lengths to protect him like that before. Except maybe Freckle, who really only did it just so he could chew Rocky out after for being reckless.

Mordecai was the one who was grazed by the bullet, yet all he cared about was the fact the violinist had a bloody nose.

Sweetheart.

Rocky wonders if the gunman will make his illustrious presence made known this evening. God, he hopes so. It has been less than a day and Rocky horrendously longs for the other man’s company. His snarky remarks, piercing eyes and well-hidden sentiments. Rocky has a thousand confessions and only one confession to profess to the gunman. With Mordecai he feels heard. Never brushing him off as just some nuisance that it seems everyone else has ruled him off as. Mordecai, with anyone else, is stoic, icy and often downright rude. With anyone else Mordecai is as standoffish as they come. But last night, just the two of them.

Mordecai was sweet.

Teasing almost.

The green of Mordecai eyes has always been striking from a far, but dear lord, up close? Like the peaceful, windy fields of a warm summer’s day.

Thou art more lovely and more temperate.

Mordecai calls him by his name.

Not by Rocky. The tabby’s whiskers twitch. It’s the way others would call him by his nickname, more often than not throwing it at him like it’s an insult. Sharp stones to his psyche. The jagged edges of their tone hit hard like rocks.

But there is something so... sentimental about that way Mordecai says his name. His true name.

Mordecai always voices his name as if he’s out of breath, hushed and sweet. A gentle whisper as if it’s a secret, like he doesn’t want to share it. A blink and you’ll miss it moment. Moments that Rocky treasures more than anything.

He isn’t even sure how Mordecai knows his name to begin with.

Perhaps the thought should alarm him. Any other person would be terrified at the notion, being placed under Heller’s radar. Rocky never told Mordecai his name. At least... he doesn’t think he has? How did he find out about it? The only other person that calls him by his name is his aunt.

The violinist shivers, a tingling sensation travels down his lithe spine. An ardent, eager feeling. As if he’s being watched by the gunman currently. Perhaps Mordecai had asked around... could Ivy have slipped up and told him his name?

Regardless, Mordecai has somehow gone out of his way to know.

Rocky swoons, a soft sigh leaving his throat. Breathless all of a sudden, he takes in a greedy gulp of air to make up for it. Staring down at his darling stringed instrument, the musician sucks in another shaky breath. Setting his mind on distracting his thoughts away from the man of his dreams. Lovingly tuning his violin, his mind is elsewhere. Maybe he can ask Mordecai to dance later- though Rocky has a sure feeling the older man will undoubtedly say no. Mordecai is pretty vocal about his distaste for dancing. But just maybe-

“Kid”

Pulled suddenly out of his wishful thinking, Rocky glances up to the band leader at his side.

“Happy Birthday kid” Zib supplies, holding out a small gift wrapped in what appears to be yesterday’s newspaper.

“Aw Zib, you didn’t have to do that!” Rocky grins but his heart strings pull. He’s said that before.

Under very different circumstances.

With a performative smile still on his face, Rocky takes a hold of the presented gift and places his instrument down on the stage beside him. Looking back up to the older man for unsaid permission, the saxophonist gives a bashful shrug. Go on. The gift is soft and malleable in his hands.

Ripping open the paper, Rocky pulls out something made of soft fabric. Bringing up to inspect it closer, the tabby realises it’s a charming white bowtie.

“I figured... if you’re going to be playing on your birthday, you’ll wanna look the part. It’s a special evening after all...” Zib glances down to the tabby’s neck “...and I couldn’t help but notice you’re missing your lucky tie” Zib drawls out, his eyes quickly looking elsewhere in embarrassment.

“Aw Zib! Thank you!” Rocky gushes, quickly trapping the band’s leader in a crushing hug.

Zib makes struggling noises as he’s squeezed but laughs at his predicament.

“Don’t stress it kid- heck, it used to be mine. So, do it some justice and wear it well tonight” Zib reveals, his own arms gingerly coming up to pat the violinist on his back. Doing his best to hide his small smile.

“I will” Rocky promises, granting the band leader freedom from his crushing hug.

Flicking up his shirt collar, the tabby situates the ivory bowtie around his neck. Zib quietly observes as he does. Straightening up the bowtie, Rocky presents it to the band leader with a theatrical wave of jazz hands and a playful grin. Zib snorts as he rolls his eyes amusedly at the display.

“You wear it well kid” Zib mumbles over his cigarette, a small smile on his face.

“Thanks!” Rocky beams, tail fluffing up bashfully behind him.

I wonder if Mordecai will like it?

Reaching back for his beloved instrument, hurried and frantic footsteps resonate from the entrance of the speakeasy. The two band members look over to spot an out of breath Freckle standing at the entry way. Letting out a dramatic sigh, Freckle leans himself against his knees, relief flooding his face.

“You alright bud?” the older cousin calls over, brows furrowed.

“I just- I thought I was late! I’d never hear the end of it from Ivy-” the orange haired boy huffs out, frustrated with himself.

The speakeasy remains silent. The ironic silence of the empty space is deafening before the violinist barks out a laugh. Freckle frowns at his cousin as he walks over to the band members, Zib’s quiet snickering muffled by Rocky’s teasing laughs.

“We don’t open for another hour” Zib states with an entertained smirk, staring down at his pocket watch he retrieved from his pocket.

“An hour?” Freckle replies back, disbelieving. Bright yellow eyes full of scepticism.

“You came just in time to watch us tune our instruments-!” Rocky laughs. Zib snorts, a cloud of smoke puffing out.

“Truly a spectacle you wouldn’t want to miss dear cousin... really! A sight to behold” Rocky not so helpfully supplies, mischievous eyes squinting from the stretch of his grin.

“I get the idea Rocky” Freckle groans out, muttering the tabby’s nickname.

“Don’t be so dreary cousin, a cheery Miss Pepper will want to see your face stretched thin with the smile you will deliver when she arrives; then you will sweep her off her feet with your debonaire dancing skills-”

“...I don’t know how to dance-” Freckle whispers.

“How can you still not know how to dance? How does Miss Pepper even look your way!” Rocky announces disbelievingly as he shoves his instrument into the saxophonist’s unsuspecting hands.

Startled, Zib’s hands shake as he takes a hold of the tabby’s violin. Barely getting a grip before it has a chance to fall onto the floor. Freckle gulps down a nervous lump in his throat as the Rocky practically bounces off the stage. The violinist gives the band’s leader a wordless look over his shoulder as he lands, silently asking for a tune to dance to. Zib merely sighs, hefting himself up and onto his feet to turn on a nearby gramophone.

“I ain’t playing sax for this... this will have to do kids” Zib huffs out with a tiny laugh.

“That will have to do! Thank you!” Roark sharply grins, turning to face his cousin once more with eyes full of a sparked determination. Lit up like a stick of dynamite. Freckle flinches at the sight.

Taking a hold of Freckle’s forearms, Rocky drags the younger man out onto the dancefloor. Acting as the role of the jazz princess Ivy Pepper, Rocky seizes the orange cat’s hands. Placing one on his hip and keeping one gripped firmly in the other hand. The gramophone crackles to life somewhere behind them, one of Zib’s favourite jazz classics. A record the band often listen to during their downtime, when lousy bets are being made over poker on a barrel. Rocky isn’t one to join in on their poker games, he stopped after almost losing his favourite tie to Ben of all people.

Ben doesn’t even like orange.

“Alright... now watch my feet and try to memorise my steps, you won’t be looking down when you’re doing the real thing!” the poet announces before slowly starting to dance.

Freckle gives a small nervous squeak as he’s tussled and thrown about.

Experienced and fluid, the older cousin’s feet tap and sway with an unexpected grace. Freckle stumbles as he attempts to follow the tabby’s lead, biting at his lower lip in concentration. Unfazed by Freckle’s inexperience, Rocky gently guides and leads. Demonstrating the way, Rocky displays to the younger man how he should move instead. The violinist resists the urge to chuckle at the silly mistakes Freckle is making, having one too many moments where Freckle has almost stepped on his shoes. Just barely avoiding the onslaught of graceless stomping from the younger cousin.

In all honesty, Freckle isn’t doing too badly. Really!

He’s tripping here and there, but all in all, Rocky quietly promises within his mind that Freckle won’t make a complete fool of himself this evening. Pleased with their progress, the violinist picks up the tempo. Roark can only hope that Ivy finds charm in Freckle’s clumsy movements. She seems to be charmed by Freckle’s boyish inexperience.

“This is when you let each other go!” the dancer announces, his arms coming out to move on beat with the swinging melody.

“This seems a bit intense!” Freckle complains, doing his best to mimic the taller man’s movements.

“Miss Pepper likes intense!” Rocky argues back as he takes Freckle’s hands once more, leaning back before pulling the younger fellow back in.

Freckle lets out an undignified yelp as he’s pulled about. An entertained snicker can be heard from the stage at the spectacle, Zib gives the two men an unenthused clap as they continue to twist themselves around.

“You’re learning from the best!” Zib hoots out from where he’s now sitting on stage.

Zib gives a small smile as he lazily lights another cigarette that sits loosely between his teeth. Roark barks out a cackle, perhaps tonight won’t be so bad. Unlike his previous birthdays. Something about this birthday feels unusual. Perhaps it is the fact he is finally in a secure spot? He’s being paid – to an extent. While he still sleeps in the Lackadaisy Ford, he may actually be able to afford some dingy apartment soon! But that doesn’t explain the euphoric bliss that fills his chest, replacing all the oxygen in his lungs, leaving the violinist breathless. All from a mere thought of a well-dressed, tuxedo-patterned man. With ridiculously alluring eyes and a snark that seizes Roark’s complete attention every time the older gentleman speaks. Perhaps he shouldn’t think about Mordecai while he’s teaching Freckle how to dance. Passing out on the dancefloor would be troublesome. Focussing on his younger cousin, Rocky gently smiles. This year is unusual, the thought puts a small genuine smile on his face.

Rocky’s birthday celebration seems to have officially begun.

Up above, the café door chimes open, revealing a merry Ivy Pepper and disgruntled Mordecai Heller.

“Thanks again Mordecai!” Ivy smiles sweetly, batting her eyelashes up at the tuxedo patterned man. Who rolls his eyes in return, fighting the urge to groan. Sleek tail whipping behind him in unrestrained agitation.

“Of course,” Mordecai mutters back, closing the door shut behind him. The chime seemingly doing its best to seem more obnoxious this time around.

Ivy skips forward, making her way towards the hidden entryway into the speakeasy. Mordecai follows leisurely behind her, heart thumping ravenously in his chest at the prospect of seeing the violinist again. The hope of running into Roark puts a kick into Mordecai’s step as he pushes forward, opening the hidden door to the caverns below. Ivy raises a single brow, fixing Mordecai with a knowing look as she descends the steps.

