Chapter Text
“You think I'll bend over backwards for a little extra cash?” Cleo glares down at him. “I have too much self respect for that.”
Cub feels a smirk tug at the corner of his lips. He's always enjoyed the back and forth between himself and the informant in front of him. They’ve never been afraid to talk back. Cleo's never been afraid of him in general. It's refreshing. It makes their conversations more interesting, no less predictable, but interesting at least. He gingerly opens the top drawer of his desk.
“Everyone had a price, Cleo.” Cub pulls two stacks out and drops them in a pile on the desk. “And I need information on the Queen of Heart, Heads, and Body parts.” He sets another stack on the pile. “So name your price.”
Cleo scoffs. “I already told you, you're not gonna convince me to go after the Queen, Cub.” They lean back in the leather arm chair on the other side of his desk. “Seriously, this is starting to get disrespectful—”
Cub tosses four more stacks onto the pile in slow succession. He watches their eyes track each one as it drops. When Cleo digs their nails into the armrests, he knows he's won. He throws two more on for good measure.
“You're a sick bastard.” Cleo grits their teeth. Head high, they storm out of the room. A second later, head even higher, they sweep back in, snatch up the money, and are gone again.
“Pleasure as always, Cleo.” Cub waits until the door closes to get back to work. He has his own research to do in the meantime.
Cub could technically get the information he needs on his own, but it's hard to resist using such a capable contact. Besides, getting Cleo to do the dirty work keeps them close. He'd like to keep them even closer, but the strange relationship the two of them have wouldn't allow it. Stolen glances, secret moments, and subtle calling cards fit too well. So he'll settle for antagonist allies.
It's no more than an hour later Cleo returns with a new gash on their right arm and a bloody envelope. They toss it on the desk, paying no mind to the numerous papers it ruins, and slam their hands down, leaning forward as far as they can without vaulting the desk entirely. Their fiery glare tells Cub everything he needs to know. He maintains eye contact as he pulls out one more stack from his desk that Cleo snatches on sight, shoving it into their shirt. Blood spatters a few documents. Cub doesn't bother looking at which ones — blood on his paperwork isn't unusual in his line of work. He's too caught up in their furious green eyes to care anyway. They stare back, unblinking.
When Cub inevitably loses the impromptu staring contest, Cleo wheels around and marches towards the door. Cub finally looks at the blood on his desk. A speck or two he wouldn't bother with, but these are heavy drops soaking into walnut and lacquer. Cub clenches his jaw.
“Hold it right there.” He straightens up and adjusts his sleeves, unbuttoning and rolling them up.
“Why should I?” Cleo grabs the door handle. “I'm not one of your little lackeys, Cubby. You don't get to order me around and if you try I'll rip your throat out–”
Cub puts a hand to the door, keeping it closed as he smiles at them, restraining his irritation. “I wouldn't dream of it. But would you please wait for a moment?” Cleo rolls their eyes at him and lets go of the handle. “Thank you. Now, let's take a look at that arm of your's before you lose any more blood on my floors.”
Cleo begrudgingly follows Cub over to his couch and plops down, waiting for him to retrieve his medical kit from a drawer. They sit in silence as he cleans their arm. He wipes away the blood with practiced ease while applying pressure.
“Glue or stitches?”
“When have I ever chosen glue?”
“Touché.”
Cub carefully strings his needle and sutures to the best of his ability. He isn't skilled, but his pants are gaining fewer stains with each pass. It's a slow process. Cleo doesn't flinch away or hiss at the pain, but they do roll their eyes.
“You're gonna give me another nasty scar.” They complain, resting their arm entirely on Cub's lap at this point.
“I'm not a doctor.” Cub ties off another stitch. Half way done.
“Then why do you insist on doing this yourself?” He can feel Cleo's eyes boring into the top of his head.
“Because,” Cub takes a moment to soak up more blood with a cotton pad as an excuse to meet their eyes again. “You wouldn't get this treated at all if I didn't take care of it for you.”
“… Touché.” Cleo looks away and Cub gets back to his sutures.
They lapse into another stretch of silence. Each stitch is painstakingly placed with concerted effort to avoid nerves and arteries. The only proof Cleo feels it at all is a subtle twitch in their wrist. Cub really shouldn't care, but the fact that they’re in pain despite more than half of their nerve endings being dead worms its way under his skin. Each twitch adds fuel to the fire. Cub places the final suture and gently wipes down the irritated skin with rubbing alcohol. She winces. And he burns.
“Who did this to you?” Cub asks, finally breaking the silence.
“Who do you think?” Cleo sighs and runs their free hand through their hair. “The Queen's lap dog, obviously.”
“Tsk. Ren, that backstabbing traitor.” Cub places a clean cotton pad against the stitches and wraps a self adhering bandage around their arm. “He's not getting away with this.”
“Yeah yeah, double crossers have to pay and all that.” Cleo waves him off with their newly bandaged arm. He catches their hand and slowly brings it to his lips.
“Not what I meant.” Cub presses a kiss to the back of their hand. Cleo raises their eyebrows at him, their expression slowly shifting. Cub would call it patronizing if he didn't know better. He feels their finger tips graze across his cheek, sliding into his hair.
“Don't go soft on me now.” Cleo leans closer, their unoccupied hand resting firmly on his thigh.
“I think that's impossible when you're around.” Cub jokes, leaning closer and not bothering to hold back his self-satisfied smirk.
Cleo's laughter fills the room. “Shut up.”
Cub's smile only grows with the melodic sound. And when Cleo pulls him in, pressing their lips together in a searing — but fleeting — kiss, he happily obliges.