Work Text:
“You wanted to talk?”
Dandy's tone isn't as inviting as it is for the other toons —the “lessers”, Dyle's heard him say once before— it's colder, uninviting, but it always is when the two are alone.
Dandy doesn't have to hide from Dyle anymore, afterall.
Dyle stands composed in the office (hands clasped behind his back and posture straight) and nods once, and Dandy responds with a shrug of the shoulders and a gesture to the chair position in front of his desk, inviting Dyle to sit, which he does.
He takes a breath and holds it, and by doing so he invites a moment of silence, a small window of thought before he speaks — one slip of the tongue, one unpolished, impure word could throw Dandy into a rage and considering the current predicament, Dyle can't have that.
He exhales,
“Dandy.”
“Dyle.”
. . . Another hold.
“We need to speak about the toon imports.”
Dandy raises his eyebrows — just slightly — and leans forward just an inch closer, his eyes sharp as he stares into Dyle's. His body language screams warning, but Dyle doesn't back down.
It's a sensitive topic for both, the “Toon Imports” — Dyle because he has morals, and Dandy because he needs Dyle.
“What about them, Dyle?” His tone is monotone, one lined, threatening.
Dyle can't prevent the goosebumps pricking up on his body.
“I'm afraid I'll be unable to honour my end of the deal, the imports are far too dangerous, far too noticeable, Dandicus. It would be impossible to move living toons from their warehouses to garden view.”
. . .
“.. so please don't contact me for that request anymore.”
. . .
Silence settles uncomfortably between the two whilst Dandy just stares, his eyes unblinking as he looks through Dyle.
Dyle flinches slightly at the sound of splintering, the source of the noise dandy's nails extending — curving, into the wooden desk.
Dandy then reaches for Dyle, and when Dyle flinches back he grabs him by the collar of his shirt and drags him closer until their noses are just inches from each other's.
“D– Dancifer,” Dyle stutters verbally and physically, his hands twitching at his sides, unable to decide where he should put them. Where he can put them.
“Dyle.”
The sharpness of his teeth when he speaks isn't lost on Dyle, not at all. “You really don't have a choice when it comes to this, I thought I made that clear.”
“Dandy—”
“This isn't negotiable, Dyle.”
“I'm telling you I can't! What don't you understan–”
“You can, and you will.” Dandy hisses and brings the two impossibly closer and the cold of Dandy's nose on his makes Dyle flinch — or at least try, the grip on his collar far too powerful to allow much movement.
“The only reason I keep you alive, Dyle, is because you're useful.”
“The toons here are far too finite, and far too valuable for you. To achieve what I want, I'll need trial and error. The more errors, the more toons needed. All I need you to do is bring me toons from the outside, ‘Kay?”
“..I told you, it’s–”
“And I'm telling you that if you don't I'll have to set my sights on the lessers here, and you wouldn't like that, would you?”
“Would you?” He repeats, shaking Dyle slightly when his answer isn't immediate.
“.. No.”
“Good boy.”
He releases his grip but quickly replaces it before Dyle has the chance to fall back.
He holds his head by the sides of his face, gently, and though it seems like a sweet gesture, the words that leave his mouth after reflect nothing of the body language:
“Just do as I say and I won't have to resort to using the toons from here, and I'm sure you wouldn't like that little fish friend of yours hurt, Dyle.”