“Don’t look at me like that- I will ship you back to your father” Mordecai hisses quietly at the girl’s amused face.

“Sure” Ivy teases back, unfazed and not at all threatened by the gunman’s empty threat.

The large entryway door is closed shut and the usual doorman, Horatio is nowhere to be seen. Faint music can be heard coming from the other side of the thick wood of entrance door, Mordecai’s ears flick at the sound. Eager.

Mordecai’s ears point up further as they pick up on the tremendously muffled sound of... a laugh? Bright and jovial, with a hint of mischief. Heller resists the urge to give a tiny smile of recognition.

Roark.

Hastily pulling the hefty door open, Mordecai steps aside to let the young girl enter first. The sound of the music is louder now, unfiltered. Voices can be heard coming from near the stage, projecting towards the two newcomers. Mordecai instantly picks up on the delightful symphony that is the violinist’s voice speaking to another. The gunman enters and raises his brows at the sight, green eyes widening in surprise.

“...Freckle no- you just need to, wait a second! -” the violinist gently scolds, worry etched into his face as the orange cat twirls him around. The violinist appears to be losing control of the situation.

“But I thought-?” Freckle starts before promptly stomping on the musician’s foot. Roark lets out a disgruntled shrill of surprise.

“Freckle! You won’t become a better dancer by taking out Miss Pepper like this! That’s cheating-” Rocky flails, attempting to stand on his pained foot.

The tabby lets out a small pained squeak, raising his injured foot up. Taking it as some unsaid cue, the younger cousin starts to dip Roark. Unprepared, Roark squirms and panics as he’s dipped towards to the cold ground. Mordecai sees it all happen before he can cross the room to aid the musician.

McMurray is going to drop him-

As Mordecai predicts, Freckle, in all his lumbering glory, proceeds to drop Roark onto the floor. Roark lands with a thud and embarrassing trill like hiss. Zib coughs out a laugh over the smoke of his cigarette, struggling to regain his breath over the heaving inhales and chortles.

“Sorry Rocky!” Freckle frowns, hands shaking as if his mind cannot supply further instruction as to what to do next.

Ivy giggles as she makes her way forward, her small dancing heels clicking as she approaches; quickly gaining Freckle’s attention. In turn, leaving the musician forgotten on the floor. Roark with his eyes squinted closed, rubs at the back of his head with a small pained hum. Mordecai swiftly steps forward, not without earning an insignificant glare from Zib as he advances towards the youngest band member.

Roark’s azure eyes open at the sound the footsteps determinedly approaching, widening in surprise at the sight of the expert gunman.

“Mordecai?” the tabby questions breathlessly, fur fluffing up in embarrassment.

“Are you alright Roark?” Mordecai replies softly, keeping his voice hushed. Extending a hand out to the violinist, the gunman keenly watches as Roark just sits and stares up at him for a moment.

Staring at each other, Mordecai can hear his heartbeat pump in his ears. His own fur fluffing up slightly as he struggles to look away. The younger man makes a small noise in the back of his throat, as if reminding himself that he is being spoken to. Roark gently places his hand in Mordecai’s, Heller gently lifts the violinist off the ground. Roark’s hand is soft. Standing in front of each other this closely gives Mordecai flashbacks to the previous night. When he could feel Roark’s breath against his lips, notice each individual hair on Roark’s darling cheeks. There’s a faint, a barely visible tinge of crimson on the tabby’s snout. Surely there to serve as a bitter reminder of Mordecai’s recklessness. A reminder that he doesn’t deserve Roark or his time. The violinist sucks in an almost desperate breath of air, as if he’d forgotten how to breathe. Alluring lips parting and immediately drawing Mordecai’s attention.

Have Roark’s lips always looked that soft?

Up this close Mordecai can see the slight indent of where the musician nervously bites at his lower lip. Whatever music that is currently playing from the gramophone is simply being tuned out. Not worthy of Mordecai’s attention.

“I’ll ask again, are you alright?” Mordecai repeats, resisting to urge to smile at how flustered the tabby appears. He mustn’t be doing a good job of it, as Roark smiles dazedly back up at the slightly taller man.

“Am I-? Oh! Yes, I’m alright! Just a little bump! If anything, my foot hurts more” Roark rambles, gifting Mordecai a flustered laugh.

Mordecai says nothing as he just takes the musician in. A euphoric feeling swells in his chest, within the cold depths of his beating heart. Mordecai can feel his emotions surge through him like a sweltering fire in his bloodstream. Taking in the sight of Roark is something Mordecai cannot almost compare to what some would call religious experience- but there is nothing that compares to the euphoria he feels currently. An ineffable sensation that Mordecai is hopelessly addicted to. With those pretty eyes trained only on him, a reciprocated attentiveness.

Roark is all he sees in the room.

Mordecai cannot help but stare. He was weak to the urge from the very beginning, it would be foolish to even think he could truly ever resist it.

Since when did Roark wear bowties?

“Well- I assume you since you saw what just transpired... you might want to help me show Freckle how it’s done?” Roark almost shyly enquires, chin pointed low as he looks up at the older man with those damn pretty eyes of his.

“Pardon?” Mordecai questions, tuning back into their conversation.

“You know- tear up the floor? Catch a case of the crazy feet?” Roark bashfully grins, a tease.

“I’m sure that this went unsaid Roark... I don’t dance” Mordecai cheekily replies back, his face serious and unreadable. Though his eyes glint with mischief.

An obnoxious cough breaks the two out of their blissful bubble. Both men turning their necks to see Zib meandering towards them, his brows furrowed. Mordecai’s senses seemingly expand out from his previous tunnel vision, the sound of the crackling gramophone comes back into focus. Mordecai can hear Ivy giggle somewhere behind him.

They’re still holding hands.

As if the two had been burned at their point of contact, Roark and Mordecai’s hands dart back to their own respective sides.

“That was fun and all but Rocky and I need to prep the stage” the band’s leader announces.

Interrupts.

Mordecai shoots Zib an unconvinced glare, his tail whipping frustratedly behind him. Zib returns the look with one of unfiltered suspicion, as if he couldn’t believe the sight of Mordecai and Roark together in the same room. Let alone mere inches away from each other. As if the attention that Mordecai is giving Roark is some silent ploy of malicious intent. Mordecai’s ears flatten at the thought, though he cannot fully blame the band leader if that is his assumption.

Mordecai’s intentions are easily misinterpreted more often than not. But not to Roark.

Heller’s hand tingles from the sensation of where the poet was gingerly holding it. Zib raises a brow at the gunman’s unexpected silence, confused at the lack of some snappy or dry response. Mordecai, preparing his rude reply, opens his mouth to do so.

“I’ll join you in just a moment Zib!” Roark intercepts, seemingly aware of the tension that is building.

Zib gives a shrug, sauntering back towards the stage. Unwilling to provoke Heller further than he already has. The gunman turns his neck to face the violinist once more, only to be whiplashed by the sight of a frown on the musician’s face. It sends an unpleasant sensation down Heller’s spine, as if he has been thrown into a bath of freezing water. Furious that a frown would even dare make an appearance on his dearest’s face, Mordecai resists the urge to just take Roark far away from here. Away from the Lackadaisy. Away from everyone. Roark meets his gaze and the troubling frown softens, easing Mordecai’s perturbed and troubling thoughts.

“I um... thank you again” the poet whispers.

“I wasn’t going to let you remain on the floor Roark-”

“No- I mean... for last night, I just- how is your shoulder?”

Mordecai’s green eyes widen by a fraction, surprised. Stumbling to explain himself, Roark continues;

“I really wish you didn’t do that for me, you were shot-”

“Grazed. It is fine, it will heal quickly” the gunman quickly clarifies, wanting to ease the poet’s guilty thoughts.

“Regardless... Mordecai, you didn’t have to do that.”

Didn’t have to?

What could he have done?

Let Roark die?

Fury bubbles through Mordecai’s bloodstream, huffing like a steam engine on a warpath. With his composure slipping, Heller instinctively and harshly whispers back;

“Roark, I would have taken that bullet a thousand times over before it even grazed you.”

The poet’s bright blue eyes widen as the fur on his cheeks fluff up bashfully. Flustered by Mordecai’s whispered announcement, Roark stammers. Shaky hands come to gingerly hold at each other to try and hide how badly they tremble. Mordecai’s heart thumps madly within his chest, tremendously embarrassed by his own confession but thoroughly delighted by the reaction he is receiving from the poet.

“Mordecai...” Roark breathlessly whispers, seemingly speechless.

An uncomfortable cough sounds behind Mordecai, causing the two men to startle. They turn to face Freckle as the young man approaches, Ivy hovering close by with a playful glint to her bright eyes.

“Are you two done?” Pepper teases.

“Evidently” Mordecai drawls out, not bothering to hide his discontent at being interrupted once again.

He hears Roark step forward slightly to stand beside him, placing a friendly and soft hand onto Heller’s uninjured shoulder.

“Keep Serious here entertained for me would‘ya?” Roark asks the young couple sweetly, his hand lingering on the older man. Mordecai does his best to not shiver at the contact.

Freckle appears to shrink in on himself at the thought as Ivy nods her head with an eager smile. Dread slowly fills Heller’s stomach at the thought of dealing with Pepper’s incessant teasing onslaught. Especially when Ivy most definitely saw how the two had held each other’s hands for much longer than necessary. Mordecai turns his head slightly to give Roark a subtle look with what he desperately hopes conveys the message he feels.

Please don’t leave me with them.

Roark gives a small sympathetic smile.

“It won’t be for long... we open shortly anyway, then you can hide in your corner as usual” the violinist reassures as he walks away. His fluffy tail brushing against the older man’s sleeker one as he passes.

Mordecai opens his mouth to protest but is quickly distracted by the alluring gesture of their tails brushing against each other. Heller’s words die in his throat as he noiselessly watches the younger man walk towards the stage, a small sway to his hip. Ivy snickers quietly, causing Mordecai’s ears to flick in trained agitation.

He supposes he will have to wait.

In the meantime, he can make some excuse to step away from the couple.

He could slip away to his office and ensure that the gift he has prepared for Roark is in fact still there and untampered with. Paranoid, Mordecai stalks towards his office without a word. Ivy’s voice filters behind him, questioning and nosey. The gunman pays no mind, continuing his trek. He can feel the phantom sensation of Roark’s hand within his own and caressing his shoulder.

He is brave.

Mordecai notes that Roark must be feeling more... comfortable around him. At ease. Safe. Freely touching Mordecai as he pleases. As if Heller wouldn’t shoot someone for daring to do what the violinist had done. The darling young man knows he can get away with it. Heller is willing.

Obvious with his seemingly never-ending soft spot for Mr Rickaby, weak for his wily and charming allure. To just have the chance for that dashing smile to be directed his way.

Mordecai wants Roark to feel at ease around him, he has nothing to fear after all. The tuxedo would rather shoot a full round from his pistol into himself before he hurt the younger man even once.

An hour passes by quickly it seems.

Mordecai can pick up on the faint voice of Mitzi greeting and luring guests into the concealed caverns below. Where the liquor and sin flow without restraint, free and hidden from the lawful eyes of judgement. Jazz is accompanied by courtships, hand in hand. Mordecai cannot stand being down there. However, there is one incredibly convincing reason why he makes his way back down into the cavern of sin.

Horatio wordlessly greets the gunman, granting entrance to the awaiting party.

It is an intangible mass of flapping limbs and twisting hips on the dance floor. Enough bodies and energy to make Mordecai feel immediately apprehensive. The sporadic and almost manic movements of the dancers are overwhelming… and sloppy. Mordecai has seen better.

From people who are evidently more sober.

The band is boisterous and flashy as always, effectively covering up the conversations of the guests. A warm blanket atmosphere. Creating an almost private environment for secrets to spill. Mordecai spots each of the band members pouring the soul into their designated instrument.

The disorderly dancing does not do the song justice.

It is nothing compared to the almost disbelieving grace and distracting movement of the violinist on stage. There is something almost unbecoming of the way the tabby moved, with the loveliness that no man nicknamed Rocky should have. Uncharacteristically graceful compared to the rambunctious of the rest of the band, the only sound that really filtered through Mordecai’s alert ears is the sound of the tabby’s trademarked strings. Mellifluous chords.

Heller’s breath gets caught in his throat as he stands transfixed onto the poet.

A hand on his shoulder startles him out of his trance, his hair raising as his ears fold back in displeasure. Twisting himself around to find the owner of the offending hand, Mordecai lets out hiss of irritation.

“Hello Hun” Mitzi greets with half-lidded eyes and an infuriating smile, lifting her gloved hand away to give a small wave.

“Mitzi” he readjusts his coat, “how many times do I have to ask you to refrain from doing that?” Mordecai hisses, glaring back at the speakeasy’s matriarch.

A small wave of relief however seeps into his system at the familiar face. Dreading the worst, a stranger. Or someone even more cruel, a sorry soul asking him to dance.

“Doesn’t matter how many times dear, it’s always a kick to watch you jump out of those polished shoes of yours” the woman amusedly hums, her eyes gazing out upon the flourish of tipsy guests.

The old friends stand in silence as they take in the bustling commotion of the caverns.

Mordecai’s cunning green eyes spot McMurray and Pepper twisting about on the dance floor. The orange tabby seemingly being flung around by the deceptive strength of the young woman, she appears to be enjoying her time. Heller’s gaze travels back towards the stage only to spot a familiar man standing close by it, observing the same sight he unashamedly takes in.

Collins Wadsworth hovers closely by with a small group of like-minded men, dressed in expensive three-piece suits with glasses of liquor on the rocks in hand. The violinist’s admirer’s stare doesn’t stray for long, glancing up from his cold beverage every so often with an expression that Mordecai cannot place.

Wrath bubbles in Mordecai’s gut at the sight of the pathetic waste of breath that Wadsworth is.

Heller decides that tonight he’ll allow himself a drink. He’ll need one to quell the emotions effervescing inside his chest and up towards his throat. Wordlessly, the gunman stalks towards the bar, finding himself an unoccupied space to wait for service. His eyes stay trained towards the stage, waiting for Wadsworth to act, waiting for a worthy excuse to shoot him right there and then. To shoot the man due to just seeing of him is not justifiable. At least in everyone else’s eyes.

“What you want” a familiar gruff chides.

Mordecai allows his glare to stray from the stage. Viktor, in all his displeased glory, looks horrifically out of place behind the bar. Dressed in what would be the equivalent to dressed up in Viktor’s standards. Or what appears to be what Mitzi would let him get away with. It will forever be a mystery as to how she convinced the mountain of a man into customer service.

“Good evening, Viktor” Mordecai formally greets, not looking to further the tense air between the them.

The Slovak contributes a passive aggressive grunt in reply, his one eye glaring. Mordecai’s tail flicks slightly behind him, hidden from view. At least he tried.

“Any whiskey left?” Heller questions, opting to fidget with his sleeves to ease his fraying composure.

“Enough” the burly man steps away with a hardly noticeable limp, fetching the gunman’s requested liquor.

There are too many people. Mordecai’s usual misanthropy is never a footnote in his values. His general dislike for crowds... and just people in general seems to increase with every year. At this rate he is willing to pack it all up and move away. To live some quiet life where no one will recognise his name. He’ll go under an alias if needs be. A hermit in a quiet town. It sounds blissful. His latibule.

Though he has a heavy sentiment weigh in his heart. He doesn’t truly want to be completely alone.

That blessed daydream his mind had conjured, the heavenly reverie. An idyllic future he yearns for, with every fibre of his being. Mordecai doesn’t want to be alone. There is only one sole exception his heart and soul have made.

Mordecai will have Roark or no one at all.

The noir gentleman’s eyes travel back towards the stage as the band’s song comes to a close, allowing a moment of reprieve for the musicians. A gramophone crackles to life, playing a similar jazzy-esque tune. A shame.

Collins’ ears are pointed and alert, his gaze on the lookout for who Mordecai can only assume would be the violinist.

Viktor all but slams the whiskey glass in front of Mordecai, a few drops of the illicit liquor spilling onto the ornate wood of the bench. The Slovak steels Heller with a silent glare before huffing off towards some tipsy patron on the opposite end of the bar. Mordecai pays no mind as he takes a hold of his glass and discreetly sniffs the contents. Paranoid.

“And here I thought Serious didn’t drink” a voice purrs.

Roark.

Delight ripples through Heller’s very being, willing himself to hide it as best as he can. Maintaining his unyielding expression, he turns to greet the man of the evening. His composure slips as he lays eyes on the poet once more, the darling raconteur is all but grinning with unhidden amusement and charm. Seemingly equally delighted to be in his presence just as Mordecai is likewise. Heller senses all fathomable English lexicon leave his ordinarily constituted intellect. Seemingly struck dumbfounded each and every time without fail. His infatuation with the man has him seemingly trapped forevermore, drowning in the honey that sticks to his fur like a second-coat. The starstruck dazes have yet to ease or cease completely. Mordecai would curse Roark for his malevolent lure if it weren’t for how sweetly the man stares slightly up at him, as if just his presence alone could constitute for having hung the moon.

How can you look at me so sweetly... when I surely do not deserve it?

“What’s your poison?” Rickaby enquires lowly as he leans against the bar, looking all but... endearing in his newfound bowtie.

“Whiskey... though I don’t typically drink at all” Mordecai calmly replies, resisting the urge to croon gently.

“...can I get you a drink?” Heller courteously offers, already expecting a no.

Roark doesn’t drink.

“Ah, no thank you... I don’t drink” the tabby declines politely, expression softening.

I know dear.

Mordecai is fairly certain he is doing a horrendous job at hiding the endearment in his expression, at least from within his eyes. There was only so much power Mordecai had against the younger man. It is no wonder at all as to why Wadsworth is all but trapped within Rickaby’s charming allure, there was simply something about the violinist that captured attention. Whether Roark intends it or not.

“Will you grant me your company to a table?” Heller gently implores, expression soft.

Say yes.

“You mean the one with the Ficus? Everyone knows that’s your table” the tabby laughs adorably, almost bashful. Mordecai allows the minutest of smiles appear on his face, the sound of the poet’s delightful laugh effortlessly seizing control over the gunman.

Cheeky.

“Lead the way Serious” Roark gently replies with an amused yet soft smile. A soft purr to his tone, lyrical and mind-numbing. That smile does wonders.

The gentle smile Roark grants so sparingly. The one that that creates tiny creases at the corners of his eyes. This smile is true. Mordecai firmly believes his poet’s smile could cure any ailment that befell him. Roark’s mask has been lifted. His paradox ceased.

Shoulder to shoulder, the two weave their way through the crowd, arriving to the table Mordecai frequents almost exclusively. Tucked away in the corner, it is as private as a table can be within the open cavern. Dimly lit with the potted plant nearby, Mordecai can see all corners of the speakeasy’s grandeur. More often than not, observing whenever the poet was on stage.

The men take a seat of the wooden high stools, tucked closely together. As close as the two can be without touching. Their knees are less than an inch from making contact.

“Happy Birthday Roark” Mordecai congratulates softly, tail curling softly towards the tabby’s ankle.

“How did you-?” the poet gifts Mordecai a smile of disbelief. Sharp teeth on display.

“That doesn’t matter- have you enjoyed your evening?” Mordecai brushes the question off, not willing to delve into how he knows. Not without looking like a stalker.

“It has been unusually pleasant” Roark replies, not questioning further. The younger man leans his elbows onto the table, resting his jaw in one hand.

“Unusually?” Heller quirks a brow in confusion as he indulges in a sip of his beverage.

“My birthdays usually aren’t this... tame? Well, typically something always goes wrong, ever since I was young- it’s like a curse” the younger man attempts to explain, still rather enigmatic. Charming as always.

“I am pleased this evening is going smoothly so far, I’ll make sure of it” Mordecai hums, he will ensure the rest of the evening continues to go well for Roark.

“That’s sweet of ya’ Serious... though I’m not sure anyone can break this curse” Roark gifts a solemn smile to the tuxedo, clearly expecting some orphic event to still transpire before the night’s end.

Mordecai grants himself another small sip from his glass, the whiskey gently burns his throat as it trickles down. It has done little to ease his nerves however he isn’t willing to swallow the rest down in one go, even if it could illicit an impressed reaction from the man of eudaemonia. Mordecai aims to maintain his professionalism, despite how his words come out in an almost soft purr to the musician. Rickaby’s tail comes forward to curl towards Heller’s, barely touching. A phantom sensation but enough to send tingles down both their spines.

Out the corner of his eye, Mordecai notices the band reconfigure on stage. Minus their youngest member.

“Are you expected?” Heller gestures towards the band with a brow raised, disappointment evident in his tone. He was hoping to invite Rickaby into his office and present the gift tucked away in his desk drawer.

Roark peers over his shoulder towards the stage.

“I’ve been given the rest of the night off! Can you believe it?” Roark barks out a laugh, “...Zib insisted, he only let me play a couple songs” the violinist huffs, as if out of disbelief at his own words.

In the brief moment Roark peeks over his shoulder, Collins Wadsworth emerges from the crowd. As if summoned by some unnatural force. Mordecai steels Collins with a glare that would often stop most men in their tracks. Wadsworth pays Heller no mind and continues to step closer, weaving his way through the dancing plethora. The bodies do not create a worthy barrier as Collins creeps closer. The poet whips his head back around to face Mordecai with an expression that can only be described as utter dread, azure eyes wide with regret. It was as if the older man could directly hear Rickaby’s thoughts.

Please don’t talk to me. Please don’t talk to me. Please don’t talk to me-

“Mr. Rickaby!”

Roark sucks in an exasperated breath through his teeth as he fakes a smile too wide to be genuine.

“Mr. Wadsworth!” Roark greets back, his posture taut and uncomfortable as he leans away from the table.

Mordecai continues to glare at the insolent man, wishing death would fall grievously upon him within the next three seconds. Sooner would be preferable. Heller’s fingers itch to reach for his pistol, tucked away and hidden under his coat. Sitting oh so patiently within its holster. Practically whispering malicious desires into his flattened ears. Mordecai is a man of mirk and spite, only softened by the presence of younger man beside him.

“Can’t help but notice you aren’t on stage...” he gestures behind him with a pointed thumb, “I assume that means you are finally free to dance?” Collins gives the poet a sleazy grin. As if he had finally caught Roark right where he wants him.

Entitled.

“Oh! Uhm... I can’t right now, I’m- quite busy, very important-” Roark fumbles, unsure on what excuse to make.

“Oh? But you don’t appear to be busy at all... this doesn’t seem important” Collins casually returns Mordecai’s glare for just a moment, a backhanded gesture. Heller’s eyes squint further, insulted.

A low growl emanates from Heller, too low to be noticeable but immensely difficult to cease. His noir fur stands on end and he can feel the tension increase in his frame. Wanting nothing more than to launch at the trespasser.

“I can’t right now because- I... I already owe someone a dance!” the tabby announces, attempting to direct the attention away from Mordecai.

Wadsworth’s expression reeks of disbelief, brows raised. Uncaring of Roark’s demure attitude.

“And who would that be?” Collins steps forward, invading Roark’s space.

The musician stammers, eyes darting around attempting to land on someone feasible to be a worthy enough excuse. Heller’s blood boils, standing from his chair to step into Collins’ space, establishing a couple inches over the man. Collins scoffs.

“I will only ask politely once- step away” Mordecai growls out, his tail whipping furiously behind him.

“I’m guessing it’s you then? That’s unexpected” Wadsworth huffs out a laugh, particularly bold this evening.

The laugh brings forth the unmistakeable scent of liquor. Liquid courage seemingly enough for the impertinent man to challenge the infamous soul of the speakeasy, second to the eidolon figure that haunts the caverns. Mordecai swears to himself, he will make this man disappear. He has yet to decide if the man shall die slowly, or if he is even worth the time. Or effort.

Undeterred by the statement from Wadsworth, Mordecai answers.

“You are astonishingly correct. Congratulations.” Heller hisses, his next words go unsaid.

Leave.

“You’re bluffing... and if I know you are then I will be back” Collins sneers, a weak threat.

Wadsworth lingers to glare up at Mordecai for a moment longer before stalking off to wherever he had come from. Not before fixating another leering stare to the poet before stepping away.

A hand comes to rest upon Mordecai’s shoulder once more, breaking him out of his haze of rage. Mordecai whips around to stare at the musician.

“You didn’t have to do that- but, thank you Serious” Roark appears almost guilty, brows etched in worry.

“I did because I wanted to, don’t you fret” the noir man whispers, hoping to ease the stress evident on the poet’s darling face.

The younger man sweetly offers Mordecai an endearing smile, grateful for Heller’s intervention. The situation was not Roark’s fault under any circumstance, though it does seem... Mordecai has reluctantly agreed to a dance.

As if the poet could read his mind, Roark speaks up.

“You don’t have to dance with me to prove him wrong... I know you aren’t the dancing sort of fellow” Rickaby states, his gaze elsewhere. Flustered.

The thought of dancing often has bile raise in his throat but with Roark? The idea fills Heller’s gut with a tingling sensation, making his heart race in his chest. More so than usual when in the company of the poet.

“Well- it would not... particularly bother me” Mordecai stammers, equally flustered.

“Really?” Roark’s face lights up, the darling fur on his cheeks puffing up slightly.

“Perhaps I can make an exception... it is your birthday after all” Mordecai softly croons, miserably failing at hiding the infatuation in his eyes.

How stark of a contrast he has made himself.

Heller is one in the same with Rickaby. A paradox. Seemingly only gentle and true when in the presence of each other. The evident soft spots the two men harbour for the other become increasingly more difficult to conceal. Mordecai can feel his patience slip from his grasp further and further each day. To imbibe in the feeling, overtaken by emotion. Mordecai gently takes a hold of Roark’s hand, who in turn gifts an almost soundless gasp in astonishment. Flustered by the attention, the musician’s tail fluffs up. The gunman in a similar state, outwardly embarrassed by his sudden confidence. With the poet’s hand in his once more, having found its rightful place. Enclosed safely within the hitman’s own grasp.

The feeling is utterly ineffable.

As if he cannot fathom that he would ever be taking the hand of Rickaby, considering how their relationship had started off rather... well. Rocky.

Mordecai cringes internally at his unintentional pun. Though, Roark would have loved it.

Heller leads his darling poet onto the dance floor, gaining the attention of some eyes close by. Confounded and startled by the sight of the gunman anywhere other than his dark and lonesome corner. Taking their place amongst the dancers, the music now slowed to a more even tempo.

“Well- this is a tad less rambunctious than usual” Roark softly comments, referring to the music Mordecai assumes.

Heller hums in agreement, silently taking Roark’s other hand and leading it to his shoulder. Roark’s smile suddenly drops, his hand hovering over Mordecai’s graze wound. Grief evident in his expression,

“I don’t want to hurt you Mordecai-”

“Do not fret” Mordecai whispers, instead leading the younger man’s hand up between his neck and shoulder. Mordecai hesitantly leads his empty hand down to Roark’s waist, gently resting in the curve above his hip. The sensation has both men’s hair stand on end.

“Oh” the poet breathlessly murmurs out, unable to meet the older man’s meadowed gaze.

Flustered, Roark stands stock still, despite being more experienced in the act of dancing between the two. Unsure on how to start, Heller takes a step forward into the younger man’s space. Chests less than an inch away from pressing and muzzles close enough to feel each other’s breaths. Mordecai can feel eyes staring at them from outside the crowd. Most likely Mitzi or perhaps Viktor. Either way, Mordecai is aware of the gazes upon them but decidedly elects to simply not care. He couldn’t care less to be perfectly honest; the opinions of others hold no true value to Mordecai to begin with. That's what he'll tell himself at least.

He finally has Roark within the safety of his arms.

The boy of luck, who often has an abundance of flowery words at his disposal; is seemingly speechless.

The two begin to gently sway to the symphony playing around them, other dancing bodies swing close by, creating an almost private bubble for the two men to enjoy. Forming the perfect barrier to avoid peeking eyes. The scathing glare of judgement.

“I must be dreaming” Roark huffs a gentle laugh of disbelief, “...might need you to pinch me-”

“Dreaming?” Mordecai quietly questions back, flustered by the notion.

“Didn’t think I would ever witness you dancing... let alone be the one to dance with you” Rickaby smiles softly, azure eyes practically twinkling with affection. Unabashedly evident with his endearment of the situation.

Good Lord.

They say patience is a virtue.

Mordecai is anything but virtuous.

The sensation of Roark’s hand in his own has Heller’s mind in a whirlwind. A feeling Mordecai had firmly believed he would never get to experience. He had convinced himself that he was perfectly content with just longing for the man from afar. Alas, Roark Rickaby metaphorically and quite literally has Mordecai wrapped around his finger. The gunman gently squeezes the violinist’s waist at the thought, appreciating the feeling within his paws. Claws catching on the fabric of Rickaby’s waist coat.

Don’t get ahead of yourself.

After all, how did they get here?

Just mere months ago, Roark had caught Mordecai in a trance as he hurled lit dynamite down upon him and the Savoys. Brandishing the sticks like fireworks, as if preforming upon a circus. Trapping Mordecai within an ephemeral daze before the water tower had flushed the encounter to a close. Mordecai wasn’t sure how the conflict would have ended if it had continued. Having grazed Roark’s cousin across the forehead and... would have done a lot worse if he was given the opportunity.

Who really knows where Mordecai and Roark would have been if he had done more than graze the orange tabby. Inciting some unpleasantness to be certain. The McMurray boy already makes his distaste for the gunman quite obvious. Though Mordecai is unsure how Roark feels on the matter; would Calvin’s displeasure for the tuxedo become a dealbreaker? Drive a wedge between the two’s already confusing relationship?

Heller is endlessly grateful that Roark speaks to him at all, or even looks in his general direction after all he has done. Mordecai is certain that no one had expected this. This being the completely and utterly unexpected bond the two men somehow share. Flashes of horrific endings explode within his mind, countless of scenarios where Roark could have died. The nightmare still fresh in Mordecai’s conscious. Roark’s young life stolen, robbed of his opportunity to be standing here today.

But Roark is here.

In his arms as they dance of all things.

Mordecai sincerely hopes this directs a strong enough message to Wadsworth, who is undoubtedly watching sourly from the sidelines. Most likely slurping down any alcohol available in his vicinity to ease the loss.  A shame indeed.

Mordecai realises he has yet to reply to the poet in his arms.

Heller clears his throat, “Well, as I said before... I can make an exception” he softly surmises.

“...an exception” Roark parrots quietly back, as if letting the words sit to savour on his tongue.

Mordecai stares into the pools of the younger man’s eyes, searching for the unsaid words from Roark’s tone. The poet stares right back, stubbornly silent. The gunman quietly panics in his mind, a silent expectation of more needing to be said. Or at least, given an opportunity to do so.

Roark has always been his exception.

Just say it.

“Roark... I-” his voice gets caught in his throat, the confession sitting heavy as stones. The words cannot escape and he is being driven mad.

Coward. 

Roark stares expectantly up at him, waiting for the confession that Mordecai so horrendously wants to spill out. But can’t. Mordecai fumbles, his steps in their dance staggering. There are too many people. Too many eyes. His control is slipping.

“I- would you... be willing to accompany me upstairs?”

Chapter Text

Dearest Rose,

Congratulations on your successful matrimony. I do require a meeting with the man who is now your husband in order to have comprehensive approval. I assume he has earnt the approval of both mother and Esther. He has yet to earn mine. Perhaps next winter if the time is right. I sincerely hope you and Esther see to mother well. I am thankful for every update you send me in regards to her health. The next payment should be coming through on the 7th of next month. If you require more, do not be afraid to ask.

In regards to your concerns, I am doing fine as well. I do have one development I can grace you with.

I have met someone. On technicalities, I had met him some time ago.

Before you undoubtedly send a letter full of questions, I will answer them for you in advance.

His name is Roark Rickaby. He is twenty-four as of yesterday as I write this. We have... somewhat of an extensive and difficult history. Though we have not become properly acquainted with one another until some few months ago. Unfortunately, some events out of our control had kept us from becoming closer in any sense. He is rather odd, yet charming in his own ways. He has captured my attention completely to my utter surprise. He is what I would describe as a raconteur, he often emits out unusual yet entertaining bafflegab. He is a thorough infuriation, simply for how completely he has me in his grasp. You would take quite a liking to him I believe; you have particular similarities. He is an ebullient man, quite the opposite of me I am afraid, he is far too pleasant to be associated with company like mine.

 He has become a rather pleasant surprise in my life.

That is all I will grace you with. However, I do plan on writing back again soon, perhaps then I will grant you more details of him. For now, I’d like to keep him to myself.

You will meet Roark someday. If he can resist the urge to go off chasing the illogical...

The music softly echoes off the gritty walls of the caverns, the clicking of footsteps accompany the jazzy-swing of the muted melodies. Twin sets of shoes set against the cold stone. The symphony of silence is comfortable between the two men, a soft blanket atmosphere warming the two souls. Mordecai pointedly ignores the questioning stare from Horatio as they pass.

Roark springs the doorman with a trademark grin, an attempt at a hasty greeting before he’s whisked away by the tuxedo on a mission. Behind the speakeasy’s entry way doors, a drunken Collins Wadsworth is left wandering through the dance floor, in search of Heller’s poet. Undoubted fuming at the loss of his distraction for the evening.

However, unaware of the fact that he will never have the chance to dance with the illusive violinist.

Not when Roark’s hand sits neatly intertwined within Mordecai’s, fingers interlocked... where it belongs.

Mordecai leads the young poet towards the inconspicuous café above. Up to the safe haven that is the privacy of his office. Where his gift for the grey tabby awaits. Patient and yearning. Craving and hungry. His long-awaited confession wrapped lovingly in soft blue wrapping paper. Pages upon pages of poetry wait unwearyingly for Heller’s beloved poet to recite. Mordecai can only hope that Roark would be willing to recite them all to him, just so that he may bask in the dulcet tones of Mr Rickaby’s voice.

The poet’s hand is irresistibly soft within his, holding back just as tightly. Their grip is firm, as if something is to tear them apart. As if Mordecai would let that happen. Heller subtly looks back over his shoulder to the violinist just behind him. Azure eyes already stare up into his imploringly, his newly acquainted ivory bowtie does an excellent job in framing the poet’s shirt collar. He looks... perfect. Mordecai’s heart throbs in his chest. Roark’s eyes are full of something... a silent question.

Where are you taking me?

Mordecai gently caresses his thumb over the violinist’s knuckles, providing silent reassurance and unexpected comfort. Roark squeezes his hand back in response, unleashing a surge of incessant butterflies throughout the hatchet man’s core. The vexatious feeling seems to never leave him be. If anything, the frequency seems to... maddeningly increase within Roark’s presence and merely decrease when not. Never fully dissipating. Instead, the sensation of butterflies becomes swiftly replaced with insatiable yearning. Which Mordecai is wholly unsure if that feeling is worse in comparison. Both render him vexingly yet pleasantly distracted.

Mordecai deducts that it must simply be a buzzing force of... something. Or perhaps damned upon him by the symbol carved into his chest, sitting just beneath his left collar bone. A curse.

Nevertheless, his curse gifts him Roark Rickaby in the flesh.

All to terrorise Mordecai with pretty smiles and charming lexicon. Sharp teeth and delightful laughs. Azure eyes and symmetrical stripes. It seems the Savoy siblings miraculously did right in endowing the tuxedo cat with scars beyond his understanding... and beliefs. Mordecai feels that it may be a stretch to connect Roark to the scars on his chest, as if Roark was unassumingly born to delightfully ruin his life. A prophetic omen sent in the form of some sharp-witted, firecracker of young man. While unexpected, this omen is one that Heller has so willingly accepted without so much as a fight.

Utterly ludicrous.

Mordecai would wholeheartedly let Roark to ruin his life... in any and every lifetime.

Without question.

“You worried I’m going to high tail it out of here Serious?” Roark cheekily comments, referring to the grip Mordecai still has his hand in. There’s a grin in his voice, evidently and equally amused as he is flustered. Mordecai wants to comment on the obvious hypocrisy in Roark’s statement but keeps his mouth shut, suddenly worried that his words will unexpectedly fail him. 

Roark makes an excellent point; Mordecai is now suddenly hyper-aware of how desperate his grip on the poet is. As if he can’t afford to lose him. Roark’s question however, does not warrant for the gunman’s grip to loosen even a fraction.

“Someone has to keep you in line Rickaby” Mordecai impishly replies back, full of affection. Though he is not fully accustomed to the teasing between them, he playfully swipes at Roark with his tail. Mordecai resists the urge to smirk at the flustered noise that squeaks out of Roark’s throat as he bats at Heller’s tail.

The café is eerily dark at this hour, gifting an inconspicuous illusion to the outside world. Humbly conveying the modest illusion of there being not a hair out of place here officer! The street lights cast glorious warm light into the cold interior of the café. Quiet and unassuming, it sits guarding it’s well-hidden yet boisterous alter-ego. Well-kept and now prospering once more. Slowly reviving like a ghostly phoenix from the ashes, returning to claim its throne upon its glory days once more. Mordecai blends easily into the murky shadows of the café, whilst Roark stands out like a daisy in a needle stack.

“Just upstairs” Mordecai softly whispers to the man behind him, making the mistake of looking back at the tabby again just to lose all the breath in his lungs once more. The damned bowtie sits so charmingly at the tabby’s shirt collar, reminiscent of a gift waiting to be unwrapped. A few precious tufts of soft fur peek out above the ivory bow, taunting Mordecai. His mouth runs dry.

“Yessir” the younger man endearingly whispers back, no doubt delivering a flirtatious wink going by his mischievous tone. The tease sends Mordecai’s mind reeling further.

Get yourself together Heller.

Leading Roark upstairs, Mordecai leisurely and shakily retrieves the key to his office out of his coat pocket. His nerves lit aflame by the notion of having Rickaby alone in his office once more. A situation Mordecai will not take for granted this time around. The noir man is certain the two of them slipped away unnoticed, he believes so at least. The odds for interruption to occur at this hour are incredibly slim. Afterall, the party downstairs has only truly started a mere hour and a half ago.

Placing the key within the lock, his ears flick at the telltale clicks of the gears releasing. Pushing the door open, Mordecai holds the door wide with his free hand for the younger man to step forward and into the privacy of the office. Roark slowly releases Mordecai’s hand to do so. Disappointment hits Mordecai like a cold slap to his face, mentally chastising himself for instantaneously missing the feeling. Mordecai is not clingy. When did he become so... insistent on touch? He cannot stand it.

The urge is new, and horrifically unbearable.

He has always had an aversion to physical contact ever since he was a child. His sisters and mother being the rare exception to make any casual contact with Mordecai, the few special cases. All simply for the fact they were cut from the same cloth. The cloth of blood relation. That contact has not been made again for many years.

But since then?

Touch has been anything but welcomed.

Then Roark Rickaby suddenly arrives, all bliss and mirth. And oh, so casually touching Mordecai as he pleases and Heller can’t help but crave it. Becoming a fiend for the musician’s fleeting caresses. Like Roark was born with the right to do so, just as he was born to receive. The tuxedo has let all the sly touches slide, unable to fight them when the rush of emotions swarm throughout his nervous system. A singular lingering caress always sends Mordecai’s mind reeling for days, unable to wrench the accursed touch from his mind. A hauntingly tender memory.

And now? Mordecai’s defences have plummeted down, allowing himself to touch the violinist back. A deliberate reciprocation. Testing the waters ever so slowly, so scarcely. Afraid he would spook the tabby away for merely speaking to him. But Roark is not afraid of him. Not anymore.

Roark has let Mordecai willingly lead him away from the dancefloor, the tabby’s hand encased protectively in his own white paw. He allows Heller to lead him away without so much as a peep, without question. A fearless boy he is. Allowing the hatchet man to whisk him away from the cavern of sin, leaving behind questioning stares as they make their leave.

Mordecai fixes Roark with what he hopes is a deadpan look, though is knowingly aware he is incapable of hiding the affection from his glare. Holding the office door open for the tabby, Roark gifts a smile to the tuxedo as he steps close.

“Thank you, sir” Rickaby croons, a soft purr to his tone. His soft, bushy tail brushes along Mordecai’s chest, travelling down his arm and paw, dusting the doorknob. A violent shiver runs down the older man’s spine. His patience being held together by a mere thread.

Rocky leisurely steps into the cozy space, taking in all the details in as if he has never had the chance to do so. Which in actuality, is mostly true. The last occurrence that had trapped Rickaby within his office had struck them both in a state of shock. Too uncomfortable and unquestionably awkward for Rocky to have taken the opportunity to take in the finer details of Mordecai’s designated space. There sits a large ornate bookshelf beside the tightly locked window, containing a multitude of Heller’s favoured works. Hardcover books stand straight and spotless, not a speck of dust in sight. All orderly and symmetrical, as if organised by a machine. Once Heller’s long anticipated guest is fully situated within his office, Mordecai swiftly shuts and locks the door firmly behind himself. The click of the lock’s gears trigger Roark’s ears to flick in recognition, though the poet remains facing towards the desk.

“See now... I’m really starting to suspect that you think I’m going to run off” Roark amusedly laughs, though there is no hint of fear in his voice. Mordecai notes that the violinist’s body language is... comfortable. Mentally comparing the tabby’s posture from moments that he has observed previously, Roark’s lean frame is lacking the usual tautness and tensity it habitually contains. Relaxed in his posture, fluffy tail swishing in interest. Intrigued.

“This isn’t to keep you in Roark... it is merely to keep others out” Mordecai quietly replies, unable to keep the softness for the musician out of his tone. He steps forward, walking around his desk opposite of Roark. Their shoulders close to brushing as he passes by.

“Worried that Zib’s going to change his mind and drag me down to play my strings?” Rocky smiles a gentle grin, watching Mordecai with innate attentiveness. Pupils blown wide. The idea of Zibowski interrupting them once more triggers Mordecai’s tail to flick in open nervousness.

“Zibowski? Incredibly unlikely...” Heller quietly muses, eyes scanning down to his desk drawer before pulling it slowly open with a shaky hand. The gift awaits exactly how he had left it.

“...As if I would allow him” Mordecai finishes under his breath, retrieving the neatly wrapped present from its confines.

Mordecai stands silently as he holds the gift in view for the tabby, unsure on how to approach the situation. Roark’s face transitions through a multitude of expressions. Contorting from confusion, to surprise then to utter flusterment. His striped fluffy tail puffing up, nervous and charming.

“Mordecai?” the poet questions, confusion and bafflement unmistakeable in his tone.

“I took it upon myself to...” Mordecai’s green eyes peer down at the present in his hands awkwardly, “...formulate a gift for you.”

A beat of silence thrums between them. The older man awkwardly stares up to the tabby in embarrassment. Self-conscious and flustered by his own actions, a small grimace forms on Heller’s face. However, the expression on Roark’s face fills Mordecai’s chest with a tsunami of butterflies. The poet is fighting the urge to smile by biting at his bottom lip... and doing a horrendous attempt at doing so. Roark looks utterly endearing.

“You got me a gift?” Roark questions with a whisper, as if he cannot believe the notion. His paws coming up to grip at his own waist coat timidly, fiddling with the buttons. His lucky tie very noticeably missing, Mordecai’s heart twangs with guilt.

“I- well... yes” the older man fumbles, nervous.

Mordecai’s feet finally kick into gear and allow him to traverse back around his desk, towards the ruffled poet. Standing mere inches in front of the younger man, the concept of personal space seemingly has left Heller’s mind. Though Roark doesn’t seem to mind. The tuxedo wordlessly presents the gift to the violinist, tenderly holding it towards him.

Rocky’s hands tremble slightly as he reaches out to accept the gift, gingerly letting their paws touch as they exchange, the contact lingering. Mordecai holds his breath, the tension threatening to swallow him up whole.

What if it doesn’t like it?

What if he already has one?

And what if-

Roark takes a moment to assess the pleasing blue wrapping paper, his expression soft. A sweet smile graces his face as he looks back up at the noir man inches from him. The look Roark gifts him does wonders at rendering Mordecai so completely and utterly weak, how far he has fallen. All for the chance to be graced with that damned smile.

“You really didn’t need to get me anything” he whispers, his eyes brimming full with of affection.

“I know I didn’t need to...” Mordecai gently replies, matching the quiet tone Roark has set, “...I wanted to.” Bright green eyes stare intensely at the tabby in front of him, unaware of his slow blinking and subtle purr emanating from his chest. A gentle white noise.

“Can I?” Roark breathlessly questions, referring down the gift in his paws.

“Please” Mordecai hastily replies, the suspense breaking him further.

Roark drags his claw along the side of the ribbon, hesitantly unbinding the ivory fabric from around the parcel. With the ribbon removed, the tabby carefully slices through the wrapping paper with the same claw, carefully handling the gift as if it contains his most precious belonging.

The wrapping peels away to reveal the ornate, hardcover comprise of Shakespeare’s most renowned works. Small vines of gold leaf trace of the corners of the cover, the pages protected by a hand pressed brown leather cover. It was admittedly... costly compared to the other options the book store had available. However, Mordecai believed the quality was worthy of Roark’s disposition. The rest simply could not compare.

“You-” the poet squeaks out, speechless by the opulent book in his paws. His mouth opening to speak although no words scramble out. Instead, a tiny sound of astonishment peeps out of the tabby’s throat.

“Do you like it?” Mordecai whispers imploringly, desperate to know for certain; is Roark is pleased by the older man’s choice? Mordecai resists the urge to claw and scratch his own fur out in suspense, rather he stares intensely down at the musician standing before him.

A heavy silence sits anxiously between the two men as Roark suddenly snaps up to look at Mordecai as if he had grown another head.

“To like it would be an awfully farfetched understatement Serious” Roark gallantly defends, offended at the notion that the gift was something he merely liked. Clutching the novel to his chest, the poet bites at his bottom lip as he stars earnestly back at the noir cat.

“So... you find the gift pleasing?” Mordecai enquires once more, requiring explicit confirmation for his own slipping sanity. His hands stay stock still at his sides, gripping desperately at nothing. Aching to grasp the younger man in front of him and yank him into the safety of Heller’s arms.

“Mordecai, I love it” Rocky finally whispers out, embarrassed and oh so fluffy. His cheeks puffed up as if a gale had swept through and ruffled each individual hair into an utter darling mess. Mordecai’s paws itch to reach up and grab Rickaby’s face. To hold and adore.

Roark loves it.

The confirmation of this undeniable fact sends a crashing wave of relief through Heller, completely and utterly satisfied that Roark loves the gift he has presented. Mordecai has chosen carefully and successfully. He has always been resourceful and observant, surely his gift is undeniable proof of his compatibly for the violinist. He is intelligent and intuitive; he pays close attention to Roark’s interests. He wants to know.

“I have also purchased a copy for myself” Mordecai nervously reveals. Implying his attentiveness.

Roark ears perk up in interest. Blue eyes wide with endearment and astonishment, fluffy tail swaying with curiosity. Charming.

“Oh? Taken a sudden interest in poetry, have we?” the tabby implores teasingly, suggesting Mordecai to continue. Eyes twinkling in barely contained endearment.

“Well- I... I’d simply like to be able to keep up with you so to speak, I’d like to be able to translate your nonsense when you spout it at me” Heller defends, embarrassed by how horrendously weak he is to the poet’s charming eyes.

The dismissive response does little to ease Roark’s smile, rather, it grows wider. Sharp teeth on display as the tabby grins up at the older man, endlessly endeared. Amative and hopelessly swooning over the tuxedo, Roark inches closer.

“I haven’t answered your question, have I?” the poet enquires, his smile as sweet as decadent honey.

“Question?” Mordecai issues, perplexed by the inquiry. White, imposing eyebrows furrowed in confusion.

“... I’m sure you can recall me saying that terrified isn’t the right word for it” the tabby’s points his chin low, staring up at the other man through the loose strands of hair straying from his fringe.

“Yes” Mordecai breathlessly whispers.

The question. From that unexpected night, in this office. Roark had asked him if he was lonely.

He is.

The question had thrown Mordecai for a loop, is he lonely? Of course he is. He exterminates people for a living. It is what he had been trained to do. He needed... needs to stay alive. His family resides in New York. Approximately nine-hundred and seventy-nine miles away. Regardless of what he does to earn his finances, he will always provide for his family. Although, he isn’t even sure of what their voices sound like anymore.

Mordecai doesn’t form attachments. At least that is what he had told himself since Atlas had died.

How horrifically wrong he is.

He has fallen in love. The most detested attachment of all. A weakness so great it consumes his very being, every damn inch, every nook and cranny of his rigid heart. How hopeless he is, hanging on Roark’s every word. The question. Does he scare Roark away the way he does with everyone else?

It has protected him for so long. Intimidating, terrifying most away. There was only a matter of time before someone were to find the fracture in the wall. The flaw in his design. The weak spot.

“Are you?”

“Am I what?”

“Terrified?”

Mordecai holds his breath, the tension building up inexplicably within his chest. The pressure is unbearable. A boiling kettle under the heat of pressure, Heller feels that he will explode if he does not receive an answer. Roark, the darling he is, unintentionally yet sweetly torturing the tuxedo.

“I believe... that redamancy may be a better suiting word, after all...” the tabby tenderly muses.

Roark smiles with such softness that Mordecai swears he feels his knees buckle beneath him, yet he stands stock still. Immovable. Heller continues to desperately holds his breath, as if the notion of letting it free would certainly stir him from whatever dream he is in.

“You are where I go when my mind wanders” Roark’s eyes twinkle with such unfiltered affection that Mordecai feels unexpectedly parched. He finds himself glancing down to the violinist’s lips.

“...and it seems once I found you, I never left. Nor do I want to.”

Mordecai’s heartbeat thunders within his own alert ears, disbelieving of what he is finally hearing. The answer to his long-awaited question. The end to his madness.  Or perhaps the beginning.

Redamancy.

In simpler terms, to return one’s notions of love and affection.

“I have been hopelessly lost for the longest time Mordecai” the poet whispers, lovingly clutching the novel close to his chest. His smile is driving Heller mad. The look that Roark is gifting him is so tremendously saccharine and by God is Mordecai addicted and so utterly and hopelessly in love.

Roark reciprocates.

Mordecai suddenly feels a switch. A trigger going off inside him and all of a sudden, he is lurching forward, his hands coming to grip desperately at the younger man’s lean biceps. Shooting off like a pistol, his claws dig possessively into the fabric of Roark’s dress shirt with unfiltered hunger. Pupil’s blown wide with adoration; Mordecai is completely unsure of what his body is doing. Merely needing to act. Moving on pure instinct, Heller determinedly presses his lips harshly against Roark’s own. Heller reflexively closes his eyes as fireworks crackle and explode just behind his eyelids. He can feel himself shaking from unfiltered vigour alone.

The poet’s lips are heavenly.

Roark graciously gifts Mordecai a small endearing sound mixed between a squeak and a gasp, muffled by their union. The younger man’s lips are unmoving, caught still with surprise and inexperience. An inexperience Mordecai can relate wholly to, a mirror of his own understanding. Or lack thereof.

A sudden and piercing cold feeling stabs through him. Roark isn’t moving.

Wrenching himself back, yet still keeping his grip firm and desperate on the poet. Mordecai is sent reeling.

“Roark- I... scheiße- Roark, I apologise-” Mordecai panics, pupils narrowed into slits.

Roark’s cheeks are delightfully fluffed up, flustered and soft. His eyes blown wide and pupils practically filling the azure with a deep pool of black. Mordecai continues to ramble and fumble his apologies as the tabby processes.

“...I did not intend to osculate you like that- and certainly not without permission! I am sorrHRMMPHF-” Mordecai’s incessant apologies are swiftly interrupted by a hand covering his mouth shut.

“Mordecai... stop, you don’t have to apologise!” Roark breathlessly whispers before slowly releasing the older man’s face. Rocky’s eyelids lower as he stares at Heller’s mouth. Mordecai can still feel the phantom sensation of the poet’s lips as a tingling rush sends shivers down his spine.

“You are always so serious” the tabby laughs soundlessly, still breathless from surprise. There is a twinkle of amusement in his eyes.

“But I shouldn’t have-” the tuxedo starts again but is interrupted once more. His voice breaks slightly, his anxiety creeping its way towards his throat. Roark huffs a breathless but endeared laugh.

“...all you should have done- was let me put the book down first before osculating me” Rocky grins, sharp teeth bared with unbridled excitement. He leans slowly around Heller to place the book down gently onto the desk. Mordecai observes his every move with the consideration of a starving vulture.

With the book now safely placed on the desk, Roark leans back into his original and rightful position.

The younger man’s hands come to gently snake around Mordecai’s neck, loose enough for Mordecai to push away if he so pleased. He would never.

“...why don’t we... try this again?” Roark whispers sweetly, his muzzle pressing softly onto Mordecai’s. He can feel the poet shake in his arms. He is just as nervous as I am.

Taking his time, Mordecai inches forward at a snail’s pace and gingerly presses his lips onto Roark’s once more. Mordecai moves carefully and deliberately, as if Roark is to skitter off like a prey mammal at the first sight of danger. Heller keeps his hands hovering just above Rocky’s upper back.

As their lips connect once more, the two men let out sighs full of relief and delight. This time, the violinist presses his soft lips back onto Mordecai’s, reciprocating the kiss. The younger man pushes himself impossibly closer onto the noir cat. Chest to chest. Heart to heart. Mordecai swears that there is no conceivable way that Roark can’t not feel his heartbeat thunder through and beat into the poet’s ribcage.

Their lips move together with such tenderness that has both men’s hearts threatening to merge together, forcing their way to become one soul. Mordecai knows he is purring. However, he is not alone, he can hear Roark’s delightful purrs harmonise with his own and it is bliss.

Their kisses grow hungrier as they as they suck in needy breaths in between, not wanting to waste a single second apart. They dive further in each and every time, each kiss becoming more desperate than the last. Roark’s skilled hands are caressing his neck, shoulders and upper back. Gripping in a frenzy at whatever he can reach and squeeze at on the older man. Growing bold and evidently more handsy, the poet’s hands trail slightly under the collar of Mordecai’s dress shirt, caressing at the usually hidden fur on the back of his neck. Tingles tremble down Heller’s spine at the sensation.

Wanting to reciprocate Roark’s bold moves, Mordecai takes a firm hold of the poet’s slender waist. The movement causes Roark to gasp into the kiss, his own hold on the other man tightening. Small sounds croon from Rocky’s throat, completely giving away just how exhilarated he is feeling. The two men’s tails curl protectively around each other, their bodies moving on needy instinct.

Mordecai’s control slips further into his madness, after waiting... for what felt like an eternity, Mordecai has Roark in his arms. Right where he has always meant to be. Mordecai pulls the younger man around, guiding him against the desk beside the now forgotten hardcover book and discarded wrapping paper. Pressed between the frame of Mordecai’s desk and... well, Mordecai.

Roark is in bliss.

“...Mordecai-” Roark huffs out the noir man’s name with a sigh, yearning and shaking from jittery nerves. Mordecai hastily recaptures the younger man’s lips with vigour, gently nibbling at Roark’s dark bottom lip to satiate his overwhelming urge to bite.

The poet squeaks out a noise mixed between a gasp and soft moan, his mouth opening just wide enough for the tuxedo to hesitantly tease his tongue into the other’s mouth. Curious, Mordecai pushes further. Roark’s tongue presses gently against Mordecai’s own, meeting closely in the middle with equal curiosity.

The sensation is... unexpectedly pleasant.

Roark’s hands shake as they thread through Mordecai’s fur, massaging at the older man’s neck and sending pleasurable tingles down his spine. Heller can feel the poet purr excitedly in his desperate hold, creating a satisfying duet with his own enthusiastic vibrations. Roark’s claws delicately weave and caress through noir hairs, lovingly grazing at the sensitive skin hiding beneath.

Lapping at each other’s tongues, diving further with each tender kiss. The two men spiral further into a madness of their creation. Cherishing and oh so adoring. Mordecai swears there simply is no better feeling than being here, within the arms of this darling man that captures his attention and soul so completely. His darling rose in a field of daisies, his sweet poet. Perfect and everything he has ever wanted. All he will ever need. He is here, with him. Safe. Content. Purring so wonderfully against his chest, slowly undoing the ivory bowtie sitting at Roark’s throat from the friction between them.

Does he deserve Roark?

After all I have done, how could I ever?

A bitter chill runs down the noir man’s spine. He does not deserve Roark. For everything he has done, all the blood he has spilt. It truly is a wonder how Mordecai’s hands are not permanently stained in crimson. Instead, his paws grip ravenously at the younger man’s hips and slender waist. A privilege he will never deserve. A sinful temptation, pushing Mordecai beyond the edge of insanity.

What am I doing?

Pulling himself away from the poet’s divine mouth is unbearably more painful than Mordecai would ever believe it would be. The tabby attempts to follow the tuxedo with a small croon chirping from his throat, attempting to tantalize the older man to dive back in. Both men breathe heavily as they stare at each other, Roark’s eyes full of confusion at the sudden halt of their ardent union.

“I do not deserve you... I do not deserve this” Mordecai breathily whispers, riddled with guilt. The tuxedo wills himself to release the younger man’s hips, his claws catching on the fabric of the cerulean tabby’s dress pants.

Roark’s expressive brows furrow in displeasure, a small pout forms on his face. His paws leisurely travel from Heller’s upper back to his hold his face, cradling the hatchet man’s cheeks. The tabby’s tail curls affectionately around Mordecai’s own.

“Deserving is irrelevant Mordecai; do you want me?” Rocky whispers against Mordecai’s muzzle, soft breath tickling noir and ivory hair.

“Yes” he softly replies, his hands shaking. Pupils blown wide, slivers of green meadows gently framing the noir abyss of his adoring stare.

More than anything.

“Then have me” the younger man fondly smiles, gripping desperately at the back of Mordecai’s neck once more. Claws finding their place through his dark fur, caressing skin and sending Heller into a spiral.

Roark pulls Mordecai close, his lips finding their rightful place amongst the tuxedo’s own. The noise that slips from Mordecai’s throat is admittedly; incredibly embarrassing if one were to ever ask him about it later. However, right now? Mordecai seemingly is unwilling to contain his desperation anymore.

Mordecai is fully aware of his own inexperience, as well as Roark’s own. Regardless, the way the two connect shoots a flurry of electrifying energy and decadent delight down both men’s spines and it is perfect. Mordecai truly believes that it really wouldn’t matter what Roark could ever do, flaws and all; he is perfect. He is to Mordecai. No one could pry that belief away from his protective claws.

The grey tabby heatedly gasps into the kiss as Heller prods his tongue gently back into his mouth, desperate to feel the poet’s tongue against his own once more. Eager to consume every breath his poet heaves.

Roark has always had a sweet tooth. Ever since he was a small kitten, the syrupy sugared delights always tickled his senses in a way that no other flavour has. How wrong he was with that. Mordecai tastes like that black tea he always drinks, with the subtle hint of sweet Tennessee honey. A lovely and oh so welcoming combination.

And now, Roark’s favourite, gentle sweetness.

Mordecai tastes hopelessly addicting. Roark surmises that unfortunately, pancakes have become a footnote in terms of favourability.  A close second place.

Mordecai laps softly yet hungrily against Roark’s tongue, eager and ardent to taste and feel as much as he possibly can in turn. His paws ravenously gripping at the tabby’s hips and waist, pressing and guiding him further against the desk. Roark follows the older man’s guidance, perching himself upon the wooden table top. Sat charmingly beside his birthday present. Deciding to go a step further, the younger man hooks his legs around Mordecai’s waist. Keeping him locked tight in his loving embrace.

Mordecai’s brain turns into a sizzle of numbing static.

Suddenly rendered incapable of coherent thought, relying on the mindless drive of instinct to continue kissing the poet on his lap utterly silly. Heller silently thanks himself for locking the door in advance before he decided to fervently osculate Roark Rickaby on his desk. One would need to hire a fleet of men to pull the tuxedo off and away from the charming boy in his arms. The tabby squirms, full of energy and nerves, pulling the tuxedo in as close as physically possible. Unable to accustom himself to the exhilarating feeling of being in the hitman’s arms. This man holds the power and skill to kill him within seconds, yet here Mordecai is; purring and practically melting on top of him. The sweetness of it all has Roark swooning in Heller’s devoted hold.

Love of two is one.

The two men huff and slip ardent noises into each other’s open maws, sharing gentle praise in the form of harmonious purring and breathless gasps. Caressing and cradling each other with the tenderness of two star-crossed lovers, dragged through hell and back, despairing yet destined to cross paths once more. To never leave one’s side again.

Roark’s voice whispers in his mind.

Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day?

Thou art more lovely and more temperate.

Mordecai supposes there is meaning to this addictive madness. The poet’s words illude to much deeper meanings, as is their purpose. Mordecai had been deaf to the meaning when Roark had versed sweet literature in his office that night. Roark had essentially... confessed his feelings in such a concealed way that it had flown with the grace and silence of an owl right over Mordecai’s head and straight out the window. Undetected and ignored.

Mordecai recalls reading the rest of the sonnet. Sonnet eighteen. The gentle words the musician recited to him. It’s a love poem.

Oh, my dearest one. I apologise for not realising sooner.

Mordecai pulls away by less than an inch to whisper ardently into the poet’s mouth.

“When I saw you...” he softly kisses towards the younger man’s jaw, “...I fell in love.”

Roark croons fervently as he tips his head back, gifting Mordecai more access to the soft hidden fur of his jaw and neck. Teeth graze his throat, triggering the violinist’s purring to increase tenfold.

“And you smiled” Mordecai huffs into the crook of the younger man’s neck. His breath tickling the sensitive skin concealed beneath indulgent fur.

“Because you knew” the two men in unison, surprising the tuxedo out of his messy kisses onto the poet’s throat. Roark chuckles endearingly, paws gripping at the older man’s back. Squeezing at Mordecai’s hips with his thighs.

“You learned some Shakespeare?” the tabby teases, an ecstatic grin in his tone.

“For you? I’m learning them all” Mordecai whispers back, flustered. Appreciative of his hiding place in the younger man’s neck. “I did purchase a copy of my own for a reason, all to keep up with you dear” Heller cheekily recites.

Dear.

Roark’s heart thunders in his chest. He swears he’s on the verge of a heart attack. The older man’s voice is so soft and tender, the way his voice forms the word dear has Roark threatening to collapse, though he is held firmly in place by noir arms and the desk beneath him. Mordecai’s hips dig forward into his and Roark firmly believes he must be melting into syrup within the tuxedo’s arms, reduced to jelly. Completely new and inexperienced to all the new feelings surging through him, Roark stays pliant in Mordecai’s hold. Allowing the tuxedo to continue with his ardent exploring. An eager frenzy.

As divine as Mordecai’s mouth and teeth feel at his neck, Roark horrifically misses the attention where he truly needs it.

“Good lord Serious... if you don’t come back up here-” Roark starts and is swiftly interrupted as Mordecai wordlessly recaptures the tabby’s lips, doing so without question.

The poet graciously gifts Mordecai a noise mixed between a sigh of relief and needy moan. Roark feels as though he is going to combust. Crackle and detonate in Mordecai’s hold like a lit stick of dynamite. Heller’s paws hungrily grasp and massage at Roark’s hips and thighs, satisfying the overwhelming urge within his paws to just- grab. Mordecai looms protectively over his poet, who is delightfully dishevelled beneath him. Sprawled perfectly against his desk, bowtie incredibly close to slipping away from the tabby’s shirt collar. The collar sits charmingly splayed open, revealing alluring chest fur to peek out teasingly. Practically begging for the noir man’s attention. Courteously and fittingly, the bowtie may almost be mistaken for a gift bow. Tempting Heller to unwrap the present in his arms.

Mordecai obediently answers its silent call, wrenching one hand away from his poet’s hip to splay against Roark’s inviting chest. Skilled fingers weave through heavenly fur, all soft and pliant beneath the pads of his paw. Claws gently dig into the plush of the tabby’s chest, starvingly squeezing at as much as he can fit in his hand.

The violinist moans a flustered noise into Mordecai’s mouth, muffled by the tuxedo’s curious tongue attempting to make its way down his throat. Doing its best to make itself at home, leaving no corner or crevice unknown. Familiarising himself. The hand gripping at his chest has Rocky thighs squeezing tighter around the older man’s hips. Heller groans into Roark’s mouth at the pressure and friction of their pressed hips. Mordecai’s claws weave through tufts of soft fur, caressing the hidden skin beneath.

If one were to tell Mordecai roughly six months ago about what is currently transpiring, he most expectedly would shoot them where they stand.

Utter asinine.

The impossible and unconceivable indication of Roark Rickaby ever replicating Mordecai’s feelings alone seemed quite unfathomable. Mordecai had hardly understood his own feelings at first. The conclusion to the altercation at Sable’s quarry had left Heller feeling... unequivocally disordered. Any thoughts of the violin wielding tabby had gone from practically non-existent to ever-present from that night forth. The maddening rambles of poetry upon his mechanical stead had infiltrated his very core. Hauntingly striking azure eyes have never left his mind, flashes and rumbles of dynamite that threatened to shake his footing. However, it was not the explosions that rendered his knees weak that night.

And now, here he is, pressing the younger man against his desk and osculating him. His poet sits oh so prettily against the surface of the ornate wooden desk top. Mordecai holds him desperately close, as if Roark were to disappear if he loosened his grip by even a fraction.

Roark purrs are a gentle rumble against his chest, a soothing yet exhilarating sensation. An evident audible notion of Roark enjoying this... passionate entanglement just as much as Mordecai does. Heller continues to fuss and muse with the fluff of Roark’s chest, dedicated to the act as if it will be final and only chance, the only opportunity he will have to do so.

Surely this... entanglement means something? They have both admitted their interest-

Mordecai pulls away suddenly, wrenching his tongue out of the tabby’s mouth, creating a mess of spit. Roark’s eyes open in surprise, pupils blown wide and adoring. His expression confused.

“I have something to ask-” Mordecai starts, bringing his paw off the poet’s chest to wipe the saliva off his own maw. Rocky laughs at the chaos of the situation, taking the opportunity to wipe away the mess on his own mouth.

“Why are you laughing- I just... ugh” Mordecai fusses, frustrated and embarrassed at the saliva now on his jacket sleeve.

“You’re just... unexpectedly cute for a man with such a serious reputation” Roark laughs as he reveals, Mordecai opens his mouth to protest but shuts it as he is rendered silent by the charming smile the tabby is giving him.  Soft and oh so adoring.

Mordecai’s noir fur fluffs up marginally in embarrassment, flustered at being appointed the term cute. There are a multitude of words he has been assigned through his lifetime, cute is not on that list. Mordecai supposes that if he were to ever let the term slide, it would only be from the darling man in his arms. Grimacing to hide his endearment for the tabby, he clears his throat.

“I would like clarification...” Mordecai quietly declares, his hands back to gripping eagerly at his poet’s hips.

“Clarification?” Roark implores, his paws caressing the older man’s shoulders and chest. Mordecai clears his throat with a flustered cough, the sensations sending shivers down his spine, shooting lightning through his frame.

“Yes. Clarification... well, I just- I’d like to confirm our... status?” Mordecai vaguely enquires, his paws subconsciously massaging at the younger man’s waist and hips.

Roark hums in reply, nuzzling close. Pushing his cheek against Mordecai’s own, pressing himself as close as he can. The tabby purrs softly, allowing Mordecai time to explain.

“Our status- as in, together... are we... are we together?”

“I’ll be yours if you’ll have me Serious” Roark replies, soft yet anxious. As if Mordecai will say no.

“Mine just as I am yours then dear” Mordecai smiles, pressing a gentle kiss to the younger man’s forehead. A soft caress to the scar that sits so neatly on the centre of his forehead. Kissing away the haunting memory. Heller’s heartbeat thrums with excitement, drumming incessantly within his chest.

“Seems you’ve been promoted from my dear swain to my beau-” Roark giggles excitedly, Mordecai huffs a small laugh, continuing his kisses.

The older man’s purrs rumble softly as he peppers small adoring kisses over the younger man’s face, inciting more delightful snickers from the tabby. Trailing from the poet’s forehead, down to his nose and cheeks. Making a point on gifting a kiss to each darling eyebrow. Set on wordlessly showing to his poet just how endeared he is, just how much he adores the man in his arms. Roark wiggles incessantly against him yet is mindful of the graze on Mordecai’s shoulder, his paws patting in protest against the tuxedo’s chest.

“Mordecai! That tickles-” Roark laughs, attempting to flee the doting attack. Leaning his face away just as Mordecai reaches up to cup his cheeks with both hands, holding the younger man firmly in place. Roark laughs harder as the older man merely increases his loving assault from his lips.

The tuxedo presses kiss after kiss on his darling's face, embracing the poet close to his frame and allowing himself to indulge in his sudden playful mood. Roark laughs in Mordecai’s hold, beaming under his dearest's mischievous affection. Heller quietly chuckles and croons at the charming snorts of laughter that spout from his poet, appreciating Roark’s soft cheeks in his hands.

Mordecai’s heart swells in his chest, affection blooming like a relentless weed. Capturing his heart in its unbreakable vines of tenderness. Melting the man’s cold heart.

Unable able to resist the urge any longer, he presses a long and tender kiss to the tabby’s lips. Powerless to contain his own chuckles at the situation, the two men smile elatedly into the kiss. Roark’s giddiness is clearly infectious. Mordecai pulls away with a playful croon.

“I adore you my dear” he whispers breathlessly into the poet’s muzzle, pressing his forehead against Roark’s. Eyes full of affection.

“Surely I am dreaming-” Roark grins, nuzzling his own forehead against his love’s. The gunman snorts, his thumbs caressing the poet’s cheeks.

An apprehensive knock at the office door puts Mordecai’s affectionate onslaught to a sudden halt, anger boiling in his gut with the quick ignition of a bullet. Heller growls at the interruption, ready to maim as Roark scrambles, hurrying to fix up his shirt collar and bowtie. Roark releases his leg lock on the older man’s hips as he panics.

“One moment!” Mordecai barks out, his irritation evident. Mordecai gifts the poet a soft look as he aids in making him look presentable once more. The state he’s rendered the violinist to heats his face, flustered by just how carried away he had been. He had practically ravished the younger man. Once situating the bowtie neatly at Roark’s shirt collar, Mordecai gives him one more scan over his frame.

He looks... presentable and quite charming. No doubt shaky and flustered. His fringe is jostled but doesn’t look too out of the ordinary.  The fur on his neck is slightly tussled and his lips are bitten and flushed. One would need to observe closely to truly tell what had occurred just moments before. However, Mordecai sure that with the combined wit of himself and Roark, they can weasel out a worthy excuse.

Pleased with Roark’s state, Mordecai turns himself to answer the door. He gives one last look over his shoulder at his poet, who now stands politely in front of the desk, truly encapsulating the part he plays so well. Inconspicuous and modest, as if he were not being osculated by Heller just moments before. Turning the door knob, Mordecai pulls the door open to reveal a grinning Ivy Pepper and a rather terrified looking Calvin McMurray.

“Do you two miscreants have nothing better to do-” Heller starts to complain as Ivy shoves her way into the office, elbowing Mordecai on her way in. The harsh shove into his gut incites an offended snarl from the tuxedo, pupils thinning into slits as he growls lowly at the intruders.

Freckle darts himself in quickly to avoid the older man’s wrath, slipping himself close to Ivy, who in turn steps closely into Roark’s space. The grey tabby leans awkwardly back towards the desk and Ivy leans close, studying the violinist’s face closely with squinted eyes.

“Hello miss Pepper” Rocky smiles nervously, unsure how to react. His paws coming together to anxiously fiddle at his waist coat.

“Don’t give me that Rocky... I know what you were doing in here” Ivy leers with an all-knowing grin, bringing a finger up to point accusingly at his chin.

“Not sure what you could possibly be referring to-” Roark tensely laughs, eyeing the accusing finger being pointed at him with alarm.

“You-” Ivy jabs her finger onto the poet’s nose, who yelps in surprise, “...can’t hide anything from me Rocky! Not when you both reek of each other” the flapper accuses perceptively, her tone mocking.

Mordecai stomps his way over and grips a strong hold on the girl’s offending wrist, wrenching her away from the violinist with a small tug.

“Do refrain from doing that again” the gunman grits out between clenched teeth, baring his fangs furiously. Freckle cowers further behind the young Pepper girl, reminding Roark of a snail waiting to hide within the depths of his shell.

“I’m just poking fun Mordecai- no need to get your tail in a twist” Ivy huffs, not at all threated by Mordecai’s intense glaring. His noir tail flicking in unfiltered agitation. Ivy wiggles her arm out of the gunman’s grip, opting to cross her arms over her chest amusedly.

“We do not reek! Mordecai smells superb- thank you very much!” Roark defends proudly, his hair fluffed up and ruffled as Heller snaps his head towards him with a mortified yet flustered expression.

“Roark” Mordecai gently reprimands, His voice a harsh whisper. Mordecai’s expression is unmistakeably embarrassed but his glare softens as he stares at his poet.

“But you do-” Roark whispers back in defence, pouting slightly at the older man. Mordecai’s strength wavers, his glare softening completely. Unable to fight as he glances down to the younger man’s lips, the urge to kiss him hits like a freight train.

“Anyways! You two lovebirds don’t need to hide it anymore...” Ivy coos with deceptive sweetness, “...if anything you two should thank me!”

Mordecai’s ears flatter to the back of his head at the ridiculous notion as Rocky makes a noise of disbelief, reminiscent of deflated balloon. Snorting out a dramatic laugh, the violinist wipes an imaginary tear away from his eye. The tuxedo observing from the corner of his eyes, his stare imposing yet endeared.

“Tooting your own horn Miss Pepper! Truly the mastermind behind it all” Roark quips, giving the girl a flick to the forehead.

“You look a mess Rocky-” Ivy retorts as she bats the tabby’s hand away.

Roark dramatically gasps as he splays his swatted hand to his chest. Mordecai glares at the girl, as if offended on the violinist’s behalf, he did clean him up after all. An insult against his own work. The rest of the conversation is a haze, filtering into Mordecai’s ears through what feels like layers upon layers of soot. No sift to clear what he doesn’t have the energy to listen to. He observes the tabby, the way he speaks, as each word is formed so eloquently between such sharp teeth. How expressive the younger man’s face morphs, constantly a whirlwind of emotion and unpredictability. How was Mordecai ever to resist the charm that is Roark Rickaby?

He truly wouldn’t want him any other way